I Need a Villain . . .

. . . and I need one fast.

I'm stuck in the middle of my plot again. And I'm mostly stuck because I need really bad people to make it conflicted and interesting, but I can't seem to write mean.

Which really befuddles me. People say to me sometimes: "You're a very nice person," and I scoff, "Oh, no, I'm not. You've just seen me on good days." But . . . . what if I am??!! What if I really do like other people's children better than their pets? What if I really would compliment someone's handkerchief quilt made of farmer's kerchiefs and real snot? What if . . . .? It's too frightening to continue. I'll soon be inundated with invitations to boring events and zucchini.

I've got to get mean and get mean fast! I could remember a few students I've had in class, or the teacher who always brought up some inane detail at the 3 p.m. Friday staff meeting. Or any P.E. class I had in school. Who can I emulate? A junkyard dog? Defensive tackles who love to eat quarterbacks? Any reporter at Fox News?

Dave, ever helpful, has suggested repeated pokings or the strap they use on bucking broncos, but I have politely advised him that if he wants to keep all his happy parts, he'd better stop suggesting.

I need a Mr. Hyde to my Dr. Jekyll. Aha! An alter ego! I haven't had an imaginary friend since Connie and her pink and green goats, but how liberating to create someone who really would do and say all the things I've never been able to . . . like telling my father-in-law that no one really gives a shit about some bird who's been extinct hundreds of years, or force-feeding yogurt to the far-too-happy woman who gaily claims to love raspberry cream cheese Dannen better than actual cheesecake.

What better than Draco Malfoy to my Harry Potter? The horrible Gretchen on Project Runway to sweet little Mondo in his white knee-highs? Endora to Aunt Clara?

Yes, yes (insert evil hand rubbing here). It can be done! It must be done! As god as my witness, I will wreak havoc on west central Iowa!!!

Or at least the tiny portion I control with my typing skills and delete key.

"I gathered eggs and fed the cow."

I mentioned to Dave that they were saving hair at the beauty salon to send to the Gulf to make mats to help soak up the oil. Weird and cool all at the same time. He said it was a significant historical detail that will get lost over time because all people ever write in their journals is "Rained today. Made a roast for dinner."

He cited the pioneer journals that we greedily scan for rich moments in their lives only to find the mundane day-to-day that makes us thankful for vacuums and dishwashers. It's the same with my dad's army letters. I've read them all and treasure them, but mostly they are queries about the crops back home and thoughts of how much he misses them. I'm sure he was so homesick that corn and beans and calving was all he wanted to think about. How was he to know he'd later have a daughter who wanted to hear stories about his pet monkey, or what it was like to sit in his ambulance, waiting for another load of desperately wounded men?

Most of my previous journals have been an outpouring of angst so melodramatically anguished that it makes me want to puke, and I wrote it, so since we've moved, I've been trying to refocus, note down details of the gardens and the wildlife. Although, I have to confess, I still note the temperature and rainfall amounts. But what will future generations want to read? What will interest them?

Should I write down how I feel about gay marriage, Sarah Palin, the war in Afghanistan? Or will anyone who finds my journal be more interested in the smaller picture? My little piece of the global puzzle?

Right now that's quilts, auctions, flowers and figuring out if Ruby Calvin really is the illegitimate daughter of Coco de Mer, but I'll try to keep my senses open for more than just wind velocity -- just in case.

And for the record: gay marriage -- "Why not?"; Sarah Palin -- "Please god, why?"; the war in Afghanistan; "Please just let them come home."

Green Peas and Peter Rabbit

We've been eating fresh peas and lettuce from the garden. I'd forgotten how much better everything tastes when you grow it yourself.

Every time I shell peas I remember doing it as a kid, sitting on our big cement step, pinging peas into the black roasting pan. Cheri would start telling some wild tale and right in the middle of it we'd realize she hadn't touched a pea since "Once upon a time".

Lettuce wasn't a big crop at our house when I was little because the rabbits always sheared it off. So Dave and I built a Mr. McGregor-style garden to keep the rabbits out of all the nibbly vegetables. And then Peter Rabbit did visit; we could see where he tried to get under the fence. Happily for my sanity, I didn't find a wriggling bunny caught in the wire by the button of his overalls since I still haven't recovered from the possum-on-the-porch incident.

