Shortly after the results of Round 1 were announced and points given out in the NYC Midnight Creative Writing/Flash Fiction Challenge, we were sent our assignments for Round 1: Part 2.

Same idea as before, i.e. under 1,000 words, certain guidelines, etc., and the top 10 point-getters in each heat move on to the official Round 2.

Before you read on, I have to admit that I was very annoyed when I first saw what the genre, location, and object were for my heat.

So I took those feelings of discomfort and annoyance and came up with something, I think, rather interesting. Read on!!

Title: Ashes to Ashes
Synopsis: A girl and an urn venture into a seedy establishment to dupe one greedy, scaly fool into trading his life for another, less scaly one.
Genre: Fantasy
Location: Strip club
Object: Urn

By Melissa C. Navia

The sun had barely broken the horizon, but Kate Patton’s heart was already pounding away. As she hurried down the deserted city sidewalk, she glanced at her watch. She was going to be late for school, she thought, pulling at the straps of her overburdened backpack. Purple on the outside, it protruded at sharp angles, hinting at the contents inside.

Kate stopped abruptly. Across the street stood a building with boarded-up windows and graffiti-streaked walls. “After Hours” it read, minus a few key letters. Yet another seedy establishment, Kate sighed. In her family’s line of work, she had been to many. Abandoned factories, vandalized castles, condemned estates—the more unscrupulous, the better. And a greasy strip club, long since shut down, was right up there. Looking both ways, Kate dashed across the street.

The Pattons were well-known in the underground community. They were Night Watchers, members of an ancient order charged with monitoring and destroying evil beings whose hideouts of choice were dark, creepy, people-less corners.

But ridding the world of them meant dealing with them first. And recent events were forcing Kate to do just that. Her grandfather, the patriarch of the family operation, had gone missing, and every demon, zombie, shape shifter, and fallen fairy knew it. Then her parents were kidnapped, leaving Kate vulnerable, and to fix things, she was resorting to desperate measures and a shady rendezvous.

Once across, Kate wasted no time opening a rusty metal door and disappearing indoors. It was dark, and she strained to see. Tacky leather-lined, termite-infested booths filled the space. Ripped velvet curtains dangled from the ceiling. Oversized light bulbs hung shattered. At the far end stood a stage populated with scratched metal poles that no longer glistened. Kate shuddered but advanced toward a table and the point of her excursion.

“You’re late,” said a man. Kate swung her backpack around and propped it on the table.

“This won’t take long, Vlar,” she replied, her voice shaky. “You tell me what I want, and I’ll give you what I promised.”

Vlar leaned forward and took off his wide-brimmed hat to reveal a swarthy grin. His features looked human enough, and his suit was Armani, but Kate knew better.

“You have the urn?” Kate nodded. “Which one?” he pried.

“First, where are my parents?”

“How do I know you really have it?”

“Because I wouldn’t come all the way here to be late for my chemistry midterm if I didn’t,” she snapped, her voice no longer shaky.

Vlar seemed puzzled but convinced. He put his hat down and licked his lips. His tongue was noticeably green and forked.

“They’re in the cellar of the Green Oaks Hospital, the abandoned mental institution upstate,” he said. “Draco and his sister are holding them there.”

Kate took a deep breath. We’ll worry about the dragon prince later.

Without another word, she unzipped her backpack and unveiled a brilliantly shiny silver urn. A faint line ran down the middle to reveal two chambers etched with elaborate markings. Vlar began to salivate and his features started to change. Any trace of humanity vanished. Behind her, Kate heard repulsive slithering and painful grating noises. In her periphery, she discerned three monstrous anomalies crouching and writhing around the stage. They, too, were entranced.

Seven mythic, magically-endowed urns resided in the world, and of those, Kate’s family owned one. Up until this point, it had proved to be dangerous; now she was hoping it would save her.

“Which is it?” Vlar slurred, his eyes transfixed on the prize.

“The Urn of Nemesis.”

“Who?”

“A goddess.”

“Goddess of what?”

“Look it up,” Kate said slowly, matching Vlar’s heavy breathing with her words.

“Why…are there…two chambers…for ashes?” Vlar asked with wide eyes, already drunk with greed. “For two…souls?”

Kate didn’t answer. She knew not to lie in the urn’s presence. So she quickly proceeded.

“Vlar, whoever possesses the urn must warn the next in line. If you’re unable to comply, I’m not at fault.” Vlar nodded. He was fully transformed; his true nature sat oozing before Kate.

“To rightfully take the urn, you must be clear in thought, pure in intention, and free of excessive pride. Are you?”

Another faint nod…

“Then you may take it.”

Instantly, Vlar lunged, but the urn repelled him. He let out a cry, as his hands froze suspended before him. The urn grew brighter. Vlar screamed in agony. Kate stepped back from the table. Vlar tried the same, but he began to convulse and scream even more. His expensive suit melted away, and the scales beneath it began to burn. Silently, the urn’s two chambers opened. From one, a steady trickle of ash poured into a neat pile on the table. Meanwhile, chairs were knocked over and windows smashed further as Vlar’s companions escaped screaming into the blinding daylight.

When Kate turned back, Vlar was a mass of suspended ash, and within seconds, the second chamber had sucked every last speck of him up, closing as quietly as it had opened.

“Well, I won’t do that again, that’s for sure,” chuckled an older voice. Kate looked up and frowned. There stood her grandfather, on the table, in a Zegna suit, with the same smile he was wearing when the urn had sucked him up one week before.

“You owe me one,” she said dryly, zipping up the urn. “Thanks to you, we have to rescue Mom and Dad from a haunted hospital.”

Grandpa Patton, agile for his age, jumped down from the table and put his arm around Kate. “Forgive my greed. If the gods can be merciful—”

“—and clever enough to have built a device with two chambers, fit for only one soul,” she interjected.

“Then so can you,” he smiled. “Now, off to find your parents.”

Stepping out into the open, the bright, cloudless sky a stark contradiction to the events that had just unfolded, Kate sighed and pulled on her backpack straps.

So much for that chemistry midterm.

“Framed” gets 1st place!!

The 1st round results of the NYC Midnight Creative Writing/Flash Fiction Challenge were just announced, and in Heat 14, comprised of 15 writers, I placed 1st, garnering me 25 points going into the 2nd round this weekend.

Check out the standings -

http://www.nycmidnight.com/2008/CWC/1stRound/14.htm

Thanks to everyone who gave me such awesome feedback on the story =)

Alex and I will be taking part in Walk and Remember, a 5K walk supporting ovarian cancer research and awareness by raising money for the Lynne Cohen Foundation for Ovarian Cancer Research.

We (Team Vigilant Monkey, of course) have set up a page where you can make a donation to help us reach our $500 goal -

Donate safe and securely through the site via credit card. The donations are sent directly to the Lynne Cohen Foundation for Ovarian Cancer Research, and Firstgiving will email you a printable record of the transaction.

It’s that simple!! And if you check out the right-hand column of this blog, you’ll find a widget featuring the real-time status of our donation goal.

A 3 mile walk isn’t exactly a 20+ mile adventure race, but it’s for a great cause, so I’ll gladly do the walk this weekend =)

Plus, we get the 1st round results of the NYC Midnight Creative Writing/Flash Fiction Challenge this week and the 2nd round assignment this weekend. So while I’m walking, I’ll be thinking about what to write. Stay tuned…

It’s that time of year again, right after my birthday, when the weather is still warm and I’m still arguing with people that summer isn’t over – time for the US Open at the USTA in Flushing Meadows Corona Park, NY.

Accompanied by my tennis partners in crime, Alex and my mom, I took on the heat, the crowds, the merchandise, the free giveaways, the exorbitant food court prices, John McEnroe, and, of course, world-class tennis.

…okay, maybe not McEnroe per se, but he was in the vicinity.

And, as per usual, I got to thinking: Why am I not out there playing some world-class tennis, too? Well, let’s see…A lack of a coach in more than five years maybe? The lack of a steady partner with whom to play? Not enough self-discipline to work on my serve six days a week? The fact that I’m too busy trying to write a book?

All these things, and perhaps more, are definitely good reasons, but not anything that can’t be remedied.

So, as of today, I’ve gotten myself a coach, and I start lessons the first weekend in October. It might not sound like much, but it’s a start. It’s getting back out on the court. It’s that competitive edge flaring up again. It’s Varsity tennis all over again, sans the green pleated skirt.

Oh yeah, and it’s also dawned on me that next to writing and films, the next thing I’m probably most knowledgeable and passionate about is this very sport, from the history of its snooty (and British) beginnings to the greatest athletes to play the game to those technical scoring intricacies that baffle the uninitiated tennis viewer. I think the lightbulb went on when I found myself for the fourth time this week, not to mention how often in all my 24 years (did I mention it was my birthday??), trying once again to explain to someone the very logical, quite brilliant scoring methodology behind the game. But to no avail. Maybe I’m just not explaining it well enough, I found myself thinking, but God knows, I’ve tried. So I pondered and I pondered and finally came to the conclusion that I might better express myself in writing than in frustrated, fast-paced, out-of-breath spoken words. Maybe I’ll get Alex, my mom, and my sisters (my dad has yet to ask) to understand how to keep score soon enough -

racquetgirl.blogspot.com

Game. Set. Match. Blog…All tennis, all the time, by a tennis player who dreams of US Open glory.

Interesting, if nothing else. The start of something truly unique, most definitely.

August 24, 1984…I showed up.

And here we are, 24 years later, still celebrating =)

So the writing competition website, NYC Midnight, that brought me 2nd place glory several months ago with their 2008 Short Story Challenge is back with yet another competitive gem – the 2008 Creative Writing Championships.

In this competition, there are four rounds, and each writer is guaranteed to compete in at least the first two. You have two days (from Friday midnight to Sunday midnight) to complete a 1,000-word story, abiding by the genre, location, and object requirements for your specific heat. In a few weeks, we find out how we placed, and depending on what that is, we are assigned a number of points, which ultimately help decide the grand prize winner.

Below is my first submission, written in about three hours, even though, yes, I had a whole two days to do it. Alas, I’m a busy person =P And yes, you might ask, but Melissa, where are the other stories you’ve submitted to competitions and written about? Why haven’t you posted them yet? Truth is, I’ve never really considered it until now. So…here we are:

Title: Framed
Synopsis: High atop the city, boredom turns to panic, actions are called into question, and a camera captures the tragedy of life in all its hi-def glory.
Genre: Open
Location: Rooftop of a skyscraper
Object: Video camera

By Melissa C. Navia

Matthew felt his eyelids getting heavy as he stared blankly out the towering windows of his father’s office. Fifty-seven floors up might have garnered him a bright, unobstructed view of the city on a hot Friday morning, but it still gave him nothing to do. His head began to nod off to the side. A black, compact video camera lay cradled in his hands.

It was summer. The temperature outside had been consistently scorching for the past week, and today was no different. If anything, it was worse. The air conditioning was at full volume. He had already heard some women in business skirts and blouses complaining about the chilly blast. But 15-year-old Matthew, in khaki shorts and a striped polo shirt, was content with the cold temperature lulling him to sleep. He went back to wondering why he had followed his father, who he hadn’t seen all morning, into work that day.

“Stop having so much fun!”

Matthew looked up. Staring down at him was one of the company’s younger employees. Pinstriped pants, wrinkled white shirt, messy brown hair, and a loosened striped tie. It had already been a long day.

“Scott Lawrence,” he said smiling. “You’re Peterson’s son, right?”

“Yeah, Matt,” Matthew responded dryly, “and yeah, it’s that much fun.”

“Sorry kid. We’re not crazy about being here either. Economy’s been real flighty. Stockbrokers get the worst of it,” Lawrence explained.

Trying to express his disinterest with the conversation, Matthew fidgeted with the video camera in his lap.

“Cool camera!” Lawrence tried again. “Canon? The new one? Expensive stuff.”

“Yeah, it comes with a bunch of different filming modes and upgrades,” Matthew acknowledged, turning the camera around.

“Oh my god!” Lawrence cried.

“Eh, it’s okay. No big deal,” Matthew countered. But when he looked up to explain, Lawrence was already running toward the windows—along with the rest of the office. Matthew spun around in his seat to see what caused the panic, but he heard everyone’s cries first, and he already knew.

Somebody was on the ledge.

Who was it? Anthony Radale from down the hall, someone shouted. What do we do? Somebody call the police! But what do we do? Don’t bang on the window! Open up a window? Get him inside.

