Category Archives: Balance

On Rainbows (Beginning, Middle, End)

Posted on January 22, 2013 by Stephanie Alexander| 13 Comments

Today I like: Harris Teeter
Not so much: The Pig

A rainbow followed me to school a few weeks ago. Not one of those wussy splotches of abstract color against a leftover cloud, but a full on, horizon-to-horizon band of red, orange, green, blue, purple. The kind of rainbow you probably drew as a kid, all the while hoping your fat Crayola marker didn’t run out of ink before you finished that all important red band. Maybe you added a pot of gold at one end or unicorn capering beneath the purple stripe.

My kids tracked the color from the car windows, and inevitably my five-year-old son asked, “Why is it following us?”

I explained that we were following it, chasing the rainbow over the bridges of Charleston.

I noticed something about this particular rainbow, however, that didn’t quite match up with my memories of childhood doodle pads. Although it reached from one end of town to the other, in the middle, it got…fuzzy.

Like, I wouldn’t have had to worry about my marker running out of ink, because my rainbow would have been more realistic if it had gone pale in the middle.

I was chatting with a friend the other day, and he mentioned that he had problems organizing his thoughts on paper. He was referring to writing legal opinions (or some such legal something-or-other that is way off my radar screen) but I still told him to try focus on this idea: Beginning, middle, end.

I follow that pattern when I write anything, and I think it holds true for any written communication, from letters to academic writing to short stories to longform fiction. Beginning, middle, end.

It’s the middle, however, that usually gives me (and a lot of writers I know) the most trouble. You know where you’ve been, and you know where you want to go, but how do you get there?

I need to pick up my unfinished manuscript, the third book and conclusion to The Cracked Slipper. I’m in the middle, and I haven’t worked on it in roughly six months. My first case of writer’s block, something I thought only happened to other people. Jokes on me, hahaha, because I’ve realized you throw in some major life changes, and eeeeert! Creativity, stop.

So now I’m looking at an incomplete first draft of my manuscript and thinking to myself, where the hell was I going with this? What was my initial logic? I know where I want to end up, and I have a pretty solid beginning… but wait, who are these freaking new people? And places? And why are my old friends doing what they’re doing?

I can compare this pattern in the rainbow and in writing to life in general. When you start down a path, make some choice, you often have a sense of urgency. You know where you’re going… and you can see how it will all end up. Then you get in the middle of it, the reality, and everything gets muddled. The colors that kept you hopeful become muted and sometimes they fade away to smears of light. The people and places and motives around you seem a bit confounding.

But, I think, middles need flexibility. If you’re writing, you have the luxury of going back and changing your argument or your plot details and character motivations. In life, we can’t rewrite, but we can always adjust. Figure out new ways to make the colors bright again, and get back on the path.

The connection between the beginning and the end of the rainbow is still there. You’re following the same curve.

I took pictures of that rainbow and sent it to some friends who were going through ups and downs at the time. It took me a few more weeks, and some intimidating sessions in front of my computer, to realize that I could conquer that manuscript… and what’s more, I really want to. It might take longer to find the bright colors than it did with my previous novels, but the urge to work again is the biggest hurdle. I’ll get where I need to be.

Beginning, middle, end.

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Posted in Balance, Writing

Decide What to Be and Go Be It

Posted on February 5, 2012 by Stephanie Alexander| 17 Comments

Today I like: The Avett Brothers
Not so much: Indecision

There’s a darkness upon me that’s flooded in light

in the fine print they tell me what’s wrong and what’s right
and it comes in black and it comes in white
and I’m frightened by those who don’t see it

when nothing is owed, deserved or expected…
when you’re loved by someone you’re never rejected

decide what to be and go be it
– The Avett Bros, Head Full of Doubt/Road Full of Promise

I have to be out the door to get to school with my three kids by 7am. Naturally, on the mornings when we’re running late, I follow the most modern, enlightened parenting techniques to get us moving: I resort to bribery. The other day, bribery came in the form of doughnuts.

So, at 6:55am, as we’re standing in front of the bakery counter at Publix, annoying the hair-netted lady who is technically not on duty for another five minutes, my oldest daughter had a moment of indecision. Pink sprinkled frosting or chocolate sprinkled frosting?

“I can’t decide, Mommy,” she says. “They both look so good.”