I planted marigolds all around this smaller garden to keep the bugs out, and I'm very proud of them because I started them all from seeds I collected last fall and only lost the few that Miss Kitty napped on. Unfortunately, it doesn't seem to be deterring the cabbage butterflies very much, and we're having to keep an eye out for caterpillars on the cabbages. I can't wait for the broccoli which actually tastes pretty sweet when it doesn't have to be picked early and wrapped in cellophane.

I feel a little mean at not giving the bunnies a chance at the kale and carrot tops, but, like me with a box of chocolate almond ice cream, they don't know when to stop.

Quick! Get a Hoe!

Last night the garden was finally dry enough to get in and till out the weeds. It was mostly grass and that creepy stuff that looks like a stunted jade plant, but apparently they were enough to dampen the spirit of all the purposeful plants.

Because when we went out today, everything had leaped upwards in the night. It was amazing how much the pumpkins, squash, melons and corn had grown. It's like the weeds were choking the ground and once that tension was relieved, all the green stuff could burst forth and flourish.

Which raises the question -- what weeds are choking me?

The Elves are Fired!

Since the elves didn't show up -- the lazy little sods -- I had to paint the kitchen myself this weekend. I've been planning to do it since we moved in last year, and I don't even want to admit to myself how long I've had the paint stashed away. There just never seemed to be time to do it. Translation: I could always think of something better to do and I put it off.

But we have company coming next weekend, and this weekend was free, and Dave and I decided to be resolute (He'd been wanting to paint his office.). Actually, Dave was resolute; I was wavering, leaning toward absolute procrastination once again. It was going to be a pain painting around all those cupboards, and how was I going to paint behind the refrigerator? And I'd invariably step in the paint and track it all over my hardwood floors. AARGH!

But. It wasn't, I managed, and I didn't spill a drop. Surprise, surprise, it wasn't nearly as arduous as I imagined, as with most things I dread. I don't know why I forget that -- when I want to learn Italian or stand up for myself -- or like this morning, when I go back to a book I abandoned for my sewing room several months ago.

It's been a long hiatus. Will my characters remember me? Or will they turn their backs and fling their noses in the air? Is my countryside overgrown and weedy? Are all the buildings boarded up?

I'm dreading it. Here's one situation where I'm afraid my imagination will fail me, and I won't be able to think of a thing to write even if there is a person still left in my town who's still speaking to me. It's going to hard and painful and lonely.

Or. Maybe it'll be fun. Maybe I'll be welcomed back like a long-lost friend. Maybe I won't spill the paint.

A Bit Beaverish and a Lot of Sobbing

So far this spring I've heard Samantha sing and watched her dance, visited Meredith's new apartment and cheered Melissa on as she finished a marathon. We've wrangled feuding cats and a buffet we bought at an auction down into the basement. We've planted peas, potatoes, tomatoes and pumpkins, and constructed Mr. McGregor's garden for the lettuce, cabbage and other nibbly bits. I started marigolds and zinnias from seeds and cornered the market on geraniums. And, oh, yeah, I turned 50.

How the bloody hell did I get to be 50!?!?!

Many of my friends tried to console me -- "Fifty's not old."; "You're as young as you feel."; "Fifty is the new forty." Of course, all of these friends are still in their thirties and forties and haven't gotten the first death knell in the mail -- the initial AARP card. However, my oldest sister gave me the best message: "Welcome to the age where you no longer care what anyone thinks and you can say whatever you want."

So with that said:

*I didn't clean up and possibly put on make-up to listen to your child scream in a restaurant. Either pop him on the behind or, if you're afraid of child services, take him outside. I don't care if he's gifted or talented. From my perspective, he's a loud distraction that I shouldn't have to endure.

*Tampons should not be flowery scented. It's not natural and it makes me uneasy.

*Instead of relying on plug-in artificial fragrances, how about cleaning your house once in awhile?

*Why was it high treason that we rail against Dubya while he was in office, but it's perfectly fine to depict Obama as Hitler?

I do feel better. Maybe there's something to this 50-thing after all.

Spring Comes to the Playground

I've forgotten what Teddy looks like. Since the weather turned warm, we've barely seen his furry self. He had a lot of time to make up for given the long winter, and he's not the only one. We've been working outside every chance we get -- putting in new flower beds and getting the garden tilled. I've loved every minute of it -- OK, maybe not the down-on-my-knees-digging-grass-remnants-out-of-the-flowerbed part -- but definitely being outside and watching the bulbs we planted last fall emerge.

I could hardly wait for the scilla to appear this year. That was my favorite flower in Ann Arbor, spreading under the yellow wood tree. We have a way to go before we achieve that kind of carpet, but it's a start!

Glorious Fecundity

It's melting!! It's melting!! I can once again see the patio furniture that I didn't get under cover in time, and the brown, dead-looking trumpet vine that is soon to be replaced with a clematis as soon as I can dig it out, and the rest of my decaying pumpkins that I used as place holders for the chicken wire that I didn't need after all to keep the squirrels away from my tulip bulbs. We've exchanged the snows of Colorado for the swamps of Florida and I couldn't be happier.

So what that Teddy can't be bothered to wipe his feet when he returns from his adventures! Who cares that a skunk apparently courted his beloved under our bedroom window last night and managed to stink up the entire house! I'm delighted that I'll have to scrub the snot off the siding where poor old Arnold cleared out his sinuses all winter. I didn't need the recently arrived flock of robins to deliver the news. Spring is coming!

The World's Ugliest Cat

The cats are moving off the porch today from whence we took pity on them during the snowstorms. I'm tired of my porch looking like the Joads live here, but mostly, with the exception of Miss Kitty, the cats are smelly and pungently territorial. And more than that -- Dave found a possum living under the straw!!

He had a great gig going -- nice cozy den with room service, but ICK!!! I know possums are earthly creatures and probably have some purpose in the scheme of the world, but . . . ICK!!

Dave happened to notice Mr. Possum last night when he was out investigating something that fell to the earth burning -- yeah, yeah, but that's another story -- and thank god, he did because I nearly picked the straw up the other day to carry it out to the shed. That's all I need -- a painful series of rabies shots because I accidentally picked up a possum. Not to mention all the rehabilitation after my heart attack.

How wonderful to have married a hero. I tell him he should wear a cape. Not only does he open the door to noisy closets at 5 in the morning, but now he has vanquished the possum from the porch.

The Whole Winter's Been a Lion

It's been quite awhile since I've logged on, but the only topics that came to my mind were weather-related, and if you live in the Midwest -- or the East coast -- you're sick of hearing, worrying and talking about the weather right now -- bitching about the snow and longing for spring.

So let's talk quilts! It's time for a Pickle Dish update. As of today, I have thirty pickle dish arcs done for my traditional Pickle Dish quilt, and the entire 24 completed for the Christmas Pickle project. I am in love with the foundation piecing of Pickle Dish arcs. I get in the zone and Pickle Dishes fly out of my sewing machine.

What brings me to earth is the sobering prospect of connecting curved piece to curved piece. But I am resolute! And I will tackle that portion of the challenge this week and let you know who it goes.

Happy March 1st!

Winter is going, going . . .

There's been a spring sighting in our neighborhood!!!

It's not a robin, but an advertised estate auction. It's not scheduled to take place until April, but at this stage of winter, I'll take anything I can get.

Springing Ahead

I just read an article in the Des Moines Register cautioning gardeners not to get too carried away ordering spring plants just because the winter has been so harsh.

Too late.

I order plants like I buy fabric. Well, maybe not as impetuously as that. I do check the zone requirements and draw the line at fussy roses. But who can resist a strawberry and cream hydrangea or apple blossom tulips? And, for some reason, I am a sucker for any kind of sedum -- I think it's the sheer joy of the bees who tumble through the flowers.

One of the spring chores that has risen to the top of the list is clearing out trees, especially after this last go-round of ice. We lost a lot of limbs, thankfully none of which fell on the house or power lines. I hate it that the silver maples, which are brittle, are crashing down, but I'm ready to clear out the black walnuts, which are sucking the joy out of the front yard. It's clear that they are just junk trees that grew from the happenstance of a well-placed nut. No one planned them; they just are. And they just are a nuisance.

Dave's dad refused to cut down any tree, even if it was growing in the foundation of the house, and Ann Arborites, by the sheer nature of their environment, are extremely pro-tree. I'm certainly not anti-tree, but I'm over the mentality that you can't cut one down. It's sort of like deer -- I certainly don't want to shoot one myself, but I do understand that culling the herd is better for the overall health of the species.

