Guess who's coming to dinner?

Well, it's been four weeks, and I've written two people at the paper and even one at NPR, and haven't heard a thing, so if ever they published my shuttle launch story or read it on the air, they definitely didn't give me a heads-up. But I'm pretty sure it just got lost under the shuffle of everyday reject papers, and I'm okay with that. I didn't really have my hopes up.

Last night I was talking to my cousin and she wanted to hear all about our trip to Florida and what it was like to see an actual shuttle launch, so that inspired me to return to this blog and post my piece as promised. It's definitely not a perfect polished ready-for-publication piece (besides that of a local newspaper anyhow, or so I thought), but I'm proud of it and want to share it with the world.

In my newest "self-help" book on how to become a writer, Adair Lara, in "Naked, Drunk, and Writing" (sounds right up my alley, eh?), writes, "I realized that I'd been missing the necessary other half of the writing process: the pleased reader. It was as if I'd been trying to tell myself I was a good cook, but without ever asking anyone to dinner." So I'm inviting you all to my dinner party. I hope you are pleased with what I serve you. Here goes.

The Last Shuttle Launch:

“Ever seen one of these before?” asked the stout, middle-aged stranger standing next to me. I looked over at him and replied, “First time.”

His eyes gleamed behind his large glasses like he was about to let me in on a secret.

“You’ll never be more proud to be an American than right now.”

One night, my husband and I were sitting at our own respective computers, faces staring at our monitors, when out of the blue, he turned around in his chair and asked, “How do you feel about going to see a shuttle launch?” I felt like a giant palm had just whacked me across the forehead. Why had this never occurred to us before? Why had we waited until there were only four launches left? Knowing time was not on our side, we immediately began to put plans into action in order to see a shuttle launch as soon as possible.

When it comes to a launch, all the planning in the world can’t save you from surprises, or worst, scrubs. Scrubs can happen up to the last minute, the last second of a launch, so all that time spent organizing your travel plans, all that money spent on tickets and hotel and flights, all that waiting on buses, in long lines, on the miles-long causeway can disappear in a moment with the announcement of a scrub. And yet the possibility of a scrub can make the experience all that more exciting. Hearts thumping, pulses racing, butterflies stirring endlessly in your stomach as the countdown booms over the loudspeaker, “T-minus one minute and counting.” Please, God, let them keep counting.

We had beginners’ luck with our first launch, the shuttle Atlantis, STS-132 in May of 2010, the start of a year-long obsession with everything NASA. Everything went off without a hitch; the shuttle blasted from earth before our very eyes, a ball of flames pushing this massive craft up through the atmosphere and into outer space. Movies and television don’t begin to do it justice. It’s the world’s greatest adrenaline rush, and we were hooked, bound and determined to see whatever launches remain.

However, we apparently had used up all our luck the first time, because both Discovery and Endeavour, the next two in line, scrubbed shortly before the scheduled launch, but only after our own flight had landed on the tarmac in Florida. And we were devastated each time, not just because we had taken the time off from work or because we had spent all that money on the trip (these were the risks of space travel spectating that we assumed from the beginning), but because there was a very real chance that we would never get to see a launch again.

Our last chance to ever see a shuttle launch came July 8, 2011, the Final Flight of the Space Shuttle. It was our old friend Atlantis again, our good-luck charm, I was hoping. It would be a grueling experience that kept us awake for 39 hours and left us sitting on a bus for 8 of those (all for a 45-second-long show), meanwhile our stomachs churning from the dense storm clouds and constant rain that threatened any chance of a liftoff. Please, God, not another scrub.

It seems we had paid our dues to Lady Luck, because shortly before scheduled launch time, the clouds began to clear and favorable weather conditions looked like a possibility. As we intently listened to my husband’s ham radio, the countdown miraculously continued and unknown voices urged, “Go for launch.”

We readied our cameras, trying to keep them steady despite the thumping of our hearts. “T-minus one minute and counting.” The crowd roared. Until…

“We have a hold at T-minus 31 seconds.” The man on speaker broke every one of our hearts simultaneously. A sea of groans emerged. My husband was desperately trying to hear what was being said on his ham radio while I incessantly hassled him: “What’s happening? Are they scrubbing?”

The problem was quickly addressed and the countdown resumed. We all breathed such heavy sighs of relief before taking up our cameras again, and we all shouted out the remaining seconds.

