Carolyn Creative

Okay, I’ve made it to 18, 000 in my attempt at National Novel Writing Month!  Hip, hip, hooray!  Not that any of those words are particularly good ones, or work well together.  And yet I type away.

It’s week two.  Naturally, some of the initial excitement/fervor has worn off.  However, I’ve noticed other changes.  I am more immersed in the world of my characters.  Some of them have appeared in my dreams, or I hear snatches of dialogue and think about my characters.  I also notice things around me to include in my novel.  Like sounds, trees, weather, light, and cars.  I’ve always been somewhat doofusy about cars; it recently occurred to me that my characters need some way of getting around.  Well, one of them has a bike.  But that probably won’t work for everyone.

The hardest challenge so far has been the idea of turning off your Inner Editor.  When writing a first draft, we are encouraged to forge ahead — just do it! — instead of returning to previously written sections and change things.  Like, making sure a character has the same name on page 3 as he does on page two.  Or making sure a sentence has a subject AND a verb.

This is tough, but I like the idea of turning off your inner editor.  If we could apply this to life off the keyboard, it might be helpful as well!  Think of how confident we might be if we could switch off any negative dialogue in our head.  Of course an inner editor comes in handy if you are prone to oversharing at a cocktail party.  But often our inner editors hold us back from trying something new.  Would life be lovely if we let ourselves be first drafts now and then — sloppy, creative, and inspired?

I voted!  I have cheerful sticker proving this fact currently clinging to my green coat.  It’s over!  I did it!  Now, we just have to wait, but not long — and soon we’ll know who will be our next president.

Actually, I had tried to vote twice.  Three times, if you count the time Kevin and I walked to the main library to Early Vote, but decided against it because the line wrapped around the building and we were hungry.  

First, I visited the precinct near my parent’s house.  Silly me, I never updated my registration, so for all the voting officials know, I still live with my parents.  Which wouldn’t be that bad.  They have TIVO, after all.  I waited in line for about a half hour, not too painful — I saw many yoga students and made some new friends.  There were also snacks.  But when I reached the check-in, there was a threatening sign mentioning that if you’d moved recently, listing your old address was a violation of the law.  They mentioned a provisional ballot, yet encouraged me to visit my proper precinct on Trade Street.

On Trade Street, there weren’t any snacks, but there were many chefs from Johnson and Wales wearing poofy checked and striped pants.  There was also a lady with awesomely long florescent pink nails, who took a long time to type in my information because she had to be mindful not to damage the aforementioned nails.

The most delightful thing?  There was no complaining.  In any other situation — airports, the DMV, the Apple Store — any line exceeding twenty minutes enrages Americans.  They’ve got things to do.  They are too busy to deal with that kind of crap.  But today?  People were patient.  They were proud and excited.

I felt a little verklempt when I pressed the button for president; I’m not sure if it’s related to the fact that this is the first time I’ve felt hopeful about a candidate or because I’ve basically had PMS since my wedding in September.  I left the precinct and walked across the street to claim my free cup of Starbucks with my “I voted sticker.”  But the line was waaaaaaay too long.  No way.  I’ve got things to do ….

Just another autumn Saturday.

Phoebe practices yoga by napping on the props.

Mechanically inclined Kevin sets up his new car stereo

At Fuel pizza, Kate counts on Diet Coke as fuel to start her Great American Novel.

I just went down to the Harris Teeter to buy a bay leaf and ham hocks.  They were playing “Winter Wonderland.”  Readers, please observe the date.  Winter Wonderland?  Really?

Going to a baby shower. You headed my way?

Yesterday, my friend Andi and I road tripped to Chapel Hill for Chelcy’s baby shower.  Andi cleverly hijacked her mother’s convertible and, two Chic-Fil-A original sandwich combos later, we were off.  The drive to Carrboro was splendiferous, accompanied by the vivid bright and orange trees lining the highway, solid conversation ranging from my recent nuptials to the Real Housewives of Atlanta, and a jaunty playlist peppered with favorite Brit-pop classics from our high school years.

Ordinarily, baby showers make me a little fidgety.  I’m not immobilized, but a little spacey.  I consider it the appropriate response for a semi-single gal who has yet to “shit a pumpkin” as one shower-goer described childbirth yesterday.  However, Chelcy, a down-to-earth librarian from Boone with a Jackie O fetish helped put us at ease.

“I hope your baby is cute,” I said.  ”So we don’t have to be polite and awkward.”

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Chelcy said.  ”Fred and I were pretty ugly babies.”

I was delighted by the entertainment at the shower.  There was a quiz matching celebrities with baby names, which Andi and I were extremely cocky about at first, but were instantly humbled.  I missed Sylvester Stallone — his child is Sage Moonblood — and apparently, Erykah Badu named a baby Puma Rose.  And in another activity, we got to draw on plain white onesies, which was fun, except my vision of drawing Fred and Chelcy’s baby in a yoga pose was thwarted by my lack of skills with the special fabric pens.  So it goes.

We chowed down on three kinds of hummus, artichoke and spinach dip, pasta salad, and a punch of Lifesaver rainbow sherbet and ginger ale.

“Don’t repeat this,” Chelcy said, biting into a cupcake with pink icing and a blue jellybean in the center, “but this is what happens when you don’t go with a mix.”

I never said my baby likes turtles.

All in all, it was a peaceful afternoon.  Although my maternal instincts still slumber, it warms the heart to think there is so much love waiting for this little creature.  Perhaps the baby won’t realize the practicality of my gift of Diaper Champ, but I’d like to think I’m contributing to a smell-free nursery.  As Andi and I gathered our coats and walked to the car, we admired a large Obama portrait in Chelcy’s neighbor’s lawn that actually resembled Denzel Washington.  Another baby showered.  Time for dinner.

It’s time for Halloween again.  One advantage of the mild Southeastern climate is: your costumes are not compromised.  I used to live in Beantown; it was wicked frustrating when you pulled together a genius costume but had to cover it with your scarf, cap, and puffy coat.

This also means that ladies can show a lot of skin in the grand tradition of choosing somewhat, um, provocative costumes.  Foxy nurse, tarty ladybug, naughty Dorothy from Wizard of Oz with dogwhore Toto.

My friend Mike and I were brainstorming on what costumes would be really hard to make racy.  Thoughts?  This is what we’ve got so far …

Slutty Marketing Associate

Slutty DMV Employee

Slutty Cafeteria Worker

Slutty Special Education Teacher

Slutty Beekeeper