She’s in agony. A choice between yummy and yummy. If I’d asked her to choose between a doughnut and a hefty serving of brussel sprouts she’d have had no problem.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about choice, and what it means to me, and these are the kind of decisions that are the most difficult. There is no obvious choice in two positives. The decision process is even more difficult if you feel your choices are all negatives. How does one pick between one bad outcome and another?

As I’ve gotten older, and whoa, I’m feeling ancient these days at thirty-five, I’ve found that the important choices in my life often come in shades of gray. As they say, the more you see, the less you know. I posed this problem to the smartest woman in my acquaintance, my mother. Not only is she insightful, she reads Aristotle and books with titles like The Fabric of the Cosmos for fun. So she’s my go-to for all questions philosophical.

She said that a Jesuit scholar once explained to her that the highest form of intellectual functioning is to hold paradox in your mind. This struck me as a fascinating concept…the idea that two opposing ideas could coexist: be simultaneously at odds and correct. In my opinion, when thinking people have difficulty with an ambiguous decision, they are putting this concept into practice. It’s much more challenging to look at all options and weigh them equally than to take a view that’s painted in colors of one extreme or another.

The danger in this way of thinking, however, is that it can lead to something I detest: indecision.

In the past, there was one path to success as a writer: you got an agent, and your agent pitched your work to publishing houses. Hopefully the stars aligned and you nailed the elusive publishing contract. The choice was easy, because there was no choice. These days, however, writers can choose from traditional publishing, self-publishing, and routes that combine a bit of both. All options have their supporters and detractors, their success stories and failure stories. It’s a time when things are both wide-open and intimidating. What’s a writer to do?

I guess I approach this issue in the same way I approach ambiguous decisions in my life. Maybe there is no perfect decision that will wrap everything up in a pretty parcel. No right choice, just a made choice. It can be more difficult when everyone around you has an opinion, and those opinions run in conflict with one another.

So you weigh your options, pick a route and embrace it. If that choice turns out to be the wrong one, well, then that course will have led you to another choice and another chance.

Self-publish or traditional? This job/house/college or that one? Full-time parent or career? Fight or flight? Pink sprinkles or chocolate sprinkles?

In the end, few decisions are really final. Those who love you will love you, those who believe in you will believe in you. And I truly believe that a decision, no matter how it goes down, is better than no decision at all.

 

 

 

 

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Posted in Balance, Literary Agents, Publishing

In Which Real Life Has No Discernible Plot

Posted on January 29, 2012 by Stephanie Alexander| 10 Comments

Today I like: Homemade ice cream
Not so much: Sponge Bob’s laugh. “Hehehehehehehe…” Shoot me.

Darlin’ do not fear what you don’t really know…
–Brett Dennen

Writers generally fall into two camps: Plotters and Pantsers. Those who plan out their work (plotters) and those who wing it (pantsers). There’s sort of a tradition amongst writers to look down upon others who don’t follow your individual mantra. Plotters think pantsers are undisciplined. Pantsers think plotters are rigid. Blah Blah Blah. It’s like a literary Mommy Wars. Anyway, I fall into the plotting category. I’ve been thinking about this lately, and I’ve come to the conclusion that my “plotter-ish-ness” is really a reflection of my personality.

I like to know what’s going to happen. In my own life, I tend to plan things out. Lists, schedules…love them. So, it makes sense that I plan my work. It’s comfortable to know where my characters are going, and have an end goal. I write a detailed outline before I even write one word of a scene in a new novel.

Sometimes, however, this doesn’t work out, and that’s where I drift away from my outlines…and sometimes even my end goal. Where the flow of events in the story, the characters’ evolutions and plot points, decide that my plan is not where it’s at. This can be a little disconcerting…having to reorganize my thoughts and wrap my mind around a new direction. Usually with a good run and some serious mulling over, the new path takes shape. Cue re-write on the grand plan…but still, there is a grand plan.

That’s the great thing about fiction. You can always change course, and it’s like the original course didn’t happen. Ugh, plot hole. This scene is just not working. Guess what? Delete! Whoo hoo! It’s gone! New scene…all better. Things are back on track. Rolling toward the end goal.

Unfortunately, real life isn’t like that. You pick a course, write a scene, and you’re stuck with it. There’s no time to figure out the perfect reaction or bit of dialogue. No ability to control the other characters. One scenario can lead to another, and you feel like you’re trapped in the most poorly edited film ever recorded. When it’s all over, you can’t believe it happened…and you have absolutely no idea what to do with it. Where to take it…if mistakes have been made, how to fix it. The end goal is invisible…or at least seems out of reach.

Not knowing frightens me. I don’t do it well, in writing or life. I try to keep in mind, however, that sometimes in my books, the scenes I never saw coming teach my characters the best lessons. Even the most dedicated plotters have to be pantsers once in a while.

So are you a plotter or a pantser? In writing, life, or both?

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Posted in Balance, Plot, Writing

Desperate Housedog

Posted on November 7, 2011 by Stephanie Alexander| 15 Comments

Today I like: Lululemon
Not so much: Leftover Halloween candy. Ugh.

We have a dog. Rosie. She’s a Rhodesian Ridgeback. If you’re not familiar with Ridgebacks, let me describe the breed: Large. Brown. Floppy ears. Stripe of hair that grows backwards along the spine. Bred to hunt lions and protect homesteads in southern Africa. Loyal and protective. Lovely animals.

That being said, Rosie is driving me mad. She paces the house all day long on a scavenging mission. She knows how to open the drawer wherein hides the ever tempting trashcan. She’s approximately six feet tall when she stands on her hind legs, so she can reach any food item on the counter, from toast crumbs to birthday cakes. She stalks the kids and takes whatever they happen to have in their hands. She goes outside and swipes McDonald’s bags from the poor construction workers building the house next door.

And then, after gorging herself on anything she can find, she stands at the pantry door and whines for food.

“For the love of God,” I say. “You’re not hungry. You just ate an entire rotisserie chicken. Bones and all.”

Rosie: “Mee…meee…eee…errr…errr.”

Me: “No! What about the bag of Hershey kisses? All that tin foil must have been filling.”

She does not hear me. Nor does her stomach, which I assume is lined with South African conflict diamonds or something, since nothing she swallows seems to have one iota of negative effect. (I used to panic when she ate something suspect. Several pricy, pointless trips to the vet later, I just shrug.) I can never send a picture of her to the breeder, who once sent me an email with the tagline: “Is your Ridgeback fit or fat?”

If she got one look at Rosie’s spare tire she’d demand we return her. I guess I could send a head shot, but her cheeks are a bit round, too.

The thing is, I sort of understand why Rosie has OCD. She’s bored. This is my fault. Between three kids, a house, and writing, I don’t take the time to play ball with her or walk her every day or even pet her half the time. She’s looking for something to do. Food is her obsession.

I used to be a dog person. I swear. I had a dachshund named Schnapps, and I had a total blind spot for that little guy. My college roommates hated him, and with good reason, since he barked non-stop and would bite your fingers off if you tried to drag him out from under the bed. (“That dog is the devil.” –Lindsey, circa 1997). I wouldn’t hear a word against him and took him everywhere with me.

At this point, however, poor Rosie is pretty low on the totem pole. At the same time, I understand her malaise. In the year or two before I started writing seriously, I became a bit obsessed with working out. Overdid it on several occasions, once leading to a stress fracture in my tibia that took six months to heal. I agonized over my inability to get out, get on it, get moving. I finally realized I was looking for something to occupy my mind, not necessarily my body. I loved being home with my kids, but as I emerged from six years of baby haze I knew I needed something else. I couldn’t cook and clean and cart kids, not without some additional mental stimulation. I was literally running myself into the ground in my search for some additional, personal purpose.

Once I began writing in earnest, The Cracked Slipper took shape quickly, and suddenly working out became enjoyable again. No more injuries. I’m still extremely active, but it’s a healthy habit.

So, I know Rosie needs mental stimulation, too. Something to take her mind off the trashcan and whatever tidbits might be lurking in it. My dog is struggling with a canine version of The Feminine Mystique. It’s guess it’s up to me to turn her into an enlightened, fulfilled doggy woman of the 21st century. She needs a career, or a hobby, or something. Any ideas?

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Posted in Balance, Women's Issues

Somewhere You Feel Free

Posted on September 25, 2011 by Stephanie Alexander| 19 Comments

Today I like: Halloween (early I know, but whatever)
Not so much: Costumes already on back order? Seriously?

You belong among the wildflowers
You belong on a boat out at sea
Sail away, kill off the hours
You belong somewhere you feel free
– Tom Petty

What consumes you? You know there’s something. You can’t put is aside, set it down, listen to John Lennon and Mother Mary and let it be. Lots of people would say work. I know I have times when my writing takes over my life. I’m not talking about the actual sitting down at the keyboard and banging it out (more about that later), I’m referring to all the extra stuff that surrounds the creative process. The waiting, wondering, preparing for the the day when it all (hopefully) falls into place and trying not to chew off my nails in the meantime.

If you’re lucky enough to have a blissful work life (maybe you paint portraits of fluffy dogs for a living and make millions or something), I bet you still have something that follows you: an issue with your kids, your parents, or your best friend. Some inner demon. It’s part of the human condition, and I accept that, but I still find ways to feel free.

I feel free when I run. When the inhale-exhale-inhale-exhale forces me to concentrate on my own pulse. Forward momentum carries me through the last mile, the easiest mile, when everything moves with the simple flow of a water wheel in a strong current. I feel free on a crowded dance floor. In the rhythm and the sweat of the people around me. In not knowing how my body will physically manifest the vibrations in my chest. I feel free on a boat with the wind in my face; air so fast I have to gasp. Catch it before it slips past me.

I feel free when I’m writing a new scene. I’m fortunate in that I never struggle through first drafts. They come hard and fast for me, like sneezing or possibly like throwing up (a gross metaphor, yes, but an accurate one). I usually have the sense of being unable to keep up with my own mind. A fear of leaving something out. The dichotomy is my control over what the characters are doing and saying, but at the same time…not really knowing where it will all end up. It’s a rush that requires complete focus and total release.

Some of this leans to the physical, some to the emotional. But I’ll close with a combination of the two. I feel free when someone makes me laugh. Without trying. When I least expect it. When I can’t stop, and the thought makes me smile hours later. When I can’t hold back the laughter I’m laid out, wide open, uninhibited. Free.

 

 

 

 

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Posted in Balance, Writing

I’ve Been Afraid of Changin’

Posted on August 3, 2011 by Stephanie Alexander| 20 Comments

Today I like: School uniforms
Not so much: Paying for them! Wow, pricy.

This is my first post since my family officially relocated to Charleston, South Carolina, home of my alma mater, C of C. Anyone who’s read this blog knows of my undying love for this city, and if you’re so inclined you can see check out this post on the reasons for my devotion. I’ve dreamed of getting back here, permanently, for about five years. Somehow, within the span of roughly three months, that notion went from daydream to reality. So naturally, I’m thrilled.

I’ll admit, however, that when the move first looked like it might really happen, I panicked. Second thoughts swamped me. We had a nice house. Tons of friends. The kids were settled in school and loved our community. My mom lived a few towns over.

I loved Charleston, but did I want to rock this little boat? Send it down a creek we’ve not yet navigated?

Friends asked us why we were moving, and I struggled for a reason that would sound practical. We weren’t moving for my husband’s job, or my job (Hello! As a yet unpaid novelist…I can do that pretty much anywhere). We don’t have family in Charleston. I came up with this vague reasoning…quality of life. Hmm…clear as pluff mud, I know.

The logistics were daunting, from packing to gathering umpteen financial documents, from sorting out new schools to getting our DC house ready to sell…not to mention keeping it in show-able shape at all times with three kids home for the summer. In the meantime I was working on a rewrite for my agent…putting the final touches on The Cracked Slipper in preparation for submission.

It felt like too much. As much as I wanted to get back to Charleston, a little voice in my head kept up a running commentary. The voice sounded sort of like Steve Buscemi playing Nucky Thompson on Boardwalk Empire. Minus copious amounts of bootleg gin and hip retro Prohibition suits.

“Too much…too much. Let’s just keep comfortable. We have a swell setup here.”

In the end I told Steve to shut his pie hole and dug in. And once I got going, it wasn’t so bad. Focus, time. Move from one thing to the next and check the box. It all fell into place, and started to feel good. Driving over the Cooper River Bridge this morning, I had this thought: “Thank God. I’m home. What took me so long?”

I couldn’t help but compare my pre-move jitters to similar feelings I’ve had throughout the process of writing and (hopefully!) publishing The Cracked Slipper. Last summer a published novelist read my manuscript, and while she loved the characters and the voice, she presented me with a seemingly insurmountable point-of-view challenge.

She suggested I rewrite the entire MS, at the time written in a multiple closed third person POV. She wanted a single POV. She even suggested first person.

My first thought: “No freakin’ way. I can’t! I know this story backwards and forwards! I can recite it by heart! I love some of those scenes!”

Case in point, I was comfortable with the story as it was.

But Steve started in again. This time, he was right. “C’mon, kid. It’s good now. It’s a real hum dinger. But it could be great.”

And I saw the problems…my multiple POV’s diluted the plot, and in turn un-empowered my protagonist. I knew I had to take the advice. So I took a deep breath and, yup, I dug in. In the end I chose to keep the third person, and tell the story from the perspectives of both my heroine and her love interest, but it was still a massive effort. I slogged it out over six sweltering August weeks.

Just like with the move, once I got my head around what I needed to do it started flowing. It all came together, and even as I wrote it I could see the story getting stronger with each revision, new scene, and yes…even deletion of that beloved old material.

Once I finished I reread the entire novel. “Thank God I listened to her,” I thought. “Why didn’t I do this before?”

So, that’s my lesson for today. Get beyond comfortable, in life and writing. Dive in and make the change happen. Don’t settle for the okay, when you can have fabulous with a bit of effort. I’m guessing you’ll wonder why it took you so long.

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Posted in Balance, Family, The Cracked Slipper, Writing

The Forest for the Tree Roots

Posted on July 21, 2011 by Stephanie Alexander| 17 Comments

Today I like: Swim team
Not so much: Eye strain

We took our kids for a walk along the Potomac River this past weekend. As much as I’m looking forward to leaving the DC area in the rearview, I will miss the Potomac. People do not realize the beauty of that river just west of DC. The waterfalls and rock formations are like something out of the Last of the Mohicans. If one uses one’s imagination, and ignores the McMansions on the VA side and the smell of the C&O canal, one can catch a glimpse of what it must have been like in the days before the Potomac wrapped its arms around the capital of the free world.

My kids ran ahead, along paths worn down by thousands of tourists and locals alike. I called out the usual mommy-isms: “Don’t get too far ahead.” “Watch out for the prickle bushes.” “I can’t see you!” and of course, “Watch where you’re going!”

That last one didn’t hold. Within minutes my oldest daughter had tripped on a tree root and bashed her knee. I knelt beside her and rubbed the sore spot. “Are you alright? You have to watch for the roots.”

She looked up at me with her brown doe’s eyes. Strong soldier, she wiped them and said, “I’m okay. But I like to look at the trees.”

I had to agree with her as she got up, and kept on with her eyes dutifully on the ground. I’ve always found it frustrating that I spend more time watching my feet on these woodsy walks that watching the world around me. The roots and rocks are always there, waiting to catch the toe of my shoe or turn an ankle. Last fall I took a tumble on the last mile of a long run that left me with scars on my knees and elbows reminiscent of a bad slide into home by a first-year Little Leaguer. So I remember to watch the earth below me.

But what am I missing? I’m missing the depth of the woods around me, especially with my newly LASIK-ed eyes. Individual leaves on unique trees a hundred yards and a thousand layers of foliage in the distance. I’m missing spider webs and woolybears and blue dragonflies like winged bits of spun sugar that must, must, must find a way into one of my stories. And maybe I’m even missing a few of the prickle bushes. I have the scratches on my legs to prove it.

In the writers’ life there are many proverbial trip-ups. They come in a constant progression, and sometimes they repeat themselves. Writer’s block. Realization that you’ve spent a month taking your plot in the wrong direction. Rejection. Difficult-to-swallow criticism. Rejection. More rejection.

We can’t let those bumps get in the way of the triumphs. Fixing a plot hole. Finishing a first draft. A request for a partial or a full or a revision. Great feedback. Landing an agent. Give yourself time and credit to enjoy the good, and it’s there, even if it’s just the joy of rereading a scene that you know just rocks. We need to take time to savor the victories.

Of course, I also need to take my own advice! So I will do my damndest. I started on that walk, by watching for the roots but pausing at the spiderwebs. Sometimes you have to look up from the ground and risk falling to take in the view.

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Posted in Balance, Writing

Back to Charleston

Posted on May 2, 2011 by Stephanie Alexander| 14 Comments

Today I like: Charleston, SC
Not so much: gnats

I’m going back to Charleston, where I belong.
–Rhett Butler

I spent the past weekend in Charleston, South Carolina. I had the good fortune of attending “The College” (as we call it, as if it is the only one in existence) and I try to get back a few times a year. This weekend I took a few friends with me who had never visited the city. As the official weekend tour guide, I enjoyed shuffling them from shops to restaurants, but I found myself breaking away as well. Wandering on my own, as I’ve always been wont to do.

I lived in Charleston for four years, and I never tired of walking its streets. It wasn’t just the gorgeous homes, although I still remember the shock those pastel palaces instilled in my eighteen-year-old self, fresh from a blue collar suburb of DC. I loved the the feel of hot cobblestones under my running shoes. The dodging of a skittering palmetto bug. I peered through the climbing roses into walled gardens with my hands wrapped around flaking, wrought-iron gates. I’d have needed to duck through those aging archways, and I felt a stinging envy of anyone who’d gained entry over the past few centuries. The scent of flowers hung over all my explorations, like the trapped perfumes of a thousand ladies long come and gone.

Something in the heaviness of the air made the fragrance stick to my skin, or so I imagine to this day. On a late night walk home this weekend I called a friend to a clump of honeysuckle; a living, growing garland draped over some crumbling brick wall.

“You have to smell this,” I said. “This is the smell of Charleston.”

So I kept up my old habits on this visit and got up early to run, and begged out of shopping to walk. I took the long way home at night to admire the shadows of live oak branches against the streetlights’ tired glow. I’ve seen it all before, but it never fails to clear my head and spark my imagination. So much life, going back so many years.

I was looking at the city with my writer’s eyes even twelve years ago, before I knew I had writer’s eyes. When I was still learning how to see myself and the world around me. The truth is, I still haven’t figured out either of those conundrums, and there’s a good chance I never will. You think you understand your story, your novel or your real life story, but it’s all a work in progress. My college musings about uncertainty and heartbreak have given way to more grown-up ruminations, but the love of those warm streets is the same.

Charleston will always be that place for me, where long ramblings let me plan and plot and ponder with the most clarity. Where the story seems to make the most sense. I’m thankful for it, even if I don’t get there as often as I would like. Fortunately, I have a long memory, and I keep the city alive in my mind. The honeysuckle always stays with me.

Is there a place that inspires you in writing or just in life? If you can’t spend much time there, how do you keep that place close to you?

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Posted in Balance, Charleston, Writing

Laundry and Social Networking

Posted on April 17, 2011 by Stephanie Alexander| 17 Comments

Today I like: Kiawah Island
Not so much: Traffic on I-95

This post will draw a comparison between two seemingly unrelated things. The first is as old as humanity (or at least as old as humanity’s desire to smell good) and the second is a new frontier. Hmmm….bubble bath and ebooks? Old Spice and renewable energy sources?  No! I’m talking about laundry and social networking.

Please, bear with me. I swear it will make sense.

I joined Facebook back in the dark ages of 2008. I’d hop online, comment on the random 1990′s pics some high school acquaintance had the audacity to scan and ignore a few Farmville requests. I once spent an afternoon pondering “25 Random Things about Me.” (Number 10: I have great teeth and have never had a cavity.)  I even took the time to add captions to the photos I uploaded (Mommy and C at the beach! Uh…the sand and ocean probably gave that one away.) Easy and uncomplicated.

Sort of like the laundry situation when my husband and I first got married. With just the two of us it was a casual affair. I’d turn throw a load in the washer before work, dry it through dinner, fold it and put it all away over an episode of Carnivàle (remember that show?). Maybe twice a week one of us went through this ritual (my husband is a modern guy, after all). Also easy and uncomplicated.

Back to social networking. Fast forward to 2010. I finished my book (ah, the thrill!). I put up a website, and then I started blogging. Between researching and writing my own posts, I began searching out other blogs and commenting. The wealth of information out there amazed me, but I was surprised at how much time blogging consumed. Every day.

This point in my social networking life reminds me of the birth of my first child. Suddenly the laundry got more complicated. Little dresses, onesies, socks, burpies, bibs, blankets and sheets joined the fun. Days flew by and I managed to keep ahead of it all, but just barely. Embroidered teddy bears peeked from the baskets with their googly eyes, silently begging to be tucked away in the proper drawers.

“All right, fine!” I said to my daughter’s footy jammies. “You have feet. Why can’t you use them?”

I learned a lot about how much work it takes to keep a family going, and I was surprised by how much time laundry consumed. Every day.

Now back to my online endeavors, and 2011. I joined Twitter about a month ago, and social networking has officially overcome my capacity to keep up with it. This is not meant as a rant. I completely understand the need for author platforms, and besides, I love Twitter! I’ve met so many amazing, supportive writers, all full of information and great advice.