We can’t even hear Mission Control announce, “Liftoff!” We are all cheering as loud as we can, cheering for that ship and for the astronauts on it, even though they can’t hear us. And a fire ignites under the shuttle and smoke billows out and completely engulfs it until you see it rise like a phoenix, humungous flames shooting out from underneath it as it ascends into the sky. And it’s as if time slows down for a few seconds, just long enough for us to appreciate what is happening in front of our eyes. And I feel as if a part of me is on that shuttle, because I am an American and that is my family on that ship. I am filled with such an enormous amount of pride that tears are streaming down my cheeks freely and I am giggling like a schoolgirl. I take a deep breath and try to relish every second, knowing that I am witnessing history, knowing that I will never again in my life get to see this exact scene ever again. And in the blink of an eye, it has disappeared into the sky, behind the clouds, into the vastness above. Only then does the rumbling sound of takeoff finally catch up with time, and all our bodies vibrate with the boom that is left behind by Atlantis.

That stranger on the causeway, he was right, of course. He was right the whole time. I have never been more proud to be an American in my life. I have never been so proud, period.

This territory goes uncharted.

It's true, I missed my deadline. I can hardly believe my grandfather has been gone a whole year. It feels like maybe a month. And then sometimes it feels so much longer than that.

I have no regrets about what has transpired this year. Well, maybe I regret spending so many hours after work watching "Boston Legal" reruns instead of writing. I suppose often the task was too daunting or I was too lazy to choose the book over relaxing on the couch. But even if I had not wasted some of those hours, I probably would still not have produced a completed novel by this month. I have learned so much this past year, the most important of which was learning that I still have so much to learn.

My life has completely changed since last July. I've figured out what it is I want out of life and I'm actively pursuing it every day. It all started with getting accepted into the MA program. That was the spark that set everything into motion. I took that research project, too, that was offered about Walter Scott. And then, after a while, I tried to give it up because I felt I was in too far over my head. But with some encouragement (and a little begging) from the project chairperson, I agreed to stick with it. Two weeks before the deadline, while my husband was attending a training session in Cleveland, I holed myself up in our hotel room (where the biggest distraction was "Saved by the Bell"reruns on TBS) and, in my old college habits, cranked out a paper in two and a half days, and, to my surprise, ended up with a pretty respectable paper. I had hoped to spend that hotel time writing about my grandfather, not Walter Scott, but desperate times call for desperate measures. I'm still volleying the piece back and forth with my editor, who keeps finding revisions that need to be made, so it's not on its way to the printer yet, but just finishing a first draft was a huge accomplishment for me and a huge reassurance that I can, in fact, go back to school and succeed (or at least finish). And I know it will be all worth it when I'm handed that book and my name is printed inside of it.

Another big confidence boost is the fact that I roped myself a grad assistant for this coming school year. While it was an emotionally grueling process, I somehow accidentally fooled them into thinking I was perfect for the job, and now I've secured my tuition for all of next year's schooling. Hopefully this means I can sneak in some writing classes as well and perhaps even earn my BA in writing while earning my MA in literature. Look at me be all scholarly!

I'm still on the fence about writing classes, though. I worry that they will end up being a waste of a time, a collection of skills I already have learned. I mean, sometimes I can sit down and crank out something in one sitting that is, I feel, the best thing I've ever written, and then I don't feel like I need to take writing classes at all. And then sometimes I sit down and feel like everything I type is disjointed, unoriginal, and all-around crap, and that I should take every single writing class available in the world because I desperately need it. However, I sense that most writers, no matter how much schooling they've had, probably go through this same cycle, so I very much doubt writing classes are gonna help clear up that problem.

And yet, I feel like I can't pursue writing seriously until I've got some professional lessons under my belt... which sounds silly. I've got a BA in English. I've written things people have commended me on before. But I'm old-fashioned. I don't want to be a famous blogger (it's painfully obviously I'm not anywhere close to being famous with this blog) or an internet sensation. I don't want to make millions publishing bathroom literature on Amazon (well, I mean everyone wants to make millions, but any serious writer will tell you they aren't into writing for the money, and good thing, because there rarely is any). I want to do this the hard way. I want to work for it. I want it to take time so I can appreciate it, so I take my lessons to heart, so I can cherish the personal connections I make along the way, and I can be grateful for and proud of everything I create.

Monday night I sat down and wrote something that I am immensely proud of--a reflection on my experience attending the last shuttle launch. And I emailed it to the local newspaper in hopes that they would print it. I'm not sure anything will come of it. I haven't heard a peep yet, so of course, I've declared defeat already, even though it's only been two days. I'm not even sure if it's something a newspaper would normally publish (although my supportive husband assures me it is). And even if they do publish it, it's not as if it were The New York Times, although perhaps I should send it there, too. But still, to see my name in print along with thousands of others (absolutely a larger number than those who will see my Walter Scott piece)... now that would be something.

