Hi James

I haven't posted in a while. First it was because I wasn't writing much, and then it was because I wasn't writing anything I'd share here. The funny thing is that I'd share that other stuff with strangers in a heartbeat, and it's actually sort of part of my plan that if I ever write a book all that stuff will be in it. But I think things over extensively before I post them here. Obviously part of the whole “publishing” thing is that people will, you hope, read what you write. But somehow it's different when it's people you know.

I have a very small audience, made up exclusively of family and Facebook friends, and I’ve been able to come to terms with the idea that every single one of those people might possibly read something I’ve posted here. It was a struggle but I got over myself and my shyness for the most part. Now I’m almost totally okay with those potential readers, and I take all of them into account when I decide whether or not to post something. (This is not to say that I think all or any of them will find what I’ve posted particularly interesting, just that I’m not embarrassed by the idea of any of them reading it. Not terribly embarrassed anyway.) And honestly if someone I don’t know were to stumble across this blog in some random web search and read a few paragraphs, that really wouldn’t bother me. I do want to be a writer, after all, a published author, and clearly part of the goal as well as the measure of success is having your work widely read. Strangers don’t bother me one bit, and yet for some reason the thought of certain people I know reading things that I wrote, things that I did not explicitly invite them to read, just makes me cringe. And one such person (you know who you are, JAMES, and I know you're reading this) has recently decided to track down my blog, make a point of reading the entire thing, and generally be a butthead about it. Of course just the act of finding and reading the blog is not particularly buttheaded, though that is what he's going for; it’s compounded by his insistence on quoting my words back at me in his best hoity-toity lady voice. But still, any teasing notwithstanding, I can’t see why it should bother me so much, and this does bother me. It's like hearing your own voice on your answering machine, or watching someone read a card you wrote for them. What is so bad about that? There’s no maliciousness here, it’s only friendly nudginess, not at all unlike my frequent reminders that he’s old, nerdy, and from Connecticut (unforgivable). In fact I should probably appreciate the attention and the effort he's making to pay it. And anyway he’s not passing any judgment on my writing skills, only quoting the exact words I wrote. I wrote them! So what’s the problem?

The whole problem is me. If this didn't bother me, there would be no teasing to be done. I could take away all the ammunition by simply not caring--but I do care. And I would really like to know why. The obvious answer is that I need to acquire some thicker skin, especially if I'm going to cling to that goal of becoming a published author. But I'm pretty sure criticism wouldn’t faze me in the same way this does. It might hurt my feelings or make me angry, but I don’t think it would make me so embarrassed. I know I’m too easily embarrassed, anyway, but I don’t know why this of all things should embarrass me. Why should I care what stupid Butthead will think when this pops up on his stupid (and nerdy) RSS feed?

Inspiration

I'm taking a month (well, it's down to three weeks starting tomorrow) to focus on myself and not on anyone else. I'm reevaluating what I have and what I want, who I am and who I want to become, where I am and where I want to go . . . and I'm seeing if I can't really get happy. It's great and it's definitely, DEFinitely something I need to do, sooner rather than later, but it's lonely work at times. "I Tried To Rock You But You Only Roll" by Leona Naess is my theme right now. These are words I want to remember, and they describe how I want to feel all the time. I cut out the parts that are most important to me right now and pasted them below.

"got two guitars to play my songs
got many rights to kill my wrongs
got a smile that'll knock you down
I got friends who will follow me
and I don't own responsibility
and I know what I am
and I know that I'm right
Yeah yeah yeah

. . .

got a head full of new ideas
I got music bleeding from my ears
and people who believe in me
I got miles and miles of things to see
and nothing relates to you and me
and I know what I am
and I know that I'm right

my arms are reachin' out to let you go
I tried to rock you but you only can roll"

Courage to Relax

I love Yogi tea. I first tried it when I felt a cold coming on at work and a friend offered me a packet of "Throat Comfort." It's got licorice in it, and the flavor sort of blooms in your mouth. It's a pretty neat sensation. And what's more, it worked! My throat really did feel comforted. I've since tried Yogi teas with various other purposes, like "Calming" and "Bedtime" and "Immune Support," and so far each one has achieved the advertised effect. Highly recommended. But that's not all!

What makes Yogi tea seem blog-worthy to me at this hour is not so much the tea as the Yogi. Each tea packet has a sentence written on the little tab thing that hangs on the end of the string (maybe there's a word for that?). It's almost like a fortune cookie fortune, but it's advice from the Yogi! A mantra or a bit of encouragement, usually, or some sort of philosophical universal truth. Something like "Bliss cannot be disturbed by gain or loss" or "The only tool you need is kindness." Sometimes they're repeats or don't feel that relevant to me, but often the Yogi tea offers really excellent insight, and I save those tabs and tape them to my laptop or my planner.

Last night I made a cup of "Bedtime" tea and, as it so often does, it had something to say that was exactly what I needed to be told. The tab said that "One of the best actions we can take, with courage, is to relax." And I thought--that's it!

It’s true that that’s one of the best actions we can take. It’s good for you to relax! To reduce stress, to reduce the risk of heart disease, to make yourself easier for others to be around . . . and, it’s just as true that it takes courage. It’s a leap of faith sometimes. It’s a decision to trust. It’s relinquishing control—especially in those instances when you didn’t really have it anyway, but you really felt you needed it. It's scary because it can feel like free-falling at first, but really it’s floating. I want to float!

NaNoWriMo Update

50,000 words by the end of March! The first two weeks were great. I loved that the quantity goal finally gave me the justification I needed to just spit it out and get some things down on paper. A lot of it reads like a crazy person's diary, but it's there, it's on paper, and later (maybe this will be April's project) I can go back and see if there's anything good in these (so far 33!) pages. I think that actually there is, and anyway the point of this was just to write.

I've slowed down in the past few days though. I've begun to feel like I've said it all. I learned from this experience that I tend to think in terms of themes, letting one or two big subjects--mostly problems or issues of some kind--remain my primary focus for weeks and seeing everything else as somehow related to those themes. So I've spent a lot of time, and a lot of words, on hashing it all out. I think that was a good thing to do. I understand now why people always suggest that you write things down when you're upset. It really does help to organize your thoughts and clarify your feelings. But when you have the same major thoughts and feelings for weeks, and you still have nearly 25,000 words to go, it starts to feel like there's nothing left to worry about, let alone write about.

Fortunately, I feel like I've turned a corner. Maybe I don't need to worry in order to be a thoughtful person. Spring is here and with it came a new mood and spirit of happiness and hopefulness, and it's about time! So now, I've been up and down the same old problems. I've been around and around the same old rutted circles. I've made it through the winter, and I'm moving forward. There's something to write about: I'm writing about the new me, the new Natalie Harrington, and the hopes I have for her.

NaNoWriMo

Yesterday I came across this National Novel Writing Month thing, apparently referred to as NaNoWriMo. Basically it's this "project" that starts in November each year. Anyone can sign up, and the point is to force or inspire (perspective!) yourself to write furiously for the month of November, aiming for a quantity goal and thus not worrying at all about quality. The goal is 50,000 words at the end of the month, which I calculated comes out to 1,667 per day. That's not a WHOLE lot, but it's definitely a lot. And enough where skipping a day would be pretty hard to make up without getting on a serious roll another day. Which is why I love this, and why it's so convenient that I stumbled across it on March 1st. I'm going to do it myself! I don't think I'm even going to worry about the whole novel part, I'm just going to borrow this quantity goal--obviously doable, since so many other people do it--and make it my own. 50,000 words by March 30th (because November only has 30 days). I've got 3,034 so far--46,966 to go!

New Beginnings

A couple of weeks ago, a violin teacher who was in the shop helping a student pick out an instrument asked me whether I play. I get this question a lot, and I gave him my standard response, that I used to but don't so much any more, and that I would like to get back into it at some point. He asked a few more questions about who my teacher had been and what I'd been playing, questions I get a little less frequently but often nonetheless. I figured he was just being friendly and making conversation rather than standing in awkward silence while I switched chinrests from one violin to another, and that probably was a big part of it. But then after I'd finished packing up and ringing up his student's rental, he offered me his number and said he plays in the BSO (the BSO!!!) and to call him if I was interested in taking lessons! I took it as a sign that it's time I pick up violin again, so I called.

And now I have a violin lesson scheduled for next Sunday! Including tonight this gives me exactly 10 nights to practice, if I don't go out at all, but I will go out at least once because a friend's birthday is this weekend. Still, over a week should be plenty of time to prepare myself for a lesson--more time, in fact, than I ever had between lessons back when I was taking them regularly. But here's the thing: back when I was taking lessons regularly was nearly five years ago now, so it's been that long since I've truly practiced. Needless to say, I'm a little anxious about the prospect of going to Symphony Hall to play for a stranger so that he can decide whether or not he'd like to teach me.

Actually, the phrase "a little anxious" doesn't really have the complexity that would be necessary to convey the way I feel about this approaching lesson. I feel excited, definitely, about the possibility of making violin a big part of my life again, and proud of myself for being independently proactive about something that previously (from when I was four until the end of high school) was orchestrated (ha!) by my parents. But I'm also experiencing this flood of insecurities that hadn't occurred to me until it was too late and I had already called the instructor. What if he thinks I'm terrible? What if he thinks I'm not goal-oriented enough, since I just want to play again (and am only taking lessons because I insist on doing things correctly)? Is it presumptuous of me to think that a BSO player's time might be well-spent teaching ME? What if he says my level of playing is not suitable and suggests another teacher? What if I cry?

These are all distinct possibilities. That's why teachers have trial lessons, and reasonably I know this from all my friends who teach private music lessons. Also, I have cried during pretty much every violin lesson I've ever taken--inexplicably--so that's even more likely than being sent to another teacher, and equally embarrassing. But this is an opportunity that was basically handed to me on a silver platter, so I have to take advantage of it. It would be stupid not to. So I'll just keep reminding myself that this was the teacher's suggestion, not mine, and that he already knew it had been years since I'd played when he offered his number, and I'll practice as much as I can in the next 10 days, and then I'll get my butt over to Symphony Hall and play my best and see what happens. Wish me luck!

Poetry

The January 2010 issue of Esquire runs the magazine's ninth "Meaning of Life" feature, this time as a series of interviews with various celebrities who have won awards in the first decade of this millennium. Interestingly, they don't list the interviewers' questions, just (what I imagine are some of) the key celebrity quotes from each conversation.

One page is devoted to Sting, and I bet it could have been more because he seems to have plenty of wit and wisdom to share about life as a pop star, husband, and father. But somehow what stuck with me out of everything he said was this:

"People send me song lyrics all the time. It's difficult. I'm not sure what they want me to do with them. Looking at lyrics without the music is like looking at a one-legged man."

When I read that, I just thought it was a sort of funny, if rather melodramatic, analogy. And then, days later, I remembered it and thought, lyrics without music--that's just a poem. Hasn't anyone who's taken a music theory class been assigned the project of writing the music to a favorite poem? But the more I thought about it the more I came to realize that there is a very distinct difference. When I write something--not something like this, but something fragmentary, which usually occurs to me already formed--I know whether I want it to be a poem or a song. There is something there in poetry that lyrics just don't have. A poem is somehow complete on its own. It has a thread to it already, and doesn't require music to keep it together or to propel you through it. I'm not sure what it is, since both lyrics and poetry that I write tend to share rhymey and rhythmic qualities, but there is definitely something else cohesive that lyrics lack and poems have. I guess Sting's fans are hoping he can fill in the music their words need to become something complete.