Character sketches and language

I don't know if I have the right attitude about this whole NaNoWriMo editing thing or not, but there it is. And by that I mean, HERE is my plan (and I am not open to other suggestions about how revisiting a NaNo Novel could be done).

1) I'm going to read what I have written aloud to my workshopping group. One chapter or 6 pages at a time (whichever is less). I will gather feedback. I will learn. I will take notes on what I learn.

What I have learned, re-learned, reinforced, and should make efforts to ponder seriously so far:

Confusion = BAD

• Ask - Which dialog is CRITICAL to the character, story, style, theme, etc. and which can be summarized by the narrator?
• Ask - Would your character actually SAY THAT? Word choice is critical when character building.
• Narrator, Writer, Characters are different "people." Keep them clear for the reader.
• Know if your character is trustworthy or not, and make sure your reader knows too. 
• Don't unintentionally confuse readers.
• BE CAREFUL if you want to intentionally confuse or misdirect readers.
• Structure may come later, but whatever the structure ends up being, make sure that your readers want to read and keep reading from the very beginning.

2) Once I've read the WHOLE DRAFT I will ask myself the following:

• Do you LIKE this novel?
• Would YOU read it?
• Does it say something important?
• Are you still interested in working on it?

3) Then after that, I'll decide if I want to do something with it...in full awareness and acceptance of the fact that no matter what, I had a FANTASTIC experience participating in NaNoWriMo, and everyone who thinks they might have a novel in them should absolutely join the fun!

To Drivel And Beyond!!!

Two people have now officially heard the first chapter of my latest novel read out loud. I have two copies with handwritten notes, and I have officially received feedback on fiction I have written.

No groans. 

No major confusion. 

Lots of positive feedback. 

I did get two "serious" notes that I feel REALLY good about because they exactly echoed potential issues that concerned me going in.  

I must say I suffered a LOT of anxiety this weekend as I read what I had written for the first time since writing it.

Just printing out copies and stapling them together was quite difficult. I was nearly paralyzed by "this is crap," and "why would anyone read this drivel?"

Today, post-workshop, I feel very, very relieved that my drivel achieved a lot of what I hoped it would. 

2014 is going to be a GREAT YEAR.

Saturday

Very low key Saturday. First one in a long while. I feel like I've been running around and worrying much too much. I'm going to stay abed until beach time (low tide) and let my spirit rest. 

A chorus of my inner voices berate me for being lazy and fat. For not cleaning the garage, the birdcage, the laundry. for not gardening, exercising, writing and scooping dog shit.

Hey! STFU! I cleaned the toilet. I fed the animals, I put away some clean laundry! It does not all have to get done NOW.

I exhaust myself with the berating and fighting the berating. I think I will read a favorite book and take a nap.

Stark Nova by Chris Mark, Reviewed by ME!

In the latest issue of SF in SF I review Stark Nova AND interview the author!

http://efanzines.com/SFSF/SFSF146.pdf

Check me out, and read Stark Nova if it sounds like your kind of thing!

Yvette

Synopsis for my NaNoWriMo novel - Maybe.

I promise nothing, but this MIGHT be a synopsis that will have something to do with whatever I end up writing this month. 

After a year full of the deaths of friends and family, Janette was tired, emotionally hollowed out, and in need of closure. Or Fun. Or Both. So when her pagan friend Allie invited her to a Wiccan "ritual" with costumes, dancing, and an introduction to a hot guy she wanted to meet, it seemed like a good alternative to a night alone handing out (scarfing down) Halloween candy. As it turned out, Janette's dead were not as ready as she was to say farewell.Now on the wrong side of the veil between the worlds, Janette has to navigate across the Isle du Mort, making peace with "beloved dead" who want to weigh her down with rummicube rules, very odd favors, and midlife crisis advice. If she can make peace with every dead person she has ever known - and FAST - she might make it back to the world of the living in time for her date.

Jump from a good platform

high dive, 60's, a photo by Jimmy's Classic Drive-in on Flickr.

I only jumped from a very-high-dive platform once. I have no memory of where, or why or how anyone talked me into it, but I remember doing it.

I also remember wanting desperately NOT TO.

During the olympics I sometimes catch the diving, and although I admire the sport, watching it requires me to actively quiet a visceral cringing. It feels like every internal organ I've got is sandwiched between a convulsing spinal column and the shriveling of every skin cell covering my body. It is a recoil against height from the inside and out.

So now that I've decided to "leap into" writing more publicly, and chosen to do it from the tall, supportive backs of persons I know and admire, utilizing the very tall platforms of OTHER folks I know and admire...I'm having that moment where I'm high up in the air, and I know SOMETHING will go wrong.

My writing will be truncated. My intended message will fall flat. I'll write too much, or not enough. I'll look like an idiot...or worse, panic and take someone down with me into a fatal bellyflop.

So, I'm visualizing the climb, the foot-thick, solid, stable, grainy concrete platform, my toes are off the edge, and I'm just telling myself over and over, "It's just water."

Horror

I'm almost finished reading The Ocean at the End of the Lane. The boy is in the fairy circle, surrounded by all the spectres of seven years, and I have come to a sudden realization about why I don't write. As I am crying, and blowing my nose, and breathing in hiccoughs, I realize that I am afraid of writing and being a writer because I am afraid that I will write stories like this. Horror stories. Stories that I do not like to read.

The Scroll of Years - A Review

The Scroll of Years

A Gaunt and Bone Novel

Having finished The Scroll of Years by Chris Willrich only moments ago, I hereby judge that it is not an average, everyday book. By that I mean it is not about a cast of characters placed in stories and committed to the written word.

Instead, Willrich has written a magical invitation to peruse a series of bound pages where, by happy chance, fantastic figures’ own paths direct them to travel back and forth in this specific vicinity…and they happen to have been captured by a sensitive translator.

My ruling on The Scroll of Years is based on many things, but foremost the structure of the book.  Willrich’s debut novel is comprised of long and short chapters, tales within tales, and shifts in time, location, culture, perspective, and language.  The result is deceptive: the simple exterior of a fantasy softcover hides an interior that is a complex literary work. This book insistently demands that any prospective reader thrust away their grasp of linear tale telling as a prerequisite to jumping into this adventure.

I will not mince words: This is not a book everyone will enjoy. The protagonists travel an entire world of territory, and the stories told are drawn from every major occurrence of a human lifetime. I found it difficult at times to catch up again after putting it down, as if somehow the story had continued to evolve while I wasn’t actively reading it.

To enjoy the work, I suggest that you be a reader who can be dropped without warning or explanation onto the back of a Springfang, into a bottomless pit, or through the portal of scholarly monastic life. This is not a book for any reader requiring reason or exposition. Persistent readers will find some of each inside this novel, but it will be wrapped carefully and carried next to a character’s true heart.

The Scroll of Years is a collection of tales about persons generally meeting the modern definition of “westerners” and “easterners.” The travels and antics of the characters are guides or perhaps crutches, for the reader seeking wisdom about an astonishing range of life experiences. From the book, readers can steal treasures about true growing up, forgiveness, partnership in love, parenting, and even coming to peace with our own flawed selves.