I figure if they print it, they'll probably print it by the end of the week, because next week the launch will be old news. And if they don't print it, I'll probably post it on my blog, because not only do I feel it paints a good picture for those of you who have never been lucky enough to witness a launch firsthand, but I also happen to be quite proud of it.

The biggest downfall to this adventure of mine is definitely the waiting. It's gut-wrenching waiting to hear whether or not my piece is good enough, whether or not I am good enough. I suppose I best get used to it, though, because once I start submitting pieces to literary journals, there will be a lot of impatient nights and probably all for naught, because I hear rejection letters are abundant even among the most talented. Like with this newspaper piece, I can't rationalize what would take them so long to get back to me. How many op-eds could the department head possibly have to read? Why would they not get back to me right away? Did they even receive my piece? Maybe I should call them just to make sure? And then I see an article someone else wrote in a paper or online or on the news, and I think, hurry up, you damn paper. Every new article I see about the launch makes my piece even less important and effective.

When I had my interview for the GA position, I walked out of the interview feeling like I had nailed it. The Dean of the department even told me I had nailed it and that I would hear from him the next day or the following Monday. And of course he made me wait all weekend, my stomach in a perpetual knot while I replayed the entire interview over again in my head, second-guessing every word that came out of my mouth. Did I tell too many jokes? Did I come off too cocky? If I nailed it, why did they have to wait to decide? Why couldn't they just tell me now? Maybe I had it all wrong and they didn't like me at all. To my immense relief, that was not the case. Yes, indeed, the waiting is the worst. I pray it gets easier down the road, but I don't have high hopes that will be the case.

At any rate, I feel like there's a bigger purpose to my life now, a future I can reach out and touch. I face each day with a new energy and excitement. It's a pretty frickin' awesome feeling.

I often think to myself, I only wish I had done all this sooner, that I hadn't wasted five years at a job I hated, spent all that time being depressed and hopeless about the future. And part of me does regret waiting so long, because now I have to decide between starting a family or getting a PhD, putting my career goals perhaps before my domestic ones, and worrying about my biological clock and two wannabe grandmothers breathing down my neck for babies (and my increasing desire to oblige). But if this had all happened sooner, maybe I wouldn't have been able to appreciate it as much, wouldn't be so motivated to work hard for it. No, I think now is a good time. And the rest of it will fall into place, I'm sure... I hope.

With all of these new experiences in my life, still not a day goes by that I don't think about that book. Ideas or sentences pop into my head at the strangest of times. I am always planning outlines in my mind and taking notes about my memories as they float up from my subconscious. I have no intention of stopping my work on it, and I have no doubt the book will exist some day. And when it does, it will be perfect.

I haven't updated this blog in a while because I figured no one really cared about this adventure I was on. And I could be very right about that. I could post this entry on my facebook and it's quite possible no one will even click on it. So I figured for a long time, what's the point? And I'm not sure I have a point, even now as I'm writing. However, I guess I owe it to those people who do care, if any, to let them know where I stand after my year deadline. I'm not worried about letting anyone down about not completing the book. I haven't let myself down, and that's what matters most.

I can't say I'm gonna continue writing on this blog. I guess it just depends what kind of adventures keep coming my way and if people genuinely want to hear about them. In the meantime, keep an eye out for my launch piece, either on this site or maybe even in the paper.

Diligence is the mother of good luck.

Boy, has this year got off to quite a mixed bag of tricks. Here we are now, end of February already, and while I must confess, I'm no farther in writing my book than I was four months ago, I'm so much farther in so many things that will hopefully aid in my process to finish this novel. Truth be told, of course I haven't updated this blog since Christmas because I haven't accomplished anything I said I would accomplish. But I've actually accomplished quite a lot that I didn't say I would accomplish. And therein lies some of life's greatest surprises.

Firstly, I sat down and read my mom's memoir one night, I think it was a weekend night, while Chris was busying himself with either building a workbench or setting up his own photo studio in the basement (being the resourceful husband he is). The "book" was a fast and easy read, and though it is in need of much literary love, my mom has some really great stories wrapped up in that package, and I'm really eager to talk with her more about them and write out the scenes with more description and depth. I have mixed feelings on what I read. It helped me see my grandmother more as a human being, where I've regarded her as a saint my entire life. But it only tapped the tip of the iceberg that was her personality, and I'm now I'm filled with many questions and many holes that need to be filled.

