I think you should like me. I’m biased really, but why should that matter? In case you disagree I would like to layout a few reasons why believe you might want to be my blog buddy.
1. I like YOU! It’s true, I really do. Even if I haven’t met you, I like you. I think my blog buddies are the best. All the ones I’ve met (Kasie, Jenn, Michelle, Natalie, Linda, Tricia, and Jenni) I just adore. And the ones I haven’t met–I just know you’re awesome.
2. I’m a low maintenance blog buddy. You will hardly ever have to comment on my blog. I know a few of you may be thinking, that’s because you’re lazy, and while that might be true, I really don’t see how that hurts you. Less of my posts=less of your time reading and commenting on my posts. I on the other hand will visit and adore your blog how ever often you choose to update it. See? There’s no downside.
3. My third and final reason for stating that I’m an awesome blog buddy is that I have switched my blog to Blogspot! It’s about time, you’re saying. Yes, I know, but I just felt so loyal to WordPress. It treated me well over the last year and gave me multiple pages all on the same site. But alas it was cumbersome for commenting on other blogs, and I couldn’t customize it and make it my own (I shamelessly stole that phrase from American Idol). So now it’s even easier to be my blog buddy. What are you waiting for??
http://candicekennington.blogspot.com And would you be so kind as to update me in your sidebar?? 
Warning: If you didn’t like, As I Lay Dying or other such stream of consciousness works, you may not want to read this post, because I am about to go with whatever comes to my mind.
Soooooo, I’ve been MIA the last couple of weeks since my mother-in-law was in town and we were busy doing stuff. Fun stuff (hi mom 2, I miss you!). Some of that stuff included going to Chicago. I’ve decided that I love Chicago. Enough to pay $60 dollars to park there for a day. Not everyday. Just A day. As in one day. Seriously though, the city is BEAUTIFUL. Architecturally stunning and so clean. It’s far different than I imagined. Everyone was nice, even the homeless people. We kept running into one guy, who my mother-in-law gave money to, in various parts of the city. He was so friendly (I wonder why). We saw him on the street. We saw him outside Cheesecake Factory, we saw him at the park where we let my four-yr-old run around for a bit. He was like our own personal homeless person for the day.
There was however one blemish on our trip. Our cab ride to dinner (yes, I know I paid sixty dollars for parking, but we still had to take a cab). I was absolutely sure that we were going to die, if not from the driving than from the gang of Turkish mafia that would have dumped our bodies in Lake Michigan undoubtedly. Now you may be asking yourselves, Why would the Turkish mafia want to kill Candice and her family? And that would be a reasonable question to ask. So, I’ll tell you why. My husband got in a fight with the cab driver (who informed us he was Turkish). No, not a fist fight (thank goodness for the plexiglass divider), but they were both quite upset. Here’s what happened.
We walked out of our hotel, which was in the financial district and hence quite deserted on a Saturday night (but we had a stunning view of the opera house, so I got over that). There was nowhere to eat since everything was closed, so we decided to grab a cab and head over to the waterfront. I was a little nervous about it simply because I hate not having my son in a car seat, but we didn’t really have a lot of option if we wanted to eat. So, we get into the cab, give the driver directions and then proceed to clutch the seat as he weaves through downtown traffic. About halfway through our drive, a couple of teenagers in a fancy SUV (who are driving even crazier than the cabby) Flip off our driver and yell a few unrepeatbles to him. So what does our cab driver do? He rolls down his window sticks out his head and at the top of his lungs says the single most foul string of suggestions I have ever heard.
Now I know you all think you can imagine what he said, but I’m here to tell you that you can’t! And least you think I’m naive let me remind you that I worked for the California Department of Corrections as a teacher for several years. I not only thought I’d heard everything there was to hear, I’d heard it as threat or personal suggestion by a student who wasn’t happy with me. But THIS–this shocked even me. And really, that’s hard to do.
So imagine now my husband. My clean cut, well mannered, Air Force Officer of a husband (who also happens to not be shy [though he is a very nice guy] and over six two and two hundred lbs.) Also imagine that my husband is sitting with his mother on his right, his wife on his left, and his four-yr-old son on his lap. Yeah, it wasn’t pretty. It involved my husband “suggesting” what the cab driver could do with his own mouth (especially when there were children in the car) and the cab driver letting him know that he didn’t need to hear what my husband had to say because he had grandchildren (like that somehow made it better? Does he make the same suggestions about their mothers that he made to those teenagers?). Anyway, lets just say that it went on for quite a while, and I was quite afraid we were going to turn into a dark alley at any moment a meet a few of this guys friends. But we didn’t, so maybe the Turkish mafia has more important things to worry about than teaching a couple of tourists a lesson.
And now I could proceed to tell you about our many adventures in high buildings and elevators that go up a hundred stories in a matter of seconds, but really I’m tired of writing this post. Just the memory of that night sent me into a near panic attack, so I’ll just end the stream of consciousness recounting here for a now and say, I missed you all over the past few weeks, and I’m glad to be back!