The thrilling cover illustration of high-fantasy artwork, and Willrich’s own description of the novel as “sword and sorcery” does the book an injustice.  I believe it is well beyond what the traditional fantasy novel has provided. The Scroll of Years is more than one rich world-building adventure; it is easily three or perhaps, lucky seven. Characters go beyond the traditional troupe of scout, fighter, thief, wizard, and cleric, to include the avocations of monks, politicians, assassins, poets, mothers, fathers, adolescents, emperors, dragons, walls, ways, ghosts, vampires, accountants, sailors, outcasts, and even a loyal log-chasing dog.

What I enjoyed about the novel was being tossed into a wonderful new way to use language. Willrich has invented novel techniques for dialog and storytelling that derive from opposites. His writing incorporates east and west, man-on-the-street and sage, human and animal, child and adult. I can only describe my reaction toward writing so completely new and different as similar to how I felt reading Gibson’s cyberpunk for the first time. Reading this book is likely to cause a disturbance in your Chi, but channeling will reward the reader tenfold.

What I had to overcome to enjoy the book was the idea that I was picking up a recreational-fantasy drug. This book requires attention, commitment and participation from its readers. If you allow it, this book can teach you more than a little bit about life’s biggest lessons. To the inattentive, I imagine this book is just a muddied flood that will wash over you, scrape you up with pointed words, and carry you away, without ever allowing you to plumb its depths of meaning.

Writing Exercise: What smells would you want to take with you to heaven?

• Husband's forehead
• Cockatoo powder
• Fresh popcorn with real butter
• Bruising unexpected bushes
• Fresh, post-storm seaweed
• Hot, dry pine needles in the woods
• Horse brushing
• Horse manure
• Shampoo
• Hot, sweaty, buff guy running past on the narrow hiking trail
• Santa Barbara Sandstone dust in the summer
• Fresh bread
• Cinnamon
• Baked apples
• Lysol
• Dr. Bronner's peppermint soap
• Honeysuckle
• Starch - hot on the ironed clothes
• Warm clothes from the dryer
• Downy
• Freshly poured hard cider
• Fine cabernet
• Hot leather seats in the car
• Open window in a stuffy room
• Basement
• Concrete slab
• Crawl space under the house
• Wine cellar
• Doug's pipe smoke
• Hawaii
• Lemon verbena
• Grease paint make up

--------------

Exercise: Write about one smell (with prompts during continuous writing)

Open window in a stuffy room

The smell of an open window in a stuffy room hits me in the neck,
behind each ear. This part of my body relaxes as the fresh air pushes curtains aside. 
There is blue sky outside and fresh green of the grass and
bushes outdoors. This smell makes me relaxed. My stuffed inside body
can expand with air, and the neck and ears get bigger, wider, longer.

The smell is always available but needs precaution from weather. 
Rain into the stuffy room is best even when frills of lace get damp. 
The day - end of day - is time to come home and open windows and chase out
the heavy waiting. Bird waiting for attention. Home waiting to be
lived in. 

Each home needs to be allowed to steep - to become what it IS all day alone. 
And then the people come in and open the windows and
let the fresh movement in. From outside. Fresh halts the decay.
Rejuvenates, sparkles the wooden floor, warms linens, releasing the
comfort smells of husbands and laundry and fabric softener. 

A solitary smell. Open the window anytime, but the smell only comes when alone -
when there is time to just breathe. Maybe it could be shared with an
intimate loved one. Open windows merge the possible future and the
current moment. The outside of fresh with the inside of decay...or dust...or simply calm. Calm. Warm. Settled. Not stirred...moved...complicated. In/out and constant versus perpetual motion.

Scared to Breathe

Rob Brezny posted this as his FB status today:

"I resolve not to automatically assume that negative feelings are more profound and authentic than positive ones, or that cynical opinions are smarter and more accurate than the optimistic kind."

I'm going to try to find the truly believable optimism as it applies to my Sunday, St. Patrick's Day morning: 

12 hours after the medicine, the wracking coughing begins. 

This means my body is strong - functioning well, and the drugs I'm taking to alleviate my symptoms are being efficiently used and flushed out of my system. I'm grateful for that strength, that functionality. 

This cold/flu cannot last. It is probably not Spanish, and I am not small, tragic Lavinia. 

Instead, this is my opportunity to read voraciously without guilt or distraction. 

It is an opportunity to practice trusting my husband and communicating how best he can help and care for me. Like asking for salty, cheesy grits for breakfast. (OMG, YUM.)

It is an opportunity to cherish each breath - especially when I fear that the deep, healing breathing that will relax and energize me may also lead to the coughing fits. So it is also an opportunity to practice my mindfulness, awareness and "body talk." 

"Hey, body. How's is going?"
"Not well."
"Yeah...More artificial help is on the way...the pain will be gone soon...but how can we stretch a little and make the stiffness and soreness go away? How can I help you? How can I keep you strong?"
"Piss off."
"Oh, come on."
"EVERYTHING HURTS, ASSHOLE."
"Everything?"
"Pretty much, yeah - everything."
"But it will hurt less in a little while, we just have to get the drugs in our bloodstream."
"I can't wait..."
"Sure you can! Don't give up! Think about how much we have to see and do together! We have to get strong, and be ready for the ride in a couple of months."
"Yeah, about that - It is one thing to be pushing all this extra hiking and cycling and spinning on me, but it is something else to pair that with all these extra fear and stress hormones. Can you try to cut those out?"
"I will try."
"Good. And another thing, you know where we got this flu bug dontcha? I bet good money on the YMCA. Lots of people, lots of kids, and lots of people with lots of kids. Germ factories! Wipe down the bicycle before and AFTER we use it for spin class, and get some hand wipes."
"Okay, I will do that too. What else? How can I help?"
cough, cough, cough, cough, cough, cough, cough, cough>
"Careful! Yeah, okay. We can breathe. And stretch some. And lie back down. And wait for the drugs to kick in."
"Yeah, let's do that together."

Too Good to Use

It is time to admit something publicly:
For awhile after we got married, my husband and I only used our Wedgewood china for occasional dinner parties.

I'm ashamed, but it is true. I decided that dishes people had given us as gifts were somehow too precious, too good to use. What if they got broken? Chipped!? If the gilt edge…wore OFF!!!! DISASTER!

My husband's family has a phrase for this. You may have heard it.  It applies to special feast day food, and gets pulled out at annual gatherings.  Children often hear it, at that time before the clock strikes the appointed dinner-hour, but well after the children's stomachs are growling and their mouths are watering from amazing kitchen smells:

Don't eat that! That's for people!

THAT'S FOR PEOPLE.
(Not you. You are not people. You are not good enough to be "people.").

A phrase that translates to:
You may not use and enjoy your own dishes because you are not special enough for these dishes.
You do not deserve the gift of these dishes…you may only protect them, but not enjoy them.

 
After I had been married for awhile, I was invited to the home of an amazingly "perfect" couple.  They had fallen in love and married when they were a bit older.  It was a second marriage for one of them.  When the time came to serve food, I noticed (because I am fond of beautiful things) their divine, all white, dishes. Plates, serving pieces, all white, and very fine, with delicious, subtle, botanical designs, and that melodic ringing sound as plates were picked up and set down.

