The dreaded final assignment

Without a doubt I've neglected this site. To all you expectant readers, I apologize. If you knew that I have not stopped writing, am in fact trying to get ahead on the final assignment for my writing class, you would, I'm certain, find it in you to forgive my long silence.

This final assignment is the one I've been dreading all along, the inevitable conclusion to an otherwise very pleasant experience: writing the first three chapters of my novel under the guidance of a teacher/mentor.

This final assignment is where I must prepare for the marketing of this yet unfinished novel. It involves writing a fetching query letter, a one page affair that must catch the editor's eye, or be doomed to the dreaded slush pile.
I also must write a brief summary of the plot, and compose a cover letter.

The biggest job, however, is not the writing of the afore mentioned things, but going through the Writer's Market book (a four inch thick affair) and trying to find a good fit for my book.

So, don't feel neglected, or forgotten. I am hard at work, elsewhere.

WILL IT EVER END?

We are making progress in the garden. It's difficult to see when standing on a pile of dirt and double digging for the deep weeds, but when stepping back and looking at the whole project from a distance, it is obvious we are moving forward in a systematic way. Indeed, we are making progress, at least that's what we tell ourselves. We only have a few more tons of rocks to move.

But I think its not just wishful thinking, or our tired imaginations, we are hearing encouraging words from other gardeners, especially those whose plots are closest to ours. Seeing as your neighbor's weeds eventually become your weeds, I think they are nothing short of ecstatic that we are cleaning up our little nightmare.

Carlos is now the man in charged of digging up the rocks and moving them. While I've been mourning the process of dismantling my once charming garden, still hold a special love for each and every rock, Carlos confessed this morning that he has come to hate rocks. Imagine!

SUNSHINE GARDENS

I was tempted to let go of our 2 plots (800 square feet) at the community gardens when I realized the enormous amount of time and energy it would take to re-design them. To fix the problem my wonderful rocks had created meant only one thing, and that was to get rid of them, all. If not for Carlos' promise to help out, plantings visions of a new, beautiful garden in my head, I would have been forced, by reason of limited energy, to leave the plots to someone else on the long waiting list.
There's something special about growing one's own vegetables, something akin to an addiction. They taste better, they are fresher, a fitting reward after months of hard work.
It was an unbearable thought to let go of the single thing that connects us to the land. Though the weather hasn't been exactly what one would order out of a catalog, it hasn't stopped, but merely slowed our progress. If it isn't the rain, it's the heat and humidity. And through it all, the pesky mosquito, who forces us to dress up when all we want is to dress down.
I have failed to make this gardening experience sound desireable, but then again, hard physical labor is something most of us will avoid if we can. The gardens never let us get soft. It keeps our muscles firm and strong, our pores clean, and well, what can I say, the harvest provides food for our bellies, the labor for our hearts and souls.

BETWEEN A ROCK AND A HARD PLACE

A few weeks ago our plot at the community gardens was cited for not being in compliance. What that really means is that our weeds have gotten out of hand, and that it's looking like an abandoned plot.

Four years ago, when I first laid the rocks for our eleven raised beds and paved the paths with bricks and flagstone, it was a most charming garden. But the recent rains and years of superficial weed-wacking have taken their toll this year, and the rocks and paths have all but been swallowed up by every kind of weed imaginable.

I've been hauling rocks to our garden plot for years. To say I have a ton of rocks would be partly true, but in reality, its more like ten tons. It didn't feel like such a big job taking them to the garden, perhaps because it was done in increments, a few at a time. But now that we are in the process of removing all the rocks at once, it feels gigantic. A friend has offered to take every rock to the last pebble for landscaping her yard, so I don't have to bring them all back home.

I managed to get a fingertip smashed between two rocks. It bled instantly, and I think I'm going to lose the nail. I was tempted to get some black nail polish, so that I could match the other nine nails to the color of my injured one.

A friend loaned me the last of the Harry Potter books, so I read it while nursing the very swollen and throbbing finger. I enjoyed it very much, but I'm glad the series is over.

SUNNY-SIDE UP

"How would you like your eggs this morning, Miss Joy?" the waiter asked the lone woman sitting across from me at the next table.

"Sunny side up, if you would, Walter," she answered in a cheerful voice.

I looked up from the morning paper, feeling a trite suspicious of anyone named Joy. Apparently, she'd not read the headlines, or bothered to turn the television on. I took her cheerful mood as a personal affront. No one should be happy, taking into account the sad state of affairs.

I had the sudden urge to sober this happy woman up, to make her see that there was nothing to be happy about, nothing at all. She should've asked for her eggs scrambled, and she should've done it with a scowl on her face, like mine, as I read the morning paper and got all tangled up in national and world affairs.

I leaned over in my chair, motioned to get her attention.

"Excuse me, Miss Joy, but did you happen to read the paper this morning?" I asked. Surely there was a glint of spite in my eyes, but she didn't seem to take notice.

Instead, she nodded and smiled sadly. Then her blue eyes became cloudy and her smile disappeared. The waiter arrived with her sunny side-up eggs, and she picked at them without gusto.

Strangely, I didn't experience the satisfaction I thought I would by wiping the smile off her pretty face. I felt sad, and wished I could put aside all the bad news, take a moment to enjoy the everyday things life has to offer. Like a cheerful voice and a bright smile coming so appropiately from a woman named Joy.

MORALS OF THIS FICTICIOUS STORY:

Ignorance is not bliss, though it helps.

Happiness doesn't come from without, but from within.

Everyone has a right to a happy moment.

There are things we can change and things we cannot. It is important to make this distinction, to separate the world news from our personal lives. One is out of our control, the other at our fingertips.

THE THINGS WE LOVE TO HATE

Pet Peeves are the things we love to hate. They give us something to gripe about, a good venue to air our discontent. Usually, pet peeves are the things that we encounter all too often, perhaps on a daily basis, often enough to get our attention, and cause us to pause whatever we are doing and scowl.
I've had a few pet peeves of my own of late. The rooster across the street is gone, so I'll skip over him and get to the ever-present one: Early morning honking. Car-pooling is good, everyone knows this. We give it two thumbs up. However, why disrupt the morning peace when picking up a co-worker with a two-three second blare, when a few polite taps on the horn would do the trick? What kind of person does this morning after morning, precisely at 5:30?

LESS IS MORE A TRUE STORY

Richard was tall, dark and handsome. He was a friend of the family's, a frequent dinner guest at our table.

Once I became a liscenced hairdresser, he booked an appointment for a haircut. When I asked how he wanted his hair cut that first time, he said he was putting himself entirely in my hands, being that now I was a professional.

This type of opportunity is a rare happening in the hair cutting business, where the client usually arrives with a clear vision of what the end resuilts should look like. Yeilding happily to the green light, I began cutting, and in no time Richard's former mane was cropped down to an inch of its existence.

I handed him the mirror, and he inspected his haircut from every angle, running his free hand across his short hair. He looked like a new man. I personally thought he'd never looked so handsome, and was very pleased with my haircut.

A few months later, Richard booked another appointment for a haircut. Seated and draped, he asked in a most casual way, "Are you part Indian?"

Secretly flattered, I stole a glance at my pale reflection in the mirror. "You think I look like an Indian?" I asked incredulously.

"No, but you scalped me last time. You think you could leave it a little longer?" he said. I laughed good-naturedly, but inside I was hurt and embarrassed.

Though I may not look like one, I'll admit that sometimes I wish I was an Indian, because I've had the sudden urge to scalp a client or two. I always think of Richard when this mood comes over me, and manage to get a handle on myself before any harm is inflicted.