The main issue with what Mom wrote, though, and revising it for the masses, which is still an idea that I don't think she's sold on, is the same main issue I've been having with my story and thus the main reason I haven't sat down to write any more of it lately. That problem is that there is no major conflict in our stories. Sure, someone is dying, and you would think that would be conflict enough, but the conflict has to reside in the protagonist. There has to be something for the heroines to overcome, to come to terms with, to learn, to grow from. And in the case of both my mother's story and mine, we are but simple loved ones who live through the experience, changing in the end, sure, but in small ways, nothing quite resembling a denouement. Mostly, we are just telling events as they happen and sometimes volunteering our emotions as we feel them, but that does not make a story... not a good one anyhow.

I thought that perhaps we could combine our stories together... tell how the mother dealt with her first experience with death and losing one close to her, and then I'd chime in with my story. But that would make a better eighth grade essay than it would a memoir, with its compare and contrast elements. There would still not be any real conflict, no mountain for us to climb.

And my writing club has been no assistance either, which I started frequenting again. It's funny how things haven't changed in the four months I've been absent. There's still the same old man writing magazine propositions, but who never brings the actual articles for us to critique. There's the same petite woman with a deep voice writing the most rudimentary remakes of children's fairy tales. There's the lovely slender housewife who totes copies of her already written (though still in much need of polishing) novel. And there's the fantastical lyricist who hypnotizes everyone with his smooth narrating voice and dancing words, but has no actual comments to hand out to anyone else. And of course, there's me, who receives the same critique every time: I have a great style and a unique voice, but my pieces lack any kind of conflict.

I'm starting to feel some conflict with my lack of conflict.

Then the other day, I had some conflict with the huge pile of snow in my driveway, which is nothing new. Shoveling out my driveway usually involves a lot of cursing, throwing of hats, and general huffing and puffing. But in all that anguish, the answer appeared to me.

I've posed the question more than once on this blog about whether this story that I'm writing is really about my grandfather or if it is about me. I always assumed it was about me, because I obviously couldn't put words in my grandpa's mouth (even less so now that he's dead). But it's not just about me. It's about my relationship with the man, or, more importantly, the lack of relationship that I had with him. I always felt close to my grandpa, though I had no good reason to. We never had any heart-to-heart conversations, I never asked him for advice. In the six months I lived in his house, I don't think I even learned how to cook a single thing, though he made us dinner every single night. We really never shared anything together, and yet this world darkened for me the day he left it. It was only at his funeral, when I had nothing left to lose, that I could actually tell him how I felt about him. Now if that doesn't sound like plot resolution, then I don't know what does.

Although, now this opens up a whole can of worms where my personal life is concerned. Intimate issues I have with forming relationships, being scared to be honest with my feelings, the regrets I face for not taking a more active part in the lives of my family members... I can already visualize the therapy sessions that are inevitable in my future.

It's not what I wanted originally. I wanted this memoir to be a tribute to my grandpa, to tell his story. I didn't want my life to be in the forefront. But what is a memoir if it's not about the person behind the pen? I'm really hoping that, in the end, it will still be all those things I wanted when I started, and maybe now it'll actually be a good story, too. Fingers crossed.

Another important bit of news has occurred in my life. I've been accepted into the Masters Program at my old alma mater. I always assumed I would get in, because I was such a good student during my Bachelors semesters, no matter if my GRE score was lousy or if I submitted a writing sample I wrote five years ago and didn't bother revising. I assumed I would get in, but I wasn't certain, and I did have a few episodes where my brain flashed forward to show me my floundering future as an utter failure (yay, alliterism!). But alas, I made it, and I feel the winds of change a-brewing in the Furner household. I've already been propositioned to write a biography on Sir Walter Scott and his relation to Orientalism, two subjects I know absolutely nothing about, which my dear cousin in Kentucky assures me is entirely normal for graduate school. It's a little strange being thrown back into the deep end so abruptly, and truth be told, I'm thoroughly terrified of this project, but I'm also excited and relieved and I feel like I'm back in the place where I belong. However, now this project takes away precious time from my own writing, and the deadline for it is, of course, July. I think one project will help fuel the other, though. The critical thinking and word juggling of one will only facilitate productivity of the other, or at least, so I'm hoping. Again, fingers crossed.

I think "fingers crossed" is the epitome of my emotions at this moment in time. I have a lot going for me, and I'm hoping to keep the motivation alive, to keep all the balls in the air, and I'm holding my breath that perhaps this is the start of something bigger and better for my life.

Fingers crossed.