"What lovely china," I said, admiring it.

"Isn't it wonderful!" my hostess said, genuinely looking at it and appreciating it anew herself. "We bought all white so that we could eat off of it and enjoy it every day. It makes me so happy to use it all the time.  I reminded my husband to buy all the extra pieces so that we had a complete set before the style was discontinued, along with a few extra pieces…but we haven't had many break, have we, Darling…?"

And as she shared a moment of wonder and joy with her husband - about their everyday dishes - I thought of my china:
 
Tucked in dark cupboards.
Unrecognizable shapes in bubble wrap.
Or zipped up in padded, specially designed, quilted china covers.
(A small piece of foam in between each plate, bowl, and cup…serving pieces in the original plastic, for extra protection).
Bored, waiting China.
China despairing of ever being used.

 
Our china pattern, Persia, had seen only small dinner parties.  We had a small wedding that we paid for ourselves, and we were not gifted a generous table of very expensive china. Despite small numbers, the few parties where we pulled out the china had been merry, and fun.  The rich, burnt orange design included stylized pheasant and leopards that lent a bit of excitement to the parties. Eating the food off of our china revealed intricate designs and possibly even imagined vignettes.

I can count the dinners, and retell the tales because they are so few: A Corned beef dinner on St. Patrick's Day. An improvised community dinner of soup that got extended and extended and extended with cans of whatever from the cupboard as the numbers of people swelled.  We ran out of the good china, and had to use old one-off dishes instead, but no one seemed to mind. At all of the parties there was much admiration of the china.

After our most recent move, I decided it was ridiculous to covet my own china. I should commit to it. Complete my set. Use it.

Despite reminders when the pattern was discontinued, my husband did not spend thousands of dollars to acquire a full set for twelve to sit for dinner. Our dining table could only hold eight, so eight was a good enough number.  With eight settings, and some extra dessert plates, we put all the china in an easily accessible cupboard and vowed to use it.

That intention soon faded. Hand-washing fine, fancy dishes, when there's a dishwasher right there is not fun.

Today I have a cupboard full of very plain, dishwasher safe, white dishes.  I have a second cupboard full of fine china. I pull it out when we run out of everyday dishes.

I covet the space my china is taking up in my cupboards.  I dream of the money I could make selling off all the fancy china. I imagine reclaiming the cupboard space.

Every once in awhile I pull out a very pretty dish to eat off of.  More often than not, I put it in the dishwasher when I'm done. Who cares about the gilt edge coming off? What good is ANY object if it is neither utilized nor admired? 

No good at all, I now think.  It might as well be given away, sold, or smashed. If it was a gift, the sin of under-utilization is even worse: not using the gift, not appreciating it on a daily basis is an insult to the giver.

I want to learn from my china to look carefully. Decide wisely. I don't want any gifts in my home too good to use!  I deserve all of the beautiful things I have been given out of love. I refuse to keep food around that can only be eaten by people! I'm all the PEOPLE that matter, and if you are a guest in my house, if it is good enough for me, it is good enough for you.

I have outgrown a tendency I was somehow taught to preserve and protect objects. I strive to learn now to desire no object so precious that it loses its usefulness or its ability to bring me joy. If it cannot be used, or it is painful, I will take a picture of it, and get rid of it. Make a scrapbook of the objects I have loved, write about WHY I loved them.  Why I coveted them as if they were not mine, because I wouldn't let myself enjoy them…even when they belonged to me.

The Jehovah's Witnesses look like realtors in my neighborhood

When I opened my door this morning, I thought I was being visited by Realtors. On my doorstep stood two women in careful outfits, hair coiffed, makeup applied tastefully. Their smiles were endearing, their pastels soothing, and they asked for my husband by name.

I was pretty surprised. Our usual Jehovah's Witnesses are men with terrible dandruff, in rumpled suits, carrying briefcases. I went to my husband's office and he swung his aeron chair around just far enough to tell me "I'm really not available right now."


If you've ever read a book, you know that there's a lot more to it than its cover.  In fact, sometimes "covers" can be misleading in the most irritating ways. When I went back to the door and offered to take the reading material they offered, one woman introduced herself, and started to tell me about the literature.

"This is about current events, " she said. "Violence, an everyday thing. Just today a man was killed in New York. Do you think about these things?"

I took a deep breath, flashing to the fact that I had, in fact, heard Steve Inskeep on my drive to yoga practice this morning, discussing the violent death of a possible terrorist. It had made me feel melancholy and hopeless. Then during yoga, I spent 80 minutes breathing, stretching, and absorbing energy in a beautiful place, supported by caring people.

"That's an interesting question" I said, "and one that I am NOT going to discuss with you," I did NOT say.

"Well, we are Jehovah's Witnesses, and we think about these things.  And we think about what God and the bible say about these things."

She flipped though, showing me some pages, and I looked down at the booklet in her hands.  Then I looked her straight in the eyes. "But, Why?" I wanted to ask.  "You are a friendly, articulate person, with excellent mascara application skills. Good on you for thinking about the world you live in, but why do you need "God" to help you with that?"

I thanked her politely and wished her a good day before closing the door.

The world is easier when appearances match our expectations. Today I was attracted to the cover of a book I did not wish to read. I don't want God or a church in my life. I want to be mindful and aware and think about my daily life experiences without having them colored or interpreted or commented on by a religious belief. If that is a perspective on the world that I am denying myself, so be it.

There are a lot of good books out there. The bible is just one anthology among many.  I've read it, and I have other things to do with my time than talk with a stranger about it.

Now, if you're inviting me to your open house in my neighborhood, that's a different story.

There's Always Someone Worse Off

Here's a fitness tip: You should really stop whatever you are doing, and rest, and take care of yourself if you feel like you are going to cry. Same goes for puking. Just STOP.  Not stop FOREVER...just stop for now.

Whatever physical activity you are TRYING to do, you are not getting enough air to do it. As my amazing yoga teacher says, "back off the intensity, and find your breath."

The training ride I planned for today made my workout buddy overtired, vulnerable, and about 3 miles from the end of my planned ride, weepy.  She called her partner to be picked up and taken home. Ooops. I was quite happy and supportive of her decision to stop.  I was SO grateful that she didn't try to "tough it out."  I have zero interest in dealing with an injured or collapsed team mate. WHEW.

The situation was only hilarious because of all the time I worried over a route that would add mileage and some small hills to make it "hard enough" -  to make it worth her while.  Again with the Oops.

I've been riding my big heavy bike (nicknamed affectionately by my ALC team members "The Tank") to and from yoga class. I've been riding it up and down from the beachfront.  I've been riding a LOT compared to her (apparently). So, even though she she can go twice (if not three times) as fast as me on her road bike with her clip pedals...she's just not as ready for hills.

So today was a reminder that when you take on any new challenge, beware assumptions. I assumed she was more fit and more prepared than me. Not so much. I assumed that because she had been "a cyclist" that she was mentally prepared as well. Now I know what being stretched a little too thin looks like for her.

Damn am I glad she was with me, and let me help her. How unbearable would it have been to be in that physically and emotionally beat-down state all alone? 

I'm also very grateful - as horrible as it sounds - to have the reminder that there's always someone worse off than me. I may have a terrible time keeping off and losing weight; I may have a big, clunker of a bike; I may not be able to get to the top of a big hill without some slow, resting, catch-my-breath time...but I am surprisingly healthy. Fit. And getting fitter as each week goes by.

Because some of you asked about the interview-that-won't-lead-to-an-offer, I thought I would share the crux of the mis-match:

Now that some firms are hiring again, the best way to approach the job market is by asking yourself: "Where do I want to be five to 10 years from now, and how do I get there?" - Paul Bernard
4 Tips for Getting Hired in the Improving Job Market

I always do this exercise prior to job interviews.  Unlike my husband, for example, who has a finely honed development skill that he applies to many different companies, products, types of software, I have a toolbox of different skill-sets that can be applied to a variety of job types. He tells me lovingly it makes me an excellent commodity in the job market. However, it does mean I have to define and manage my career with an eye towards the long term. Mere employ-ability does not a rewarding career make.

If I don't manage my positions carefully, I risk ending up doing work I am good at, but that does not excite me. Because I have experience and skills in many areas, choosing the wrong position means unhappy employers or clients, and more frequent job changes.  Because I am a people-person, I enjoy developing and maintaining relationships for the long term.

As I try to broaden my ability to be "A Consultant," at a minimum that means acquiring clients and providing excellent services.  That would be hard with a long-term, full-time job.  I suspect the two are mutually exclusive for me, since I really like my evenings and weekends. I believe it would be especially hard with a full time job because of the work style and culture.

During the interview I was asked to describe why the position was a good fit for my career path.
Uh-Oh. I had spent about a week, trying to answer this question.  And my answer had a lot of "IFs":

• IF it is only two years...
• IF it is just this one, interesting project...
• IF it allows me to be a part of a specific community...

You see, one reason I jumped at the position was because it was posted as a two-year contract.  A longer contract than I perhaps wanted, but a good, steady position with very interesting work.  So when they asked, I said it was a good match because:

• The work was interesting
• The goals were aligned with my values
• I Love UC (Alumna, after all)
• The contract is two years

I thought it would be seen as a BENEFIT to them, to find someone who really did want exactly what they were offering: A temporary position. BAD ASSUMPTION.
In reality, they clarified, they hope to make the position permanent.

So that is it.  I applied for a position that was explicitly two-years and project based...which is not what they actually want. It will be interesting to see how this plays out, because in all other ways, I am a Lego fit for their criteria (they can just snap me into every aspect of what they need to build) .

Valuable and Necessary

I read a blog post and an article to meet my goals today.  The first one was a FB link courtesy of a friend. Entitled Your Brain is a Horse Named Clyde, I couldn't have asked for a better inspiration to get on with my work!

Your Brain is a Horse Named Clyde is a post containing delightfully creative advice for novel-writers.  I'm not finishing a novel (yet), but the most important piece of the post for me was the reminder that I have to self-manage my brain, my thoughts, my intentions. It is necessary for me to get clear on Who I Am and What I'm Doing...and valuable as well, as we will see later.

Kathy Hepinstall writes, "What you need to tell your brain, out loud, to yourself, in many words and gestures is that “You are a novelist and you are writing a novel.” Give your brain proof.  A special pen.  Books on writing.  A candle-lit ceremony."

Valid advice, whether you are writing a novel or, as I am, seeking a perfect-fit career opportunity.  You cannot find the perfect thing if you do not know what you are looking for.  Keep in mind (and I would argue, heart and soul) who you are, what you do brilliantly, and what your steps are to reach that goal. I believe clarity of purpose is key, whether finishing a novel, or finding the company that needs you more than anyone else in the world, to take a job that fits like a glove.

The other reading I did today was an article providing some very interesting examples of the risks inherent in making assumptions about what is really necessary to provide value to a customer.   Necessary and Valuable are Not the Same provided two current examples of how "we need that" thinking can lead to business failures.  It is a reminder that lean manufacturing concepts apply to more than factories: Bill Waddell provides one example in the legal arena, and another in advertising.

Waddell writes that "Rationalizing costs that do not add value in the eyes of customers as necessary and unavoidable is just so much whistling past the graveyard...and there is apt to be plenty of room in that graveyard for you if you believe that ‘necessary‘ and ‘valuable‘ mean the same thing."

Waddell wrote the article for Lean CEO online magazine, and the message I take away is remove as many assumptions as you can about how you do your work: question everything!  I love this basic idea behind Lean Manufacturing because I am by nature a problem-solver, brain-stormer, and (I admit it) trouble-maker.  When it comes to how "It Must Be Done," a quick tool I enjoy for getting to what is valuable is to ask "Why?" at least 5 times in a row.

So to show myself that managing my career through clear and positive thinking is not only necessary, but also valuable to customers, I can ask why: Why is it valuable for a client to hire me, with my specialized skill set to train a potential user on Arena? [NOTE: lest you think I am illogical, or missing my own point, I'm not asking why a client would hire me INSTEAD of other training options.]

I am one of only a few experts who can train on the software.
Why?
My deep understanding of Arena software is based on understanding manufacturing basics, systems thinking, business processes, and the software design.
Why?
Without all of these pieces, it is difficult (if not impossible) to convey how to use the software to a variety of users who all do different work tasks.
Why?
Arena users are cross-functional, from many departments. It takes flexibility and multiple approaches to assess needs, build rapport, and provide information in a way that is immediately applicable.
Why?
Because successful manufacturing requires a workforce with a diverse complement of skills and work styles, users are also different in how they process information, learn, and complete tasks. Answering the specific questions about how Arena will be used in day-to-day work requires familiarity with what that work entails.
Why?
Arena is not a software package that does one thing, it does a LOT of things, and those things can be done in different ways. Training to the ways that will be easiest for the users also gets the fastest results and ultimately, the most effective implementation and use of the product.


Wow! So there's my value add in a nutshell: Clients should hire me because I remove non-value-add time and tasks by first asking what is needed at the organizational goal, company process, user task, and Arena product levels.  Training can then be designed and delivered to result in increased efficiency and more successful use of Arena over time.

This is a clear path to finding clients and selling my services to customers who want immediate value...and that is only for one of my skill sets!

Why are YOU the very best at what you do, and how can you go about doing more of it?
Don't be afraid to pose and answer the question.  If you don't like the answer, set goals and take steps to clear the path in your mind and heart, and get back on track!

I look forward to hearing how you articulate and reinforce your value,
Yvette

Time for some 'Professional Development'

Each day that I am unemployed I plan to:

• Read (at least) 2 professional articles or posts
• Watch (at least) 30 minutes of video at Lynda.com to learn something new OR Attend one live webinar or web class
• Write (at least) one blog post
• Apply to (at least) 2 jobs

The first three bullets on the list above are things I should really have been doing the entire time I was employed.  Like so many people I know, I never made the time for them. Now time is what I have - and only time will tell how badly I have fallen behind in managing my career...and how quickly I can refresh my knowledge and skills sets for the interviews that will land me my next paid challenge.

Because let's face it, career management may be critical, but it isn't always easy.  In high school I knew that job security had gone the way of the dodo bird. Career Management was a skill that was explicitly taught in the mid 90s when I graduated from college. American - or at least Californian - culture had accepted that employer and employee loyalty was dead: 'At Will' was King. And the new King demanded those 40-80 hour work weeks in exchange for the privilege of bending to his will...oh, and a paycheck.

For the moment, I AM KING!
It feels pretty great to have that crown...but my kingdom feels a bit small. Maybe some of my fields and forests are overgrown. Maybe a few castles are in disrepair.

In this stretch of my unemployment, whether long or short, if I want to work on my "extracurricular" projects (feasting, hunting, jousting) I plan to hold myself ransom until my "work" is done. I hope that this will be easy, since I have a pattern and habit of working 8-10 hours a day, breaking for meals, tea, and exercise. It has become a question of re-defining what my daily "work" is and making every task count twice (or maybe 3 times): once for my job search, once for my professional development, and lastly for my personal development.

Do you try to do things everyday that count in all three categories? What do you do and how do you do it?  Watch for daily posts, and I look forward to your feedback!

With the KiteSurfers

I am watching the KiteSurfers and WindSurfers on SF Bay. I do miss the view from the corporate office sometimes.

Beware dinner alone, without a net...

O.M.G. I walked out of my hotel room, across the street and have been sitting, eating an amazing dinner...with no way to pay for it!!! I went to reach for my purse. Mortified. Thank heavens the hotel was LITERALLY across the street. I explained to the scary, proper, waitstaff, who mumbled something about me calling with the CC number...but I just said, "be right back!" I left my iPhone, my husband's iPad, and my coat, gloves, scarf...and the cold hit me as I walked out. Yikes! So very embarrassed...but the hotel was RIGHT across the street; I was back in just 6 minutes...paid, left a better tip than I otherwise would have since service was slow and got out.

Now I am going to the fitness center to watch 30 Rock and try to work off some of the adrenaline...without barfing up my very, very...up until the last moment...nice dinner.

Buzz Post Test

I'm so skeptical. But here goes: TEST.

Thank you for your attention.

Home is where....

I must take some pics and somehow say goodbye to my childhood home.

I know there's a good story/storybook in here someplace, but how often do you take pictures of the outside of your house?

If you didn't have the ideal childhood, how do you contain the simultaneous desire to stock up on explosives...with the desire to chain yourself in "your room," throw a tantrum, and not let them take it away.

How do you separate a house from a home, and again from a home-town? What happens to all the memories of place...?

How far...How Fast?

10:58 PM

A friend's (new) husband is writing an SF novel, and she announced proudly today that he wrote 1800 words yesterday (about 600 words an hour, he modestly, but factually, stated).  Which made me think: Okay, so I like to write, and I often write about strange things, but how many words do I write - and how fast?

Forgoing any concerns about spelling, accuracy and the fact that I am not writing ABOUT anything - not telling a story or actively working on our novel (though I certainly could, and perhaps shall in a moment or so), I was curious: how many words do I write?  How fast do I write them?

So I have my start time at the top of the page, and I am just going to work for about 15 minutes, or however long it takes to say a little bit about today's fun, and see how many words it ends up being.

Today was fun, probably mostly because of a lot of Diet Coke: Caffeine, fake sugar, and a fun project with lots of folks around.

"I can't remember the last time you were this punchy, " A. said.  Hmm...it didn't feel that strange to me.  Yes, maybe I was a bit manic, but I was working with a big group of folks on a silly costume idea...and I liked the folks I was in close quarters with, and I thought the silly costume idea was brilliant and fun.

What idea, you ask?  Well, I'm glad you did!  You should see my friend K's LJ page for the full story, but my part is just this:  I really like groups of silly people, and since this project was entirely silly...if anyone was going to participate, they were by definition, pretty much self-selecting.

Anyway, we were measuring, cutting, edging and ironing a lot of tabards with symbols on them so that we could all be the knights of the Log Table at the opening night of Spamalot in San Jose.  The tabards all have mathematical symbols on the fronts, and on the backs have the symbols for K's 49th Birthday - similar to the Jersey's on a sports team.  

(taking a moment to do the math to see how long 15 minutes is - 3 minutes to go)

It was fun to think through the problem of making them; Fun to take care of a big group - order pizza, etc.  and fun to just be sewing in a big group too.  The day was quite mild - overcast, warm, and a little humid.  Occasional flashes of sunlight that make it too hot to stand in the sun, but perfectly comfy in the shade.  I enjoyed cutting with the rotary, and sewing teenie, quarter inch bias tape in along the sides of the tabards.  I very much like the smell of hot plastic adhesive from the iron on symbols.  They take 5, long seconds, and at about 4 you can actually smell when they are sufficiently melting and fusing with the fabric.

Ha, ha! Done!  

11:15 PM - 510 words in 17 minutes.  So I am okay on quantity, if not quality....

Lights on at My Neighbor's house

Every evening the lights twinkle at Pixie's house.  Every time I use the toilet, I see through the open bathroom window, and I'm drawn to the constant, sparkling lights through the trees.  

The pragmatic me says that she must not have to worry about her electric bill, since she leaves pretty, sparkly lights on all night. 

The romantic part wonders what is making that particular quality of light: lanterns? mini christmas lights?  are they reflecting through the windows of her house?  I want to know....

Pixie's lights are the mythological creatures that lured travelers into the bogs where they drowned...what are they called?  Grrrr.  They're in a Piers anthony book, but I can't remember right now.

Anyway, I think about my neighbor's lights a lot.  Every time I have to pee.  They are just over the back fence, between the big oak trees, and they are always friendly, welcoming and jovial - like Pixie herself.

Cannon Fodder

As I was biking to work today I saw something that disturbed me, because I make up stories in my head so quickly. What I saw:

A few hundred yards from the entrance of the high school, pulled over on the side of the road, half in the bike lane, half on the dirt shoulder, a common tan colored minivan. No distinguishing marks excpet the blue and white government license plates.

Approaching the van with a swinging gait, a low-slung jeans, hoodie wearing "teen". Black backpack, white stripes, white shoes - hands in pockets.

Pacing the teen, a few steps ahead and to the right, but looking back to talk, a white man also approaches the van. Brown, casual, zip-front jacket, pulled down over his hips. From beneath the jacket, navy slacks with a wide red stripe down the side. Polished black shoes. Tidy, but not severe haircut.

As I rode by on my bike, I heard the tone of the white man - clearly asking questions.

Here is the "story" my mind made up in a fraction of a second:

Marine recruiter, staking out the high school. Sees a likely candidate in his morning drive-by, pulls over, gets out and walks a little way to meet the young man, show an interest - plant a seed. The kid is early, not late. Walking, not driving to school. Obviously going TO the school, not away from it. Excellent candidate. It is April, and graduation is probably just months away. Prime time to find "cannon fodder" for the military.

