Hitting the reset button

SO here's the dealio.

I am a writer. It's what I was born to do and what I do better than anything else -- better than my mad Iron Chef skillz, my jumpshot or my electric guitar tone. And the more I vent about not being a full-time writer, the more I realize that duh, there's nothing stopping you from writing on your own, friend.

Then a former colleague of mine started a blog despite the fact she finds time to be a Ph.D candidate despite a full-time job and a family.

Hey, I thought, I should do that.

And then it dawned on me: Hey, dummy, you already have a blog. In fact, you have three. One for the girl, one for writing about music and one catch-all "observations and musings from the Nutmeg State" scratchpad, all three of which have been collecting cobwebs for years while you frittered and wasted the hours in an offhand way.

So what will I try to do? After all, this has been tried before. And it didn't get far. No, it didn't get far.

Because for a writer, I've grown pretty adept at either NOT writing or starting writing and not finishing. I've got one 50,000-word start of a manuscript about the inner lives of Seussian characters done and waiting for copious edits and needed improvements, 25,000 words of career-inspired early 90s rant collecting dust, a third idea waiting for NaNoWriMo in November and a fourth and a fifth kicking about in my brain.

The answer? Just write, really.

In his brilliant work on getting to work, "The War Of Art," Steven Pressfield gives the inability to do things you've always wanted to do a name: Resistance. And how do we overcome resistance? By sitting down and getting to work, he says. Stop procrastinating and waiting for tomorrow; do it today.

I've oversimplified a great deal. But here's a quick excerpt that gets to the heart of it:

Have you ever brought home a treadmill and let it gather dust in the attic? Ever resolved on a diet, a course of yoga, a meditation practice? Have you ever felt a call to embark upon a spiritual practice, dedicate yourself to a humanitarian calling, commit your life to the service of others? Have you ever wanted to be a mother, a doctor, an advocate for the weak and helpless; to run for office, crusade for the planet, campaign for world peace or to preserve the environment? Late at night have you experienced a vision of the person you might become, the work you could accomplish, the realized being you were meant to be? Are you a writer who doesn't write, a painter who doesn't paint, an entrepreneur who never starts a venture? Then you know what Resistance is.

So I'm going to just write.

Here, I think I'll write about pretty much anything Nutmeggy, and some things that are not limited to this state -- even "third rail" topics like politics and faith. Whatever crosses my path or my mind. Connecticut is a strange and confusing state and if you asked me 10 years ago, I would have told you I never expected to live here. But here I am. As the first entry in this blog years ago noted, the state motto is Qui transtulit sustinet, translated from Latin as "he who is transplanted still sustains," and Connecticut has sustained us for the past five years. It's an interesting place. And it's home.

As for the art on top of this page: No, it's not real. North Stepford Falls is not on any map, not any more than its more wealthy and troubled neighbor; it's everywhere and nowhere, simultaneously. Maybe I can show you where to find it...

Excerpt: Pressfield, Steven. The War Of Art. New York: Grand Central Publishing, 2003.

stuff I don't get

So we're relaunching this here blog. Ain't she purty? I had some inspiration.

A few things I just don't understand:

_ At the Stop & Rob Dunkies I ordered an unsweetened iced tea with lemon.
"Um, we don't have any lemon," the clerk said.
"How could you not have lemon? They're three for $2 down the hall," I replied, trying to sound helpful.
I ordered iced decaf instead. I think she left out the Splenda on purpose. Or maybe they ran out of that, too.

_ Why do political candidates plaster polling places with signs? Here in the Nutmeggiest state, unlike Massachusetts, signs are allowed practically right up to the polling place door. I suppose folks want to show just how doggone much they love their candidate, just in case you're wavering on your decision because you haven't seen enough lawn signs for your candidate of choice. But it smacks of impulse purchase marketing -- the same reason they put candy bars, soda, batteries, tabloids, gift cards and subprime mortgages in the checkout aisle.
I would hope -- *hope* -- that voters don't choose candidates for higher office the way they choose fast food at the drive-up window. "Hmm, who do I want for attorney general? Oooh! Baconator! ... and a diet soda."

_ Why would you put your sign in the exit lane of the access road to the polling place? That was the situation outside North Stepford Falls High School. Just in case maybe you didn't select a nominee for governor, here's a helpful reminder of who you should have voted for. "There's still time .. turn around and vote for Tom Foley!"
Not that I'd vote for Tom Foley under any circumstance whatsoever.

_ Half of our fair state chose the wrasslin' promoter as its nominee to be U.S. senator. To which I offer the following list: Owen Hart, Chris Benoit and his wife and children, Eddie Guerrero, The Ultimate Warrior, Rick Rude, Davey Boy Smith, Curt Henning ("Mr. Perfect"), Miss Elizabeth, Crash Holly, Big Boss Man, Bam Bam Bigelow. Just sayin'.

Blame Me

Look outside. It's January, nearly February.
Where's the snow?
We've had seperate snowfalls of barely an inch, twice, this winter.
And it's all my fault.
I bought a snowblower. Yup, a nice Honda two-stage number with electric start, plenty of horsepower and kung-fu grip.
And it has not snowed since.
Well, maybe our making a mockery of this planet had something to do with it...

Wild Wild Life

The neighborhood and our surroundings are multiple shades of green again – the trees have sprouted their buds and opened into leaves, the grass – depending on the owner’s attention to detail and/or ability to hire the Lawn Wranglers – has bounced back to its usual hue, and plants are sprouting out of gardens everywhere.

It’s invigorating to see all this renewal. In spite of everything we’ve done and are doing to our poor planet, the cycle of life continues -- or at least it tries. It reminds us what we have to lose if we keep poisoning our atmosphere and our oceans.

As for our yard: I’ve been trying to repair the damage done out front over the winter, when the tree in the front yard fell, and in back, where the grubs feasted late last summer. The seeds have finally started to take hold and peek up from under the straw I put down. I’d hope so by this point; they sure got enough rain.

Along with the flora, we have fauna.

We’ve noticed since moving here that there are quite a few animals sharing our property with us. There’s a big family of squirrels that sprints through the canopy along the side and back perimeter of the yard. They did OK this winter – one we spied taking a rest on one of our daughter’s toys was big enough to feed a family of four. When it rained hard here a few weeks ago, their warren must have flooded out, because Michelle saw them carrying their babies in their mouths to safety.

Also on the scene: chipmunks. They’re cute, too, but they’ve dug up part of the front yard. I’m willing to let it go, especially when they let us take pictures like this.




And then there’s Flick.

Michelle noticed Flick and his girlfriend last year and looked them up. Turns out they’re Yellow-Shafted Northern Flickers, a breed (apart) of woodpecker.




Northern Flickers are common throughout North America. They build nests in trees up to 90 feet in the air. They find ants delicious. Here’s more:

But Flick isn’t the sharpest tool in the shed.

Michelle heard a jackhammer noise the other day and had no idea where it was coming from. Were they working on the next road over? Was it the home addition going up down the street? She followed the noise to the back yard .. where she found Flick, attempting to drill through the lid of our gas grill. You can see it here … the quality isn’t the greatest, but wait for the payoff at the end, where you’ll hear his call and see (and hear) his attempt to drill through steel.


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When it rained and we put a cover over the grill, he tried the same thing on our roof.