I’ve been pondering a question lately, and the question is this: When is it okay to create a cliché character? Here are three answers I’ve come up with. Ranging from the obvious to the controversial.
1. In a parody or satire. Though I think it is acceptable to use cliché characters in these, I don’t thinks it’s necessary. A certain Merpire from Carrie’s blog comes to mind.
2. When you’re trying to use the character as a contrast to a more non-traditional character. Perhaps this one is controversial because, just because a character does something expected does mean their persona is cliché. At the same time you can find a slew of characters (especially in sitcoms) that fit a very specific mold, the lazy one, the dumb one, the uptight,nerdy one. Often they’re in the story for the MC to play off of.
3. When you’re writing for very young audiences. Again, not necessary, but acceptable. Like when you’re reading a child a story like, BEDTIME BATTLE (yes, this is a favorite at our house). The children exhibit very typical bedtime behavior. My son finds this very amusing because he can relate to it!
What do you guys think? You are all so much better at this writing analysis stuff than I am. I just happen to have a cliché character in one of my books (at least I think he might be cliché) and I’m wondering if it’s okay. Maybe it would be better to make a list of when it’s not okay to use cliché characters, but I’m just sure at least one of you would put a single word on that list: never!
Last night I sent Kasie an email in which I said, “chat for a minute.” NO, I’m not putting that in quotation marks because it’s what I said. I’m putting it in quotes because I put it in quotes in the email. And no, there was absolutely no reason to put it in quotes. None. Somehow they just ended up in there. I didn’t even realize that I had done it until after I sent the email. Imagine my confusion when I saw it. (If you need help here’s the visual: messy, after-shower, bed head, glasses, pjs, consternated expression, scratching my head.) On second thought, don’t imagine it.
So I had to wonder, why did I do it? Was it because I spend so much time typing quotation marks all day that my fingers have a random quotation twitch? Or was it caused by a subconscious, histrionic need to illustrate the habit Nathan Bransford wrote about in his post on improper use of quotation marks? Maybe it was the result of a split personality, one side of me that knows the rules of quotations and the other that clearly doesn’t. It’s possible. After all, I wouldn’t really know if I had a split personality, would I?
As I started thinking about all these serious possibilities, another, more likely explanation came to the forefront of my mind: my fingers are possessed by a poltergeist finger spirit. Everything started making sense once I embraced this realization. And I’m not just talking about the fact that my fingers like to write “candi” instead of “can”. I’m talking about everything in my life!
The added weight I can never get off, clearly the result of poltergeist-finger candybar grabbing. My cluttered office, poltergeist-finger aversion to cleaning. You see where I’m going with this. I’ll spare you a comprehensive list, but suffice it to say that there is clearly a problem that needs to be dealt with. I’m going to get right on it.
In the meantime, if any of you get comments, emails, or twitter updates from me that say “your” in place of “you’re” or just plain don’t make sense, you’ll know who to blame.
I’m awake at 6:30 this morning, saying good bye to my husband as he heads to work on the Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, and I can’t help but think back eight years. It was a typical morning. I was working as a teacher. My husband was working as the assistant city planner of our quiet community. We had just bought our first home. It was an adorable fixer-upper with plaster walls and thick wood floors that needed to be refinished.
The alarm had already gone off once which turned the radio on in our room. As usual, I was still asleep waiting for my own personal alarm (Neal) to wake me up when I really couldn’t spare another minute of sleep.
Like every other morning I felt his hand on my shoulder, “Candi, wake up.” I grunted, probably unintelligibly. Then his shaking was more insistent, “Candi. Wake. Up. Our country has been attacked.”
Those were words I had never expected to hear. I rolled over quickly and sat up. “What!?” I said as he turned off the radio and flipped on the TV in our room, searching for the news.
“Two planes were flown into the Twin Towers,” he said. I was about to ask him more, but then I stopped. We both stared at the screen at the image we all know so well.
Live camera crews were on the ground filming the disaster. They were talking about the mass chaos, speculating on what had happened. You could hear the shock in everyone’s voice as they watched the scene in front of them. Then the first tower fell. It happened so fast and a thick, black cloud of dust and debris rolled like a wave through the streets. I remember so clearly the horrible recognition of what had just happened, how many people had died in an instant. Then it happened again. Then the third plane hit the Pentagon. My sister lived in Washington DC. Then the fourth plane crashed. I remember thinking, how long is this going to go on? When will it stop? How many more people are going to die?
Above us we could hear the afterburners of the F-14s taking off from the Air National Guard Base that was just a few miles from our home. That was to become a common sound in the coming months as they continually patrolled the coast. It always shook the old windows of our little house.
We learned in the weeks that followed that the worst terrorist attack in U.S. history had taken the lives of 2,974 innocent victims and 19 hijackers. A national tragedy gripped the nation. It’s was as if all of us had been affected. For weeks all I could do when I get home at night was turn on the news and stare.
