Sherri Cornelius

You ever feel like you're doing it all wrong, but you don't even know what "it all" is? That's the way I've been feeling. For a while I had purpose. Everything fell into place as I made great, comfortable strides toward some undefined goal. Actually, I guess the goal was the action, after years of stagnation, and so it felt good to meet the goal.

But I don't know, I've just felt like I got off track somewhere and I can't tell where. I feel like I'm failing, like I blew past an important juncture and it's too late to backtrack.

This morning I tried to remember what I used to do to blow off steam. Many years ago I'd drink and hang out with friends, find a guy to flirt with. After I got married I'd go to garage sales and find projects around the house to do. That's also when I started writing seriously. I started blogging and that was a tremendous help in keeping my sanity as an isolated mother of small children. Then I started getting too much traffic to feel comfortable spilling my guts, but I found I didn't have much else to spill. Household projects I used to enjoy became too large for me to do on my own.

The final blow to my serenity has been college. I'm doing well, but the work is always there like a specter hovering over my shoulder. There is no time to find a new outlet for my anxiety, much less implement it. In a way, I'm more isolated than I was before I came back to the world, despite working with a great group of women at the library.

Maybe my life is changing to fast to keep up with, and I feel like I'm leaving part of myself behind. Maybe that's all it is.

The house is dirtier than it used to be. While I was a stay-at-home mother I felt unappreciated and resentful about all the housework I had to do. I never felt like I got enough done. Now I'm amazed at how much I was able to accomplish. The soap-making, the knitting, the cooking, the fridge cleaning... It takes less time to hold my breath when I have to get milk out of the fridge than it does to clean it.

I'd like to have the time to finish this website. I wish I could read a book. I'd love to help my friends promote their books. 

When I started taking classes toward my long-postponed bachelor's degree, I truly had no idea the work load would be so heavy. I don't remember doing this much when I was in college full time. Like, maybe one assignment per week per class, with the larger chapters broken up over a couple of weeks. In each of these classes I have a chapter per week with a related lecture, quiz, and discussion, plus several short papers over the semester. It says a lot that I feel more pressed for time now than when I was taking 18 hours and working full time with time to party left over.

But I have kids now--a full time job in itself, running them around. And in online classes they can only track us by our online work, and that means writing and assessments.

It's just the nature of the beast (which apparently lives in my fridge).

I have an artist and writer friend named Marta. It's her art you're looking at right now. She's commented here many times, because like I said, we're friends. Well now Marta's living her dream. Her debut novel, The Blue Jar, will be out in a little under a month! I can't wait to buy it.

To give you a little taste of Marta's writing (yum yum) I thought I'd post one of her fairy tales that I happen to love. Later on as the release date gets closer, I'll see if I can't post an excerpt of The Blue Jar with links and everything. But for now, enjoy!


Sharp, Glittering Things
by Marta Pelrine-Bacon
copyright 2011

Clarice possessed a fascination for sharp, glittering things. In her upstairs room she kept knives, needles, and razors hidden in a red box under her bed. Almost every one of them was stolen. Her mother couldn’t even abide the sight of cutlery and the sight of blood made her faint.

Clarice didn’t understand her mother at all. Everything had to be soft. Edges were rounded or padded. Once Clarice had gotten a paper cut and her mother had nearly banned all books. Even so, now she had to wear white gloves to turn a page.

Then there was the nightmare of birthdays. Clarice hated birthdays. Her mother spent hours at the guest list. She never crossed off a name but added and added. Every year, as the children made more friends she had to lengthen the list. Everyone in the house had to check the list so many times they could recite the names in their dreams.

A maid did all the cooking, so the children were not allowed in the kitchen and all the food was served cut into pieces for them. The children were not to lose the smallest drop of blood. Nannies and tutors were fired if one of the children scuffed a knee.

Nor did her mother sleep well. “I’ve slept enough already for several lifetimes,” her mother would say. Late at night her mother stayed curled up on the sofa and stared at the television. She watched movies and shows of other worlds and times and great adventures.

On the night of her sixteenth birthday, Clarice snuck out of her room. For years, she’d imagined being out, unmissed and unguarded, and the first step beyond the sight of the house sent a thrill through her heart.

Clarice had planned to wander. She wanted to take her time. Touch lampposts. Run her fingers along brick walls. Stop in a diner and order food that required a knife.

For her adventure she took thinnest sharpest blade from the red box and slipped in the side of boot. When she stepped out the back door, the knife’s edge pressed into her ankle, but she didn’t stop to check her skin.

The shadows of the nighttime world surprised her in spite of all the stories she’d read in preparation. She couldn’t shake the feeling the shadows were the cloaks of ghosts as if they’d been there all this time waiting for her. She decided to find a place to sit and think about her plans.

At the first bench she came to sat an old woman. Clarice had no fear of an old woman, and so she sat at the other end of the bench. She took her lipstick and a mirror out of her purse.

“That’s a very pretty shade of lipstick, dear,” the old woman said.

“Thanks. It’s called True Red,” Clarice replied. “Or something like that.”

“A good color for a girl wanting adventure.” The old woman worked at the many rings around her fingers.

Clarice laughed. “What are you doing out here at this hour? My parents always tell me the world isn’t safe for old people and children after dark.”

“You’re here too,” the old woman said. “You can’t listen to your parents and my parents have long been dead.”

“My parents are afraid of everything. Especially my mom.”

The old woman nodded. “Parents want to protect their children. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Were you like that? With your kids, I mean.”

“I never had children of my own.” She continued to twist her rings.

“Those are pretty rings,” Clarice said, feeling she should give the woman a compliment as well.

The old woman held her hands out in front of her with her fingers outstretched. The silver bands, some with stones, gleamed in the streetlight. “Thank you, dear. Though I’m really getting too old for such frippery.”

“Such what?”

The old woman smiled. “Which ring do you like best?”

“Oh. Well. That’s hard to say. But, if I had to choose, I guess I’d choose that one with the stars.” A stream of sharp-pointed stars wrapped around the woman’s gnarled finger.

“Good choice.” She slipped the ring off. “Here, dear. It’s for you.”

Clarice sat up straighter. The ring wasn’t candy from a stranger exactly, but her mother would see it the same way. “Good heavens, ma’am. I can’t take that. You don’t even know me.”

“I’m old and have no children,” the woman said. “I had a son once.” Her voice trailed off. “You’re young and have adventure waiting for you. Take it and you’ll remember me. You’ll be about the only person to do so.”

Clarice let the woman place the ring in her hand. “Thank you. That’s very kind.”

“Go on and put it on.”

“I hope it isn’t too big.” The ring rested in Clarice’s open palm.

“It will fit. I promise. On your ring finger—like you’re getting married.”

“I’m too young to get married.” Clarice wasn’t sure what to make of the old woman’s smile, but she put the ring on like she was told, and just as the old woman promised the ring felt as if it had been made for her. “You know,” said Clarice, “you don’t seem that old.”

“It’s hard for the young and inexperienced to know what they see.”

“I wish had something to give you…wait.” Clarice took the knife from her boot. “You could take this. You could use it to protect yourself.”

“Then what would you have for protection, dear?”

“Oh, I’ve got a box of knives under my bed at home.”

“That’s too far away now to be of much use,” the old woman said, taking the knife from the girl.

“So you think my parents are right then—the world is a much too dangerous place?” It seemed to Clarice the old woman was looking less and less old and strangely less womanly.

The old woman straightened her back. “What is dangerous to some is thrilling to others.”

Clarice frowned. She must be more tired than she realized. The shadows played tricks on her mind. The old woman didn’t even sound like a woman anymore. “You said you have a son.”

“Hmm.” The woman worried the knife handle between her fingers.

“It’s odd,” Clarice said. “Looking at you now, I can see what he looks like. It’s amazing, really. I could almost trick myself into thinking I’m talking to him instead of to you.”

“The eyes play all kinds of tricks in the dark, my dear.”

Clarice imagined the old woman’s voice was deeper. “Do you like the knife?”

“I do,” came the answer. “But is already has a bit of blood on it.”

“My ankle. I’m sorry. I’ll clean it off.” She reached for the blade but the woman—or rather the old woman who looked more and more like a young man—moved the knife beyond her grasp.

“What’s a moon without a night sky to shine in? What’s a sharp edge without something to cut?”

Clarice watched as the old woman stood up, straighter and taller and more assured than ought to have been possible. “I think I need to get home,” she said.

“I think,” the old woman said and leaned over the girl, “that parents can’t protect their children from everything. Danger always has a way of getting in.”

***

Read more stories Marta's shiny, new website! Like her Facebook Page for updates.

See more on Know Your Meme

Sore throat. It started the other night when the a/c was broken and we had to leave the windows open. Someone was burning brush or having a campfire and the smoke, and it irritated my throat. Then I was distracted with problems, but it came back full force last night. So I don't know if it was related to the smoke or if my immune system couldn't keep up with the stress. Oh, I know--stress related heartburn.

I was having really scary computer problems, like, blue screen of death problems. If I'd had a Windows cd I probably would have wiped the drive and reinstalled Windows 7. As it happens, though, I don't have an installation cd so I had to work around it. I ran diagnostics, virus scans, repair utilities. Finally it grabbed enough of a toehold to install some automatic Windows updates, and two rounds of that seems to have fixed whatever error had occurred. I was just on the verge of installing Ubuntu when it started working properly again. Windows was scared, I guess.

So I made a repair disk and now I'm backing up my data. I might keep Ubuntu handy in case Windows goes kaput again, and I'll probably try it out via thumb drive. I've always wanted to try it. There were a few days of panic as I tried and failed to do schoolwork on my other two computers. One is 8 years old and barely runs, but the newer (yet still old) laptop has a bad DVD player. I kept having to hop back and forth and work around the kids as they claimed their computer time. Finally I looked at my syllabus to see what exactly was urgently due this weekend, and I saw I had already done it. Oh. Okay. Whew.

A sequel to Skin & Scales is starting to gel, but I don't know when I'll be able to write it. S&S is getting a few downloads and starting to collect reviews, and the two free shorts are still getting regular downloads. I'll be submitting S&S to my library system's HQ for possible inclusion in the collection. That would be pretty darn awesome. I need to buy some more copies to have on hand for sale.

I'll have to fit in a nap somewhere today, as the teenager pulled some shenanigans last night which kept me awake till 5 a.m. Ah, high school. Hopefully this is a lesson learned and not the beginning of a pattern. It's a good story, but I won't tell it until she's grown.

So that's what's happening here. I'll be working on my website later, getting links and pages working and adding stories if I have time. Fun stuff.

It's crazy to me how many unfinished drafts I have in my blog folder. These are topics which were at one time important, but once interrupted made not a difference for their unuttered state. I think that's why I'm so infrequently posting. I've never been good at planning posts, and the only two reasons any post gets out there is 1) I have enough time to finish my thought, or 2) the need to spill it lasts over a span of days.

So if you're here you're noticing the new surroundings. No biggie, since my website has been in a state of flux for a while now, but what you might not notice is that I'm back on Blogger.

I've been on the fence about tossing my hosting plan--even though it was just $6 a month I felt it was wasted money since my plans for a big, fancy author website never materialized. And even though I'm more comfortable on Wordpress, they're so monetized now that it's hard to make your blog the way you want it with the free version. So on top of school, work and kids, I decided to learn how to do the new Blogger. It's a slow process. At this moment most of my drop-down menus still have this awesome template's generic lists and I'm not utilizing front page images like I should, but I did manage to get my contact links in there, as well as on of my short stories, Mon Petit Ami. Of course, I might change my mind about the formatting of the menus, but for now it's there.

On the authorial front, I have learned something about myself: I really loathe marketing. I had an inkling I didn't like it before I wrote Skin & Scales, but now I know for sure I'm completely out of my depth. I want to be an DIY author like I am a DIY everything else, but I have to admit my limitations here. I need a publisher to guide me. I'll do anything they tell me, I just need someone else's help in this area.

Let's see, what else...

School's going fine. Pell grant paid for about 2/3 of the summer session, but hopefully it'll pay out a little more for the regular school year since I'll be officially half-time. I just can't believe my audacity at thinking I can accomplish this.