I wanted to stop my bike and shout, "Get away from him!"
But I didn't.

Here is the next "story" my mind made up:

Who knows - maybe the kid is a meth dealer; un-prosecuted date rapist. No job prospects. No plans. Get him off the street. Give him someplace to go - some way to contribute...even if it is with his life. Who am I to say that the military isn't a necessary evil. Why shouldn't I agree to send him to keep "me" safe. At least ask him if he is willing to give his life for mine, subvert his anger and youthful violence against whatever enemy the government dictates. I am American, part of the country, a contributing member of the society. He isn't....yet, so why shouldn't he die for both of us?


Both of these stories are extreme - both are deeply disturbing. The reality is completely unknown. It might lie somewhere within my tangled observations. The acknowledged predjudices and beliefs I project onto the situation could be Sherlockian deduction or pure pessimistic, hyperactive imagination.

What is disturbing is to realize that the creativity of the brain is trained, for optimism or pessimism early and often. Imagine the threats, know the enemy so that "they" can be evaded. In that moment I could not stop myself from thinking and feeling all sorts of "the worst". Realizing it, and trying to be truthful about it, is the only way I know to resist being ashamed about those thoughts and feelings.

A Morning Poem (of a sort. Possibly the bad sort)

Commute

PedalPedalPedal.

Three feline gargoyles
tails over chill cat toes
on rock at the water's edge
watch, and guard.

PedalPedalLook.

Four shore birds wading
on the mud flat,
tide low, rapid legs blur
until a lapping wave washes two away.

PedalLookLook.

One flash
through black boulder
of a reflected shining -
shard of the Emerald City, bottle green light in my eyes.

LookLookLook.

Here at last,
pedal slow. No more
quivering clumps of bay grass
crowned with long, soft, pink ears.

A better person at work today.

y: Have a very funny story to relate.
hubby: Chinese food good. How'd you know that's what I was eating?
y: you'll see:
y: in addition to the company luncheon, and new messaging, Marketing opened up a contest yesterday. Because our product name is going from Product ACRONYM to just Product, the contest was to guess how many times Product ACRONYM occurred in all of our marketing materials.
y: My first reaction was "I hate those "pennies in a jar" guessing games."
y: Then when I saw the e-mail I thought: Well, we probably say it 5 times in a page / document, and we probably have 500 pages of stuff...so 2500 and a bit more....and then I just cleared my mind and let the first numbers that floated into it be my guess.
y: Then I vented that evening about all the really awful stuff that has been going on at work, including the really problematic new messaging. I really felt mad! Today, I re-read the edits I had made to the marketing info they handed out, and asked the VP of Mktng for a meeting.
y: He accepted, so I was feeling better about being able to vent constructively.
y: This e-mail arrived just now:

Subject: Product ACRONYM guessing game - And the winner is...

…Y! She guessed 3214.

The actual number of pages is 3643. Only off by 429!

Congrats Y! You win lunch on the VP of Mktng and your picture in the break room.

Thanks for playing.

y: 15 people guessed. Convenient that I already have a lunch date planned, eh?
y: I think the universe does NOT like it when I am mad....
hubby: You're AWESOME!
hubby: Why is it that you don't play the lottery?

Define "Friend"

My husband doesn't like the word "Love" in English. Too many meanings.
I don't like the word "Friend."

Some people I know announced that they were pregnant.
Has nothing to do with me.
Except that the announcement implies some things that make my gut wrench, make me want to cry and make me coldly angry. (An unusual reaction, yes, I know.)

First, to me it means that they are not friends. Some shift has happened in their lives, so great that they have gone from "We're on the No Kid Plan" to "We're Having A Baby!" A change so common that the phrase is trite: Biological Clock Ticking.

That shift is no doubt personal. And of course, this is America after all. It is their choice to share or keep the inner working of their minds, relationship, lives, to themselves...keep them from their "friends." To be as private with their lives as they choose.

But they are acquaintances - not my friends. My friends share. My friends "catch-up" after years of separation, and our intimacy is re-born - fresh, and immediate. My friends care enough about me to level with me. Not let me "worry" about them when they are sick for months. My friends let me offer to help in times of crisis, even if they do not accept. My friends grow and evolve with me. My friends are brave with their emotions, reasons, wisdom. My friends trust.

Losing friends...giving up on the idea that someone you care about and would like to spend more time with is not compatible, or that the sensation is not mutual...that is Pain. And for me, for some reason, that is pain overandoverandover.

Second, it is also implied or imagined that I am deficient. Unworthy. Nosy. Demanding. For a subset of persons, personality types, individuals...I am, because of my beliefs, my needs, my core emotionality...A Bad Friend. I have managed to find many of those people in my life, and yet each time it is a fresh, stinging. and soul-bruising blow.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Out the third story window, a pair of Brown Pelicans hover, lifted in the mild northeasterly(?) wind off SF Bay. They are together in formation, knowing what they need to know and doing what they need to do. Mated, and happy, as I am with my husband, or simply flock-mates...still they know what they need to do to stay safe and cohesive as a pair, or in a larger flock.

I feel that I lack that knowledge.
I feel I stand outside it.
I am lonely, betrayed by my "group" and angry for feeling this way.
I should be beyond this sensation - don't young humans grow out of this - get past teenage angst?
And yet it remains.

In the face of happy information, I am reminded that to care is to be hurt. To have rock solid beliefs is to have them shattered by mere diversity.

Fashion, Far Too Forward

IM with my Boss Friday morning:

yk: Dude, your jeans have contrast-colored, detail stitching on your crotch, in vaguely obscene shapes! Where did you get those jeans?! I'm not offended, or touchy, or sexual harassment or anything - but I wondered if you knew you were wearing club-wear to work

boss: did you see the black light under my desk???
boss: did = didn't

yk: Riiiight. So GLOWING, vaguely obscene contrast-colored detail stitching. WAaay better. Just keep you knees together / legs crossed in any meetings with women today.

boss: thanks for making me extremely self conscious

yk: All in a days work.
yk: Jeans USED to be so uncomplicated....

boss: and they used to cost $19.95

yk: I just wanted you to know that if you caught me snickering, it wasn't anything personal.

boss: ok, no worries, snickering away

Charisma

I woke up deeply startled a few days ago to this thought, "I will never again get to rescue the Boy."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When I was in fourth or fifth grade I met a New Boy. You know...or, well, you might not...But it is important that it NOT be the boys you've been going to private, Catholic school with since kindergarten. The ones who try to get you to swing across the monkeybars so they can look up your plaid skirt. The ones you played Lego Pirate Ship with.

No this has to be a New Boy...one who doesn't know you're an uncool Tomboy. One who doesn't go to your school. One that is blonde and handsome. One who likes to use his imagination to read and play D&D. And hopefully one who thinks you're cool...or at least not TOO annoying... because you like those things too.

This Boy was my Ideal of Manhood from the day I met him until I fell in love with my husband. Quite a few boyfriends got short shrift because of this boy. I wrote dozens of letters and bad poetry for this Boy (I still have them all). Mostly because he had "charisma."