And then they won't have to eat my hostas . . . and my dahlias . . . and my asters . . .

Cabin Feverish

Teddy is not the only one with cabin fever around here. It's not that I have anywhere I need to go or that I don't have plenty to do around here. It's just the idea of being trapped until the snow plow comes through that makes my brain go strange places.

One morning Dave and I sat around and tried to name all the NFL teams . . . and then their coaches . . . and then the quarterbacks. For someone who used to read at ballgames, I only missed two quarterbacks and one coach.

Then yesterday I got it into my head to see if I could name all of Iowa's 99 counties. I made it to 62 with a couple of "maybes". It's kind of amazing how names pop into your head at random moments. Dave and I were both upstairs yesterday -- he was working in his office and I was in my sewing room working on Pickle Dish arcs -- and I kept hollering out names for him to write down so that I could add them to the list later.

It's kind of scary to think of what's stored in your head and what you can retrieve -- and what you can't. One of my many talents is being able to name character actors from the 60s and 70s. Watch a rerun of Mission: Impossible with me and nine times out of ten I can tell you the real name of the villain and the heroine and tell you which Star Trek episode they were in.

Why can I do that? And why can't I just remember why I walked into the kitchen?

Oh, and by the way, there really is an Ida county in Iowa.

Winter Wonderland

I'm getting prepared for the next power outage. Buckets of water are on stand-by, as are the flashlights and candles. I ran the dishwasher; Dave is catching up on his laundry. And I made a salad because I got bloody sick of peanut butter the last time. Teddy has an extra box or two to play in since he can't go outside.

I'm trying to stay positive -- because it's been so frigid, maybe the ice still clinging to the power lines is brittle and will just fall off when the wind hits it -- but there's no point in playing ostrich either.

And, yet, it's still beautiful. I am so often reminded of the Emily Dickinson poem "There's a Certain Slant of Light" -- usually in the fall, but more and more this winter. About 3 p.m. the air gets a richness about it as if the cold has been absorbing sunlight all day and begins to reflect it back. The fences glimmer with ice, and unspoiled, unbroken expanses of white cover everything, like that white fleecy stuff you can buy at Christmastime to put under the creche.

I may have to finish my book by flashlight tonight and wear three pairs of socks to bed. It's a dead cert that I'll have to re-shovel the Western Passage, but for now -- an Iowa girl come home -- it's all good.

The Broccoli Speaks

from P.D. James' Talking About Detective Fiction

". . . however well I think I know my characters, they reveal themselves more clearly during the writing of the book, so that at the end, however carefully and intricately the work is plotted, I never get exactly the novel I planned."

I put the Christmas decorations away this weekend, and Dave helped me get the tree down. The holidays are officially over around here, and it's time to get back to work --which means it's time to put all my plot work into play--which means it's time to start writing the chapters comprising the whole book -- which means I'm terrified. Because what if I've got it wrong? What if I made a wrong decision -- sent a character around the wrong corner or killed off the character who's supposed to solve the murder? So I read this quote from P.D. James, who's written many amazing plots, with great relief.

I put a lot of trust in my characters, trust that they will tell me what happened when I'm not sure. After all, I wasn't in the room, but they were. And P. D. James agrees with me:

"It feels, indeed, as if the characters and everything that happens to them exists in some limbo of the imagination, so that what I am doing is not inventing them but getting in touch with them and putting their story down in black and white, a process of revelation, not of creation."

Once in a writers' meeting at a coffee shop, Zoe mentioned that she just wrote down what the voice in her head told her to. The rest of us nodded knowingly, but people outside the group started edging away, their coffee slopping unnoticed out of their cups. Writers and psychotics have much in common -- we both hear voices. And I'm grateful for that. It means all I have to do is listen and observe carefully. The heat's off.

Anne Lamott in Bird by Bird calls it "listening to your broccoli". I love that because putting words on a page in a certain order is often inexplicable. People have asked me how I come up with the stuff I write about or why I put sentences together the way I do. Darned if I know. I just do. Writing is more fun and productive when I let it remain a mystery. It's when I prod my characters to stand up straight and stop talking in line that the voices in my head dry up and I start to panic.

I don't have my book plotted out so minutely that it will write itself, and I can relax about that. It's exciting to see what pops up on the page, to keep discovering details and clues as I write. I've done enough creating to let the revealing begin.