Working at the library is still good, but I don't know how much longer I can do shelving. My joints aren't holding up too well. I didn't even know how bad my joints were until I started working again. I knew particular joints were prone to pain at times, but not generalized joint pain. My fragrance sensitivity creeps up on me some days, but most of the time I'm all right. Part of the problem, I'm sure, is sleeping on this futon. It's been over two years since I sort-of separated from the hubs (we still live in the same house but don't hang out together much), and the futon isn't getting any softer.

But everything happens in its own time and, I believe, to the best purpose. And since the past year has been all about forward motion I think it's okay to rest for a little while. Life seems to build in those rests for me, which is good since I'm not too good at making time for rest myself.

Day off. I plan to spend the morning cleaning and the afternoon doing schoolwork. Jonah's got a friend coming over later, one whose parents are more skittish than I am about the social aspect of parenting. It feels weird to be the outgoing one.

I knitted a cotton sunhat this week. I thought it looked ugly and shlumpy at first, but after a couple of days I see it's cute and shlumpy instead. I do that with every project. I expect to weave in the final ends and be awed by the project's holy glow, but it's still just a hat. It's like that with writing, too. That's why writers are advised to put a newly finished manuscript "in a drawer" for a few weeks. (Used to be a physical manuscript in an actual drawer, now it's bits on a hard drive.)

I need money. An online job would be great, but of course those are rare. I can't write website copy right now (my head is too full of college right now) but I could do data entry or something. The reason I hesitate to get a job outside the house is because I'm already leaving the kids home alone more than I'm comfortable with, and also because the migraines are getting more frequent again. Fragrance exposure made worse by stress.

I'm working on the stress part, which is just a matter of adjusting to all the changes of the last year, but of course I can't do anything about the fragrance part. I think the city put air fresheners in the library, which they had approved at the end of last year, right before I came aboard. You're probably thinking, "But Sherri, can't you tell when there's air freshener present?" I've always smelled strong, perfumey odors at times in the library. Usually I can pin it on a customer and move away and be fine. But lately I've been smelling it where there are no customers. A problem with air freshener (and any fragrance) is that you stop smelling it after a while, so it's hard to know if it's there all the time. Also, if this is AF I'm smelling, it doesn't always smell the same. I'm wondering if the dispensers are the atomizers that rotate different scents.

All I know is my eyes are irritated at the library, blurring my vision and spawning the subsequent evening migraine, and when I get home my clothes and hair carry a strong fragrance. If I work two days in a row, forget about it. It seems to be better to work a couple of long days than many short days per week. Maybe I'll ask my boss if we can do that. I hesitate to ask if the air fresheners have been installed, because I had a false alarm a few months ago and I don't want to compound my perceived hysteria.

But anyway, all that fragrance talk came from why I still want to work from home, if at all possible.

And now I must shower.

This was my diary entry from 2 1/2 years ago. It resonates with me today.

Feeling today...like I need to find a way to release my fear that everyone's out to get me. Like holding back to protect myself doesn't really protect me. How would it feel to go through my day feeling like everyone I interact with has no agenda, no expectations, only a pure desire to connect and share? How would that feel? Everyone has an agenda, of course, because that's how we go through life. But what if I had faith that those agendas contained no secret need that I had to fulfill? What if I stopped looking for the punchline? The irony? The trip wire? What if I went through my day open to possibility, open to helping others when they need it? I'd like to be able to instantly assess when people need my help, even when they don't ask, my real help and not my propping up of their ego. If I get out of the mental fetal position and look people in the eye, what then? I think I'm afraid they WILL need me. I fear looking like a fool--too excited, too enthusiastic, too dumb, too womanly. I fear being myself, because that self has been criticized so much. Today I will stop working on my faults and start finding my strengths, and start working on those.

How about this: Today I will stop trying to hide my flaws. By trying to hide my flaws I'm hiding the good parts of me, too.

I had let the daily practice of this fall away, but I can see how I benefited from it. Maybe I didn’t exactly let it fall away as I simply let it fall inside. It’s been stewing and now it’s ready to come back out. Back then it was a what-if. Now that last sentence feels like a fact. Also, I’ve learned since then that flaws are subjective and forgivable.