Mad love aside, however, I’m having a heck of a time keeping up with all the @mentions, RT’s, new followers, people I want to follow, everyone’s awesome blogs (and my urge to comment on everything I read), helpful articles, and just plain hilarious comments that demand a witty response. Add my own blogging to this and I’ve fallen into a social networking spin cycle.

It’s the same with the circa 2011 laundry situation. With three young kids and two adults (and a huge, fat dog) in one house, it never stops. School clothes, work clothes, workout clothes, soccer/riding/ballet/swimming/lacrosse clothes, towels, sheets…you know what I’m saying. We have a laundry chute (love it!) and I hear that thing in my dreams (Creeeeak–whooooosh!). I frantically shove everything in the washer and then chuck it the dryer on my way to recess duty. I hustle baskets upstairs and eventually I fold the the stuff and sometimes I even put it away.

There’s usually about an hour, maybe once a week, where all the laundry is clean, folded and put away. There’s a similar moment right after I put up a new blog post and upload a corrected PDF to my website and send out a blast of tweets (probably inciting several people to un-follow me for clogging the feed). I sigh, relieved. I’m done!

Then I hear it.

Creeeeak–whooooosh! The sound of wet towels sliding down the chute. Or maybe Tweetdeck’s chirp, chirp. The spin cycle starts again.

In the case of social networking, I wouldn’t have it any other way. If anything, I have to limit the time I spend condensing thoughts into 140 characters. I have a long list of blog posts just waiting to be written. I’m confident this effort will pay off, so I keep at it.

I’ve also learned to think of social networking as a process, not a goal. Finishing a first draft? That’s a goal.  Increasing my Klout score? A process. Social-networking has become part of my regular routine, like laundry. I’m a person who lives by lists and schedules, and I’ve added blogging and tweeting time to my hour-by-hour. I also keep track of blogs I want to check out, responses I owe, and people I hope to know better. I check things off the list, and when something falls through the cracks I add it to the next list.

That’s how I keep up with social networking. The laundry? Well, let’s just say there are two overflowing baskets waiting for me once the kids are asleep. Hopefully I’ll check that box tonight.

How do you manage your social networking?

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Posted in Balance, Family, Motherhood, Twitter

Christmas cards and the Dodo

Posted on December 16, 2010 by Stephanie Alexander| 3 Comments

Today I like: The sound of snow
Not so much: Driving minivan in snow

Just a quick note today on Christmas cards. I’m thinking about them because I have a large stack sitting on my kitchen counter. They scream at me for deliverance every time I walk past them. You see, theses cards are for our neighborhood friends. There are roughly forty of them, white squares of holiday cheer, all ready to go.

I have not yet sunk so low as to mail a card that will eventually end up within shouting distance of my house. For four days I’ve been trying to find time to drive around my large subdivision and insert said holiday greetings into our infamous neighborhood mailboxes (the ones that look like birdhouses and are regularly subject to the whims of teenagers bent on destruction, but that’s another post). But… it’s cold (I’m a wuss) and I’m rushing rushing rushing. I just haven’t gotten to it.

Part of me wonders why we all still go through the Christmas card rigmarole. Almost everyone I send a card is on my Facebook list, other than my grandmother and a few high-minded friends who are opposed to Facebook on principle. Everyone already knows what my kids look like (cards with no pics are so 1975). My neighbors see them on a regular basis at the pool or at school or in the grocery store. Why spent money and time, and sacrifice trees, on cards that will most likely be trashed faster than you can say 2011?

I have a theory. We keep doling out the cards because they remind us of the days when people looked forward to getting mail. When it wasn’t just bills and catalogues (and the occasional rejection from a literary agent!). Something fun and personal in the birdhouse! I love it! This year my girls are hanging the cards around the kitchen doorway, and all those smiling kids and cute new puppies and Tiny Prints templates do make me feel warm and fuzzy. I had a grand old time choosing pictures for our card. Combed through the whole year, noticed how much the kids have grown, marveled at just how adorable they are.

So I will keep the tradition going. I’ll throw the kids in the car some evening before Christmas Eve and we will troll the neighborhood for the best light display. The girls will get a kick out of shoving cards into birdhouses. I’ll recycle the cards I receive and encourage you to do the same. Long live Christmas cards! May they never go the way of the dodo.

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Posted in Balance, Friends, Motherhood