jodiet.com Blog

Looking for a vacation destination? If you are, consider the state one is often in but doesn’t know it. You can visit this state daily and it offers all of your favorite amenities, most notably, avoidance, suspension of belief, altered reality and rationalized contradiction, all the things that will keep you fresh and keep you going. I am, of course, talking about the great state of Denial. Contrary to what shrinks may claim, Denial is a healthy state as long as one key requirement is met: You must not deny being in Denial.

Denial will soon be your favorite state. Go ahead, look at the calendar and your daughter’s dwindling elementary school career and ignore the fact that middle school is waiting around the next corner, ready to slap you in the face. Avoid stepping one toe into your children’s bedrooms to preserve oblivion. And when they “clean” their rooms, just take a quick glance rather than inspect under the bed, in the closet, behind the dressers and in the previously-organized tubs. Soon you’ll be floating through your day, a smile plastered to your face, secure in believing the world is filled with roses and sunshine.

We discourage living in the state of Denial but it is a wonderful place to visit . . . frequently. But don’t go to Denial blindly. In order to fully capitalize on Denial’s benefits, it’s important to know that’s exactly where you are going and exactly how long you can stay. One day, you will have to figure out middle school logistics. And one day you’ll have to pull out all those dust bunnies. But not today. We’ll keep you from going crazy with worry about the future and help you focus on the present. So grab your bikinis and your surf boards. It’s going to be another glorious day in Denial.

P.S. FYI—My goal is to update my blog weekly.

Why am I constantly asking myself, “What the hell are you doing?” I set my alarm clock to go off at 6:38 a.m. every week day so I will be awakened just as my coffee finishes brewing. Most times—okay, sometimes—maybe two-thirds—or half, I get up. The other times I just let my coffee ferment in its stainless steel carafe then doze off and on listening to the Today show for another hour or so.

When I do get up, I drag myself downstairs, pour myself a cup of coffee and belatedly sign my kids’ school planners. By the time I sit down in front of my computer and lull it from sleep, it is approximately 6:50 a.m. I open my project, stare at the blinking curser and my notes of where I had planned to go yesterday—or a few days ago—then begin typing pure…ingenious…drivel. My story is boring. I know this but I keep writing anyway just trying to make it to the finish line, planning to go back and add some action later. I truly believe this is a good story and I think I can write it if only I can find the time and motivation to do it. But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe the story and worse, my writing, just plain sucks. I picture the hundreds of editors and agents just dropping my manuscript into the trash not valuing it enough to even use it as a tissue to blow their noses, let alone to extract a response to advise it doesn’t fit in with their objectives at this time.

Every morning I make it to my computer, I promise myself if I write until 7:15 a.m., I can quit and go back to bed for another half an hour before I have to get ready to go to work. So far, every morning, it is at least 7:30 a.m. but sometimes as late as 7:45 a.m. before I jot my notes of where I’m going next and close Word. And I’m usually satisfied. What I wrote may suck but at least now it sucks concretely in black and white instead of just floating around in my head.

Regardless of whether I wrote in the morning or not, I usually start to think about magazine writing as I perform my “paycheck” job. Magazine articles are shorter and more immediate than the novel, might provide some encouragement, some clips and if I’m real lucky, a couple of dollars. Of course, that would mean manipulating someone into actually accepting my piece and printing it in their publication which I know would take months or years and hundreds, if not thousands, of rejections.

Eventually I always get to the question, “What the hell are you doing?” Why am I writing? To get published. Why do I want to get published? It is not to be rich. That would be nice but I know writing for 99.9% of writers only elicits a modest income at most. I guess it might also be nice to be a famous writer. Since nobody looks at those little pictures in a books’ bio and you normally don’t get a picture with a magazine article, I wouldn’t have to worry about the paparazzi. But that is not the reason either.

So why don’t I just quit? Not quit writing necessarily, but quit writing with the intent to publish? I could just write when the muse strikes—poetry or in my journal—maybe keep blogging but then just forget about it. I could collect my check at my paycheck job, come home, spend time with my family and doing some of the other things I enjoy like bike riding, walking, hiking and scrapbooking. I could go back from my thirty-hour week schedule to full time and even have a few extra dollars in my pocket. So why do I insist on torturing myself so? Please, can you help?
-Signed Discouraged in Davenport

Dear Discouraged in Davenport:
Sure, you could give up writing for the simpler life you describe but you won’t. And the reason is irrational, ludicrous, demented and delusional. Fundamentally, the reason you want to get published is so you can make money—not a ton of money—but just enough money to—get this; this is the real kicker—WRITE MORE. I know that sounds crazy but it is true. You’re driving yourself insane, dragging your sorry ass out of bed (some) mornings, and undermining your self-esteem for the main purpose of doing it MORE. So instead of for just maybe one hour each day, you can spend several hours each day writing potentially pure, ingenious drivel.

Why would you want to do that? The data on this subject is not clear. Maybe it is just selfishness and ego thinking you have something to say that others want or need to hear. Maybe it is just a futile attempt at immortality. I suspect though it is a requirement for survival like air and water. I think writing keeps you alive. Sometimes, one’s biggest disappointment in life is fulfilling a dream, one for which they worked hard and gave up a lot (but didn’t sacrifice—but that’s a topic for another time); for example, going away to college. They make it and they are proud. But somehow they failed to consider anything past this vision of themselves as a co-ed walking across campus with their backpack slung over their shoulder. They really didn’t believe they would make it there so when they do, they are devastated by “Now what?”