Fast forward eight years. Last week I get a call from my sister. One of her friends has been killed in Afghanistan, leaving behind a young wife. She expresses feelings of frustration at news media and politicians who are effusive at times and silent at others. Their concern over the troops seems to be closely correlated with how much it will help or hurt their agenda to talk about them. A young man dying in Mesa, AZ is not a national tragedy, but it is completely devastating to one family. I realize that the September 11th death toll is still rising. More than 5,000 U.S. troops have died in the war on terror and countless other innocent civilians and foreign troops.
I had a realization as I was walking through the commissary a few days ago. I saw a young veteran at the end of the line where I stood. He had three prosthetic limbs and one stump. He had lost all four limbs for his country. I almost didn’t want to look. It made me feel ashamed of my own weaknesses and selfish tendencies. It made me feel ashamed of the fact that I’m scared to be away from my husband for a matter of a few months. In that moment I realized that for the majority of Americans freedom is cheap, even free. There is no personal cost. All it takes is a few of their tax dollars. Big deal. But for a very few Americans freedom costs an unimaginable price: their lives, their limbs, their loved ones, the precious moments watching their children grow up.
One of my neighbor’s husbands has been deployed for the fifth time. She has four children. Another of my neighbor’s children listen to their dad’s voice on CD each night say recited prayers and read their favorite stories. She said that the first year of their marriage her husband was gone 260 days. To them freedom is not cheap. But it has not cost them yet more than they are willing to pay. They know it’s true worth.
One of the most amazing things to me is that those who have paid the highest price for freedom are those who will tell you that it is worth the cost. My husband sees injured and scarred soldiers whose only desire is to get back and keep fighting.
I can’t help but think about a time when every person in our country knew and understood the cost of freedom. Almost every family had a father or brother or son that had fought for that freedom. I don’t wish to go back to those days. We are incredibly blessed that so many do not have to suffer the horrors of war, but I do wish to share a thought from those who knew what Freedom truly cost and how much it was worth paying the price for.
The following speech is attributed to John Adams:
Sink or swim, live or die, survive or perish, I give my hand and my heart to this vote… I know the uncertainty of human affairs, but I see, I see clearly, through this day’s business. You and I, indeed, may rue it. We may not live to the time when this Declaration shall be made good. We may die ; die, colonists ; die, slaves ; die, it may be, ignominiously and on the scaffold. Be it so ; be it so ! If it be the pleasure of heaven that my country shall require the poor offering of my life, the victim shall be ready at the appointed hour of sacrifice, come when that hour may. But, while I do live, let me have a country, or at least, the hope of a country, and that a free country. But whatever may be our fate, be assured; be assured that this Declaration will stand. It may cost treasure, and it may cost blood, but it will stand, and it will richly compensate for both. Through the thick gloom of the present, I see the brightness of the future, as the sun in heaven. We shall make this a glorious, an immortal day. When we are in our graves, our children will honor it. They will celebrate it with thanksgiving, with festivity, with bonfires and illuminations. On its annual return, they will shed tears, copious, gushing tears, not of subjection and slavery, not of agony and distress, but of exultation, of gratitude and of joy. Sir, before God, I believe the hour is come. My judgment approves this measure, and my whole heart is in it. All that I have, and all that I am, and all that I hope, in this life, I am now ready here to stake upon it. And I leave off as I began, that, live or die, survive or perish, I am for the Declaration. It is my living sentiment, and by the blessing of God it shall be my dying sentiment, Independence now, and INDEPENDENCE FOREVER !Freedom may not cost us personally, but my hope and prayer is that it is never cheap in our hearts. I believe whole- heartedly that for the vast majority of Americans who will never have to see war or it’s effects, all that freedom requires is for them to remember and appreciate. And that is a very small price to pay.
I just want to give a huge CONGRATULATIONS to the lovely and uber-talented Natalie Whipple who just landed an agent. And who might her agent be you are all, I’m sure, asking… the ever coveted Nathan Bransford!
So head on over to her blog if you haven’t already and offer up your congratulations. Then look for her books on the best seller shelf in a few years. She is so so creative and hardworking I know they’re going to be there. YAY NATALIE!!!!!!!
Also known as the story of how I told many stories in a single post (mostly parenthetically).
Yesterday my life was transformed by a very small thing that will affect me in a very big way. Let me tell you a story.
My husband, the wonderful and amazing Neal (he’s a life changing story in and of himself), loves to go to the movies. We are not one of those couples that gets all creative on our date nights. We go to dinner and a movie. It’s very predictable, but also quite relaxing and the best place for people of the movie-popcorn-loving persuasion (also another interesting story, consisting of the fact that Neal would pay movie popcorn prices to have movie popcorn to watch a video rental at home. Okay, that’s pretty much the whole story.).
Anyway, I digress. Here’s the point. I spend a lot of time at movies. This means that I spend a lot of time in movie bathrooms. It’s embarassing to admit, but it’s true. The four or five glasses of water I drink at dinner always have an effect on me (sometime more than once, my record is five times in the same movie). It’s bizarre, but I have the world’s smallest bladder. You would think I would learn not to drