OK, Thanksgiving Is Over, But...

I am thankful for the woman who loves me.

She has not had a full night’s sleep since March 1st, 2007. 

Every night some internal mechanism that is tied to the Cesium-133 clock at the U.S. Naval Observatory triggers an alarm at 1100 hours UTC (4 a.m. local).  It sounds like this: “Mommy!”

I’ve tried to go in there and tell our son: “The part of Mommy will be played by Daddy tonight.” But he and I are apparently not in that kind of a relationship.

Despite the serious effects of long-term sleep deprivation, she still performs above and beyond what I would consider superhuman. She’s doing dishes even as we speak. She swears she likes to do them. Earlier, she gave me a hug and the “just you wait ‘til I get you alone” look in spite of her cold. I’m definitely going to shave extra close today. 

I try to beat her to the housework because she does way more than her share. I do try to wrestle the trash bag away from her when I hear it rustling as she ties it up. I try to grab the broom if I hear it shushing along the tile in the kitchen. 

I hope she’s not keeping score. If she is, I’m so behind. I think she’s earned unlimited lifetime R&R to the destination(s) of her choice. I think she’d split the time between Paris, Kyoto and The Cayman Islands. I hope she lets us go with. Of course, then she'd rack up more points by looking after us then, too.

When she said not to get her anything for her birthday, I actually didn’t. Well, OK, I did get a blank card, scratched in some loving sentiments and made a special breakfast for all of us, but that was it. I think she was happy with that. Guys, use caution. I’m pretty sure my wife one of those rare people on Earth who truly means it when she says she doesn’t want anything.

I sometimes wonder if I actually did die at some point and this is what my happy afterlife consists of.

What did I do to deserve this? What ever it was I’m not aware of it. I can’t think of anything I’ve done that would rise to the level that I could look at myself in the mirror and say, “Yes, she’s lucky to have me.”

My biggest challenge is to somehow reciprocate in a way that expresses the depth of my  appreciation.

I think I’ll go vacuum the living room. She says there’s nothing hotter than a man behind a screaming vacuum. Of course, she’s not above the not-so-subtle art of bending the male mind by attaching her will to his self-interest.

I stand happily manipulated and eternally grateful.

Rules of Writing?

For every rule laid out by writers, there is another writer who makes a good living breaking that rule.

Jack Lynch wrote in Guide to Grammar and Style: “Be careful, though, not to rely too much on italics for emphasis; they make your writing look amateurish.” Or you could just ignore that one altogether, like Stephen King.

Kurt Vonnegut said that semicolons were “transvestite hermaphrodites representing absolutely nothing,” which I take to mean he didn’t care for them. I have read that some writers differ on this account; they use them to good effect.

I’ve always heard that we should not use the passive voice. I try not to, but when I read that “the stockings were hung by the chimney with care,” I’m not concerned about who is responsible for the hanging. I realize that the passive voice can be excused on some occasions.

Some editors have rejected books for children based on excessive references to “undergarments” or “bodily functions.” Nonetheless, Captain Underpants and Everybody Poops were unleashed by publishers who failed to protect readers’ delicate sensibilities. This is not to say that we should try to write the next Go the F*** to Sleep. Or…?

There is only one immutable rule: Writers write.

If most of the bones are good, an editor will help you set the ones that aren’t.

I saw this quote on Twitter (I guess it’s useful after all). “Allow yourself to write crap; you can’t revise a blank page.” Nora Roberts said that. She’s pretty good, too, I hear.