Uncertainty mounted, and the orders being given out escalated in number. Several employees, Lawrence included, rushed to start the rescue operation while they waited for police.
But Matthew couldn’t wait. He clutched his camera and ran in the opposite direction. They were three floors from the roof of the building, and since he had been little, Matthew knew exactly where the exit doors stood.

Out of breath and panting, he burst through them into the day’s suffocating humidity, despite the windiness of the rooftop. He hurried over to the building’s edge and looked out over the protective barrier.

There he was, the man balancing on the ledge of the 57th floor. Matthew tore off the video camera’s lens cover, wound the camera strap around his wrist, held his arms out over the barrier, and clicked Record.

The noisy breeze around him dissipated, leaving just the sounds of the rotating lens. Matthew stared intently at the screen. He was filming at 30 frames per second. Perfect for YouTube. He smiled. Who would’ve thought? No news cameras, helicopters, reporters—he was the first one to the scene. Settling on a good bird’s eye view, Matthew lay down on his stomach and steadied his hand. The camera picked up the noise below.

Lawrence and other employees—Was that his father he heard?—were urging the man to come back in so they could talk. They said they were worried. They didn’t want him to get hurt. They understood. They just wanted him to step back inside. They said it wasn’t worth it. Matthew listened in silence.

The man on the ledge said nothing. He just stood there. Was he trembling? Matthew zoomed in tighter and scowled. He still only saw the back of the guy’s head. The monotony of the shot was beginning to irk him.

“C’mon,” he muttered under his breath, “say something…do something.”

For a moment, Matthew glanced away from the miniature screen and looked further below. A large crowd was already forming. Still no news vans.

He took a risk and panned away from the man to the people, simultaneously sliding the zoom toggle and pushing it to the max. Within seconds, they were in focus. Far away, but in focus. Matthew’s eyes narrowed as he strained to look closer. Were they celebrating? He swore they looked excited. He closed his eyes and opened them again. Were they yelling at Anthony to jump?

Shuddering, Matthew slid the zoom toggle again in the opposite direction. The image in the screen quickly ascended the height of the building. But just as it reached the top, a blur in the corner caused a guttural noise to escape from the back of Matthew’s throat.

It was Anthony. Out of focus. Trembling. And staring at him.

Matthew’s hands froze, and so the camera lens obediently adjusted, bringing Anthony into focus. He continued to stare up at the camera, at Matthew. His now visible face was red and tear stained, but his expression was vacant, his eyes were cold.

And then he fell—forward and fast, still looking up. Screams escaped from the windows. People cleared the sidewalk. Matthew’s hands jerked to life, and he pulled the camera in over the barrier. He scampered backwards, his hands burning on the black rooftop floor. They were going to come looking for him, he realized. They were going to want to know what Anthony saw before he died.

And so when the officers, the stockbrokers, and the father burst through the rusted metal doors, they thought they would find something worthy of a man’s last look. But what they found was only a pale young boy, his forehead sweating, his mouth trembling, his arms hanging limp, and a shattered camera at his feet.

So it’s been a few weeks since I last posted, but with good reason. It’s been a crazy busy summer packed with writing, going to the beach, working out, doing Bikram yoga, the Olympics, movie watching, test driving cars, visiting parks, taking pictures, planning parties, cleaning, online magazine launching, chilling, and, oh yes, one very memorable Adventure Race, courtesy of Genesis Adventures.

To get the full specifics on it, I’d like to direct you to Alex’s website, where he offers a minute-by-minute rundown of the the sweat, the pain, the excitement – 6 hours and 57 minutes worth (including a picture of one of the race map that on several occasions proved useless).

alexanderkblog.wordpress.com

The race took place on Saturday, August 2, in Allamuchy (pronounced with the “ch” sound, not the “k” sound…because I can only be corrected so many times) Mountain State Park, NJ, and according to everyone there, from the coordinator of the event to the adventure race veterans, it turned out to be one of the hardest races on record. The race results, which we got a few days later, proved it, seeing as how about 10 teams were assigned a “DNF” – did not finish.

Alex and me, however, aka Team Vigilant Monkey, did finish in just under 7 hours, starting at 9:00 AM and finishing three minutes before the official race cut-off time of 4:00 PM.

To sum up, the race was awesome, and really nothing like we expected. We actually (if you faithful blog readers can remember) took a prep course/daylong camp about two months ago during the last adventure race to better understand what we we were getting ourselves into, in Wawayanda State Park, NJ.

But you know how you study and study for an exam like the SAT or GRE, take practice tests, go over review questions, do the repetitive, straightforward problems, and still end up convinced that the actual test is more difficult than what you were told to go over? That’s kind of exactly how this ended up. Consisting of three sections, kayaking, hiking, and mountain biking, this was the breakdown between the two locations -

In Wawayanda, we were on a lake, a big, calm enclosed lake, where lily pads and flowers were in abundance, on a hot, summer’s day.

In Allamuchy, we were on a river, a tight, muddy, shallow-and-then-deep-when-you-least-expect-it, fly-infested, rocky, muddy (did I mention that?) river. Oh yeah, and there were waterfalls. I was covered in crap less than five minutes into the kayak portion of the race. Our paddles picked up more mud, seaweed, mulch, rocks, and unidentifiable brown stuff than I ever even thought sat at the bottom of a river.

Oh, and it was anything but sunny. Kayaking back to the transition point, the heavens opened up and unleashed all the rain that it hadn’t unleashed all summer. And thunder. And lightning. When we got out at one point, thinking we should run with the kayak back to camp, we came up in a really thick part of the forest, where walking, let alone running, was out of the question. So we retraced our steps, but once at the river, we realized one of the paddles went missing, so I ran back into the forest to find it. And it might sound silly, but the day had already gotten so Lord of the Rings on me, that I actually entertained the possibility that river trolls had stolen the paddle out of the kayak when Alex was pulling it back, just so that one of us could go back to retrieve it, only to get snatched up, leaving the other alone on the river. Yes, the writer in me was still hard at work…

The kayak portion alone claimed two teams, who ended up stuck out there and had to drop out of the race.

Less than 2 hours for us, however, and we were back at the transition area.

Back to Wawayanda, where hiking was, literally, like a walk in the park. There were open forest areas, nicely marked paths, sights to be seen, and, of course, sun.

Allamuchy – everything was soaked. We were soaked. Our clothes were soaked. The forest was soaked. Any sort of traction that existed ever went out the window. Trails – non-existent. Checkpoints – few and far in between. The hiking was really what either made or broke teams. To be more exact, it was the dreaded Checkpoint 5 somewhere on some mythic stone wall that left people lost, confused, wandering and annoyed. It’s funny how much a foggy compass, a wet map, and being surrounded by endless trees can really put a relationship to the test. Plus, there were ruins (and the river we kayaked on went through a historic, closed-down town) that I didn’t even give a second look at – just to show you how frustrated Checkpoint 5 made me.

But we persevered and made it out of the forest in relatively sane condition. Back at the transition area, we grabbed our bikes, took note of how many bikes were still in their stands (thus the number of racers still in the woods), and took off on the third and last portion of the race.

Wawayanda – dirt bike paths, sun, some sort of direction.

Allamuchy – rocks, rocks, and more rocks. Wet rocks. Large rocks. Hidden rocks. The term for such bike paths are “bony,” and these were up there with the boniest. It was on these paths that we met up with many teams still fuming from Checkpoint 5.

At about 3:30 PM, Alex and I started heading back to the transition point to cross the finish line. We had veered off the map for about thirty minutes prior to that, leaving us lacking in the the last few checkpoints (along with a good deal of other teams), but reinvigorated as well. The time to ourselves, in the middle of some of the coolest woods I’ve ever seen, by the largest boulder I’ve ever seen, was much needed and appreciated. It was the perfect note to end our race.

Well, actually, the bell they clanged for us as we crossed the finish line made a pretty good ending note, too. Right after we finished, I asked if there were any teams still out there, to which the coordinator responded with a laugh and an, “Of course!!” And I smiled, because it meant we did pretty darn good.

So that’s the story. That was our race. More than once throughout the day my father’s voice echoed in my head as he asked, “And why are you doing this again?” And more than once, I wondered the same thing myself. I ended up with cuts on my feet (most from wading in the river, pulling the kayak through gunk) and my legs (most from the hiking, where I think I must have brushed by every thorn and sharp twig in the whole forest), with pain in parts of my body that I didn’t even know were capable of aching, with squishy socks that never really dried, with a river gunk-smeared bandana that attracted pesky insects throughout the whole race, with the realization that giving me a map does as much good as leaving the map at home, and with knee pain (there were few without a limp in their step at the end of the day).