With writing, there is no “Now what?” There’s always more revisions needed. There’s always more to write. It is a never ending fountain. The more you pull up from the well, the more there is waiting. There’s always more to do. If there’s always more to do, there’s always an internal motivation to keep living. It is a motivation that is entirely contained within and therefore, always under your control. Nothing but death or dementia can take it away and then, you won’t know enough to care. Writing is your air. Writing is your water. Writing is your mechanism of avoiding the depressing abyss of “Now what?” Now quit wallowing in self pity and WRITE!

I just returned home after a long day which included taking my 3 1/2 year old niece to see Dora the Explorer. After dropping her off at six with her parents and big sister, I visited the cemetery in the town where my brother lives. I took the Great River Road home. The dwindling sunlight flashed through birthing trees to my left and the inhabitants on the east bank of the Mississippi enjoyed an early spring unobstructed sunset. I started to think about why I of so few persist in decorating the graves at least annually but semi-annually if the weather and my memory to purchase flowers permits.

Since 1989, the number of graves I’ve decorated has climbed to five. My cousin and daughter’s namesake, Katie, and my grandmother’s were all until 2002. Then within two years, I added three more: my cousin, Korey, who chose to die; my step-dad, Steve; and my Uncle Tom. Over the years, I’ve developed a sort of system for grave decorations, a one dollar bouquet in something a bit more manly–this year, white carnations–each for Korey and Uncle Tom. I suppose because though I liked Uncle Tom, we were not all that close. And maybe because subconsciously I think Korey should not be rewarded for shooting himself in the head because we WERE close. For a long time, he was like an older brother and carried the title of my best friend. My grandma and Katie each get two one dollar bouquets in something girly–red roses for Grandma and pink tulips for Katie. The most extravagant goes to Steve—this year, a $5 “Dad” sign crafted of red, white and blue carnations. I’m not sure why the distinction between my grandma and Katie versus Steve other than perhaps Steve’s passing is so much fresher.

So I was thinking…why do I do this? It is not that I’m looking for an excuse not to or that I don’t want to but maybe more wondering why I do it and so many others don’t. In all the years I’ve been visiting the cemetery, I’ve never seen any flowers on my other uncle’s grave. He died when I was seven (I think) and I did not know him well at all. I could’ve started leaving flowers at his grave abutting Grandma’s but I suppose back then I didn’t have enough money and now, it is just habit. Most of the time my mom and I are the only ones who put anything on my grandma’s, Katie’s and Steve’s graves.

Do I do it for the benefit of the departed? Maybe. But if I didn’t do it, what could they do? It’s been rumored the one dollar flowers have been criticized as tacky and classless. But tacky or not, I continue to wait for the thaw–or beat it–and stuff the plastic engulfed wire stems in the dirt on the edge of the markers so as to avoid the lawn mower. I view grave decorating in the same light as gift-giving—it’s the thought that counts. A spindly, tacky dollar flower from Wal-mart is still better than being bare. Maybe I do it so they and anyone who happens by knows they’ve not been forgotten. That they still matter to someone?

Blue shadows climbed up the buildings on my left. I thought of my grandma and thought how much history there must be along that river. She loved her town and the history contained. All those that have gone built the wood-sided boarding houses and tethered boats to the shore, harvesting their ice, offering their commerce, and extending their names. They are the names still transforming the river town, renovating century-old gems, running businesses and fighting the dwindling economy.

As the bridge now at 50 miles per hour allowing travel across what once required fervor and perseverance came into view, the answer I’m not yet sure I can intelligently articulate arose. It is the connection between history and the present that keeps me decorating those graves. I don’t do it for the dead or for those who visit the cemetery or even just pass by. It is a ceremony I honor for me to remember my connection to the past, to those I love who occasionally visit my life in my dreams, and to now. It reminds me to keep living the best life I can, to keep pursuing dreams, to keep laughing, to keep dreaming, to keep fighting…to keep being…so they will not have died in vain.

(P.S. I think I’m going to like this blogging. It is a selfish indulgence—and I don’t have to use proper punctuation!!!)

I’ve succumbed and started a blog. This got me thinking. What does this blog mean to me? I blew the dust from the tops of the red speckled pages of my Webster’s New World Dictionary, 1994 Edition, and turned to “B”. No BLOG. I was not surprised but just to be sure the dictionary included acronyms, I looked up AARP. Yep, it was there. Fast forward fifteen years, the paper dictionary is obsolete and Webster has taken a wife. Assuming Webster’s ball-and-chain hadn’t drug him down; I searched “BLOG” on miriamwebster.com. The result? Weblog. Okay, so I can see where whoever may have got blog from weblog. Someone typing away on their electronic journal is interrupted by the question, “What are you doing?” Since the sole means of communication for the blogger has been through her fingers since an ISP came to town, her voice failed her and all that could be discerned was “blog”. And the rest, as “they” say, is history.

Now that I’ve figured out the universal definition of blog, I turn to the question, what does blog, specifically this blog, mean to me? Blog sounds more to me like an acronym so I went with that: Big Loser Over Grown…Beautiful Literature Only Glib…Border Line Obsessive Gambling…Bit License (for) Obtrusive Gluttony…Business Lagging On Glam…Bitch Loves Own Gushing??? Perhaps not an acronym. Maybe blog for me is short for Belong? I’m still not sure what this blog means to me and I don’t know that I ever will but I invite you to join me on the journey. I suspect that, really, BLOG for me stands for Bound Larceny One Game—the first words I saw starting with B-L-O-G as I flipped through my Oxford American Writer’s Thesaurus.