I would watch him, when allowed to tagalong with that slightly older crowd. Everyone laughed around him. Everyone looked at him. Everyone seemed - like me - to want to touch him, all the time.

And he was so different. Unlike the other boys, who would slap your hand away, or sling an insult, this boy was comfortable in a puddle of friends. Yes...Puddle. After hours on a D&D adventure, a mystery adventure...I honestly don't remember what we played at all the time...this Boy, and a few others would allow me into their "puddle" of all curling up, singing or laughing or just watching the stars young people. Such a warm, kind Boy.

He is still an amazing Boy. Well, okay Man (but in my head, he's that Boy).

In fact, realizing that this Boy would never be My Boy was instrumental in the realization that my husband was, in fact, perfectly suited to be My Boy. But that's another story...

This story has a happy ending, because the New Boy, who never was My Boy, found and wooed His Girl...and this June they got married.



I know. You're thinking "He's not Blonde...?" The east coast ate his blonde hair. He laughs and says one reason he is my friend after all these years is because I'm the only person who still always remembers him as blonde. I don't think of him as just blonde. In my heart he is in every way golden.

Actually he's my friend because I like to keep things. I try to treat the cherished trinkets of my life as I want to be treated - I want them to know they are loved, and I won't loose interest. Won't be blinded by new shinier baubles. I keep memories, and that helps me keep people. Memories like these:

The old greenhouse on D's property down the street. High shelves originally for plants, now a fort for us kids: D, the Boy, me...there may have been others, but I wouldn't remember them. Couldn't remember anyone when the Boy was there. Singing. The Boy would just sing, sweet and beautiful songs at any old time, but especially at night, even with no campfire. Just because singing is beautiful...and his voice...so beautiful it makes me cry...

OR

There is hair growing under my right armpit, but not my left. At thirteen I know I'm probably one of the last girls in my Jr. High class to get my period, but I don't care, and I don't want to think about it. I'm too embarassed to even think about it, especially after a conversation my mother has tried to have with me in the car about something her OBGYN has said when they were talking about me and being tall for my age: My mother talks about me to her Doctor! Mortifying.

P.E. is over and I hate, hate, hate Mr. Messineo for making us run all up and down the hilly campus. I'm so sweaty in my crotch I feel like I've peed my pants...and when I finally get one of the two coveted dark, close stalls go to pee...there is blood on my white underpants. And I start to shake. And they are cold when I pull them up against my skin again, which feels disgusting. It never occurs to me to tell any of the other girls. To ask any girls in my class for help.

I have an audition downtown for a play, and I'm supposed to change into "free clothes," not my private school uniform. I know my mint green "Thriller" buckled pants are going to show the blood...what can I do? What can I do? I know what I have to do, but I don't even know how I know.

I go to the office. I'm hoping Tina is there - I've known her since I was in Kindergarten, I'm comfortable with her, but no, it is Mrs. Dalmark - Jill's mom, and now everyone in the whole school will know I've gotten my period. I say I've gotten my period - how I blurted it out I have no idea - and I ask for a pad. She tries to be kindly and asks if I know how to use it. I say I do...but when I go into the clean, bright little bathroom off the office, both sides seem sticky. I have no idea what to do. Oh well. At least it will keep more blood from getting onto my pants, and I can go to my audition. I don't even remember how I got there - my mom must have taken me, but I didn't tell her anything. Too terribly, horribly embarrassed by my secret.

And there is the Boy, and for one moment that day I am so excited. Thrilled with adrenaline surprise and relief. Someone safe who I can tell my horrible secret to. Someone kind and warm who I trust after all these years and...There he is, surrounded by a group of pretty girls and boys, all older than me. In the hall of the Unitarian Church, where we are all gathering for Peace Child Auditions. I hear him sing and I see him surrounded by friends and I am now again shaking with fear that he will see the bloodstains, and I will be disgusting and embarassing to him. I do not even say hi. I watch him the whole time, wanting be near him, and hear him sing...sing to me, but going nowhere near him on the first day of my first period.

OR

Left turn onto Carillo in J's beatup, silver Datsun. Just J and me having lunch together before going back to the another class of work on the high school newspaper. Going for Pizza, with his blonde hair and my brown hair being sucked out the open windows. After the turn, I see a figure in black, bright gold hair, sitting on a low sandstone wall, reading.

Suddenly I am screaming, "Pull over! Pull over!" and hanging half out of my window crying the Boy's name. The unexpected sight of him supercharges me with a brand of excitement reserved for him alone. After a bewildered J pulls the car to a stop, I burst from it, running madly down the street and SURPRISE! He didn't hear me call as we drove - too engrossed in his book. I got to surprise him, and make him smile at me...that smile...and a promise to see him later...before running back to my lunch date, and trying to explain the Boy to J. Unpleased J, though it never ocurred to me at the time why...

OR

After I could drive, I got to "rescue" the boy. That's how I always thought of it. His parents lived up in the hills, and he was forever without transportation, sometimes without companionship. He would call my house to see if I wanted to hang out with him and give him a ride home. Did I ever! I'd pick him up from the bookstore he haunted and drive with him up into winding Santa Ynez mountains.

Mountainsides of chaparral and sandstone boulders passed, glowing in moonlight, until we plunged into a close, dark hairpin turn edged on all sides by a stand of live oak trees. So high above the town, it was often hot and windy with Santa Ana's at his house, and I loved to be there, caressed by the hot wind.

He slept in a small wedge of loft off his step dad's office. My mom was so cool: She trusted me completely, and I got to sleep there with him a few times, all curled up in that space that smelled so good to me, and was so full of Him.

If all of that sounds innocent and pathetic, I have to say it was. And when I was a bit older, I regretted that. Regretted for years not trying harder to have more of the Boy or make him mine.

Of course I know now, with a greater experience of love and sex that the Boy and I were never traveling in the same direction, at the same time. Even if I was his type (and yes, after seeing a few girlfriends, I have to say that he does have a type, and I am not it), we would never have been in love. Even if I had somehow managed to convince him to have sex with me in between the more accessible people I was "in love" with, he was unattainable, because of him, because of geography, and because of me. Who wants to destroy their golden idol by actually touching it?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"He has a wife. Soon he will have children, a new career, a new family. He will never again need to be rescued, by me or anyone else. He won't find himself alone, or lonely, and needing a friend. He is beloved, and supported, and cared for...just like I am by my husband, my best friend.

I am so happy for him.

And it huuuuurts!!! Letting go of that imaginary responsibility - the thrilling possibility of being called upon to save someone - even from loneliness, even from boredom...free of the calling...oh, deep inside it huuurtsss......"

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Not Ready To Leave...

...my hotel room. After a few days here, I'm nice and safe; I found a radio station I can deal with, I have lots of clean towels, and the bed finally holds the impression of my frame enough that I slept the whole night through.

But it is almost time to go, and really I'm just stalling because if I'm not sitting here, then I'm sitting in the airport. Much less interesting. Although there are people there, and I'd be doing the same things (well, not blogging, as there's no guarantee of internet access).

But I *would* in fact be reading (most of what I've been doing this morning). Enjoying another great new book, Wit's End, by Karen Joy Fowler, whose Jane Austen Book Club I enjoyed so much. Wit's is also great...so compelling, that I had to tear myself away to get my teeth brushed and the last few little things packed. I'm quite grateful I didn't start it until the end of my trip - I would certainly not have been as on-my-game for work if I was constantly sneaking out for a 5 minute read-break...

Should I admit I do that sometimes? When the book is truly as well-written and engrossing as this one is? Well, this book is also conducive to that: Lots of short segments, so it is easy to set down and pick up. But I don't want to.

Really the reason I wanted to blog today was that I had other confessions to make. I did a truly, consciously anti-social thing: I put a half hamburger bun in the toaster at my hotel kitchenette...and it already had ketchup and mustard on it. There's no chance the condiment-side wouldn't touch the coils. Anyone staying in this room in the future is going to get just a little spice to their toast.

I thought about this before I did it, and I TOLD myself it was anti-social, unfair to the next person...but for all I know, someone has done the same thing before me, and I was getting a little bit of who-knows-what on the top side of my bun. In my head it is the same conversation I have when deciding whether or not to report the fairly serious trickle from the bathtub to the hotel owners. Well, I haven't done that yet, but I WILL let them know as I leave - a decidedly unnecessary waste of water. I didn't shower each day I was here, so maybe that makes up for it.

Nearly everything is packed, the suitcases are MUCH lighter, because I was good, and I ate most of the food I brought with me, and stuck primarily to my diet. I have been awake for hours because unfortunately, I awoke to one of those you-want-to-be-completely-organized-but-you-know-that-you're-not
mini-panic moments, and I thought that maybe I had my flight time wrong - YIKES!

But no, I got up and double checked; And double-checked...and couldn't really go back to sleep. It is going to make being on CA time especially hard, I know, but oh well. Time to post, close up the computer and go. And who knows - maybe there WILL be wireless at the airport...?

Reader / Writer?

I feel like I've heard it said before, but I'm NOT going to waste any of my 12 writing minutes, and 3 editing minutes (trying to be regimented about this) looking up who and how many and when they might have said something like: Readers are Writers. I think that is true.

If you don't love words, why pick up a book, let alone spend time instead of earning money, doing something that is highly unlikely to contribute to anything except personal fulfillment (can you tell I'm feeling unemployed right now?).

I HAD to write today, my "unemployed" goal is to write for 15-30 minutes, minimum each day...but I wasn't "good" about it. I didn't get up and make time and space for my writing. Instead, I "wasted" several hours this morning the way I wasted several last night: Getting through and amazing, wonderful new book: Ysabel by Guy Gavriel Kay (I'm not wasting time making this a link now, but might later...see this is REAL stream of conscious, wordvomit).

I won't say why exactly it was so amazingly wonderful to me, except to say K.M. will know, because he was there. How very Kaylike of me. The fact remains that there is truly NOTHING...No Thing...in the universe similar in any way to a good book. Today (and it may be different tomorrow), that is because books can include all the best, the worst, the darkest and the brightest things in the whole world, wrapped into words, and they are real to those with imagination...and you get to close the cover. You can get distance or deep intimacy as you like, wholly under your control. Man, I love books.

Books are filled with people to love and hate and, when the writer is incredible, like this one, those people can seem more real than the corporeal folks occupying the seats on either side of you.

Juxtapose my deep elation with another piece of data: There are LOTS of people out there who read the end of books first. SACRILIDGE! (in my humble opinion, of course) NPR was just doing a whole hour talking to a writer and these people who can't take the suspense of working through the whole book to allow the ending to be as big, incredible and deeply affecting as it can be...I guess they aren't reading for the emotional thrills...wonder why they bother?

And a third thing: I know my husband, and other friends who skip the "flowery" language. My husband says he can flip to anyplace in book and tell fairly quickly if it is "literary" or not by the ratio of words and description to the action. I don't need action at all. I need depth, images, and words, words, word...Anne Rice is on my team - which team are you on...?

Saying Goodbye is Hard to Do...

For later, when I am truly depressed and tired from the sheer volume of work it will take to be a contractor...it will be important to remember these words:

Thank you for all you did to make the Internal Audit Training easier for the auditors to understand and follow. I greatly appreciate your support and assistance in the ISO 9001:2000 Quality System during your stay at Westcor!!!!
Best of luck to you on your new ENDEAVORS!!!!
MW

Yo Yvette, sorry I didn’t make it to your going away luncheon. I had left early yesterday and came in late today due to what I think was a stomach virus or something of that nature. And Mexican food would had been the last thing I’d want to eat today. NO, make that Indian food. Anyway, so I guess I’ll say goodbye to you on Friday. It was nice working with you. And you are a very pleasant person to work with. Good luck to you and your next beginning. Ciao bella -MT

I will truly miss you Yvette, You are definitely A cut above the average!! -DF

Best to you Yvette...Thanks for all your support, input and encouragement over the years. -DA
and
Yvette’s done some great things for WC and many of us individually. For anyone who’d like to share his/her gratitude and goodwill, there will be a going-away lunch on Tuesday, 6/26 at noon.

Goodbye...Goodbye!

From: Keller, Yvette
Sent: Tuesday, June 12, 2007 2:50 PM
To: #WC
Subject: Yvette Keller - Last Day, 6/29

Dear Coworkers,

My last day at WC will be Friday June 29th. Thank you all for your kindness and humor over the past six years.

I am leaving in order to go back to what I love to do: Training!

I will be continuing to pursue my Creative Memories business, so please stop by my cubicle and get a business card if you would like to stay in contact. I welcome all of you into my network of wonderful friends and customers, if you choose to join me.

I will be working as a contract trainer for several companies, including Work With Ease, International Dialogue Education Association, and Learn It! It will be very easy to find me, as I will be teaching desktop and professional courses, doing individual coaching, team communication skills, and in general helping individuals and companies get the information they need to be successful – and then helping them practice it until it becomes habitual.

I look forward to any job-related requests or feedback you have for me in my last few weeks at Westcor. Once again, thank you for all the trust you have placed in me over the years, and all the fun we have had learning things together!

Yvette E. Keller
Training & Human Resource Development

CourAHGE....?

I feel so supported and loved. Thank you to all the amazing people who have supported me LEAVING MY CRAPTACULAR JOB!!

Wow! Resigned! Good for you!
I can understand your fears, but you just did a courageous thing in pursuit of your true self and happiness and I hope you can settle in that at least a little.

True courage is not the absence of fear—but the willingness to proceed in spite of it. --Unknown
Yvette,
I don't have 50 stories only one.
When I retired from coaching when I was 38 years old and entered law school I was making six figures and the majority of the people I knew thought it was a unwise decision ( they thought I was crazy). I decide to pursue my dreams. I have not regretted one single second of that decision. Congratulations for pursuing your dreams. You are going to soar.

Y,
[Leaving your Job]...that is an exciting change....many congratulations!!!!
taking a step up within ourselves is both exhillerating and a bit fearie hair-raising
the universe parts for those who crown themselves and take steps up to their own
glory!!!