Will we do it again? Of course we will. September, to be exact. To which my dad would ask, why is that? Because we have to. Because it was awesome. It was exhilirating. It was a challenge. It was a hardship. It was something unlike I’ve ever done before. It was 7 hours of realizing that if you want to, you will.

And then there’s Checkpoint 5. Somewhere, at some point, some day, there’ll be another Checkpoint 5. And we’ll find it.

We have to.

You know what it’s like: You say you’re going to do something, but you don’t do it, and then when you remember there was something you were supposed to do, you tell yourself you’ll have to look into doing it, but then you still don’t do it, because you’re doing other things that probably don’t get you half as excited as that thing that you keep telling yourself you should do, you want to do, you will do, and yet that you never do.

Sound familiar? I thought so.

When you live a busy life, as I know we all do, procrastination and frustration reign supreme, unless you can get yourself out of that circle. I, for instance, get a lot done, but as an ever-busy person and, worse, a writer suffering from publishing anxiety, I know there’s so much more that should be getting done that isn’t. And being a perfectionist (yes, I’m a Virgo, for you zodiac sign believers out there) doesn’t help.

But I’ve been working very hard on stifling this tendency for the past year or so, and I think I’ve been making some serious progress. Like my drawers, for instance, I kept saying I was going to reorganize them this past month, but I never did, and finally, the other night, I did – all of them. Sure, this might have been a convenient way to get out of revising the next chapter of my book, but hey, reorganizing clothes never hurts =P A minor example, but if I gave you others, more important, meaningful ones, we’d be here all day.

So why am I telling you? Because I still see everyone doing it and have come to the conclusion that much of people’s unhappiness stems from people’s unwillingness to just get it done and fear of not doing it right. Sure, I haven’t discovered fire here, but still, really think about it for a moment. It might sound like common sense, and it really is, but when you reflect on it, realize how little and insignificant a habit it is that keeps us from achieving things, and you’ll want to get up and go book that trip, start that company, make yourself that sandwich, get yourself to the beach, take that walk – whatever it is you’re telling yourself right now you want to do.

And it’s not easy. It shouldn’t be easy. Sometimes I’ll sit at my computer bemoaning the time and agony it takes to get the plot moving (FYI, took me three hours to revise my Chapter 2 last week…but I did it), and I find myself writing slower, with less attention, with more distractions, with motivation quickly draining. But if it was easy, then I would’ve published a book years ago. Everyone would’ve published books years ago. And I wouldn’t be happy. I’d be restless, trying to find something more challenging, something that asks more of me.

Take, for instance, the fact that Alex and I have an Adventure Race coming up in Allamuchy, NJ. I find myself worrying every now and then that it won’t be easy, and we might get lost, and I might get tired, and we might suffer from heat exhaustion, and our sandwiches might get soggy, and I might have to go to the bathroom as soon as we’re in the forest – probably when we’re lost and too nervous to think about the bathroom – and I might fall off my bike going up a mountain, and I might tip over in the kayak while I’m thinking about falling off my bike…see, now even you’re worried.

But then I have to remind myself (and sometimes it’s hard) that I haven’t been training and running and biking and kayaking and lifting weights and working on my endurance and going to an all-day Adventure Race prep course because it’s going to be easy. No, I’ve been going because I’m going to attempt something ridiculous and fun and possibly painful and definitely memorable. So it won’t be easy. But I know that. So why worry? When I’m just fretting over the obvious.

I guess what prompted me to write this was two articles I recently read. One, I read today, about Randy Pausch, the professor from Carnegie Mellon University who delivered the now-internet famous “Last Lecture” (and title of the best-selling book), about achieving your childhood dreams, in September 2007, a month after being told he had only a few months to live because his pancreatic cancer had returned. He died today, almost one year later.

I saw him on Oprah (yes, sometimes I watch) once, and he was pretty extraordinary. Basically, he said that he knew he was going to die, from one of the most painful cancers out there, but knowing that wasn’t going to stop him from loving life for himself, his friends, and his family. If anything, he was going to do it one thousand times more. I must admit, some of his methods were a little extreme, like pouring a can of soda on the backseat of his brand new convertible to prove to his nephew and niece that they didn’t have to worry about dirtying it. Material things are not important when it comes to people. Lo and behold, I think the story goes, the nephew got carsick at some point later on, threw up on the backseat, and happily realized that his uncle wasn’t going to throw him out on the highway.

But ultimately, the book, his mantra, the lectures, his ideas, they were all meant to be, most importantly to him, life lessons he could leave for his wife and children. So he left behind a legacy of just getting out there and doing it with a lot of fun and little to no worry.

The second article I read several days ago was about 112-year old Frank Calloway, an Alabama man who has spent more than 50 years in the mental health system. In the ’80s he started drawing, and now he is a prolific painter who creates images out of another time and place, visions of his youth. Last year, the article says, he took a trip to Alabama’s Gulf Coast, and soon afterward, he decided he was going to draw pictures of boats, but rather than drawing the modern boats he’d seen, he produced riverboats with paddlewheels, the kind Mark Twain would have written about. Not much is officially known about his life prior to entering the mental health system, that is, except for what he tells people…and what he draws. When he isn’t hard at work, he enjoys talking to people who ask questions.

As for all of his paintings, they’re going to be worth a lot, and this fall they will be on exhibit at the American Visionary Art Museum in Baltimore. Calloway plans to attend the opening – it will be his first time on a plane…at 112 years old. So think about that the next time you say you’re too old to do something or it’s too late to start something.

I know a lot of people say live every day like it’s your last, but I’m not crazy about that. I would probably -regardless of all the positive thinking in the world – be a nervous wreck if I found out it was the very last day (not quite like Pausch, who had some of the most amazing months of his life left).

Instead, I say, live every day like it’s your first, with all the awe and wonder and smiles you had when it really was your very first day. When everything was new and awesome, and your thoughts and dreams were all experience- and reality check-free. Experience is what you choose to take out of life. Reality is what you make of it.

Live like you’re just starting and like you’ve suddenly realized, for the very first time, that there’s something you’d love to do…right now.

It’s taken some time, but dammit, I’ve done it. Chapter 1 has officially been revised, submitted to my writing group, and (breathe) given a markedly positive assessment.

From the revision, which actually didn’t take much time at all once I actually forced myself to sit down and do it, more ideas, more characterization, more plot points, more specifics, and more notes to address have emerged, and it’s all so very awesome. It’s tangible.

My goal by the end of the week is to have revised Chapters 2 and 3 and have an extensive outline for Chapters 6 – 10. Ugh – which will of course mean I have to start rereading the 100+ pages I’ve already written, including the parts where I was half asleep and managed to tactfully maneuver my way around gaping plot holes. Yeah, that’s gonna be fun to decipher.

So yes, thank you all for not inviting me to any movies, parties, or hanging out time in the last week since my my most recent post. Keep up the great let’s-all-help-Melissa-stop-procrastinating work!!

That is what you’re doing, right?

Right?

Guys??

Prior to opening up the new lululemon store at Roosevelt Field, all the new educators have been doing goal setting workshops and examining what each of our goals are for the future – personal, professional, and health. I’ve always been a goal setter, to a dorky extent, so I’m always surprised to learn that a lot of people never think to set or reach goals, and that’s exactly the point these workshops have been getting across. I don’t think it was anything that was ever directly taught to me, just indirectly understood to be something you do and continue to do often. So the goal setting concept is nothing new to me, but it was an important refresher nonetheless. It’s always good to have things emphasized and rearticulated, to get you back on track.

With that said, it’s dawned on me that my writing pursuits have been dragging the past few months, smothered by a horrible case of writer’s block/procrastination/fear/perfectionism. So it’s time to get back on track. Here are my goals for the next two months -

1) Finish my book, from beginning to end. Begin and continue the revision process as the story moves along. Revision can continue beyond deadline, but I must keep reviewing while I work on a book deal. Keep up the momentum. Don’t make excuses.
By when => 8-31-08

2) Launch VM. Organize. Delegate. Reach out. Publicize. Recruit. Write. Inspire.
By when => 8-31-08 (but earlier would be ideal) and beyond

So there you go. Now you know. If I ask to go to the movies, say no. If I want to hang out, say next time. If I want to relax, say get up. If I’m organizing my sock drawer, say you’re onto me.

Then remind me to go write.

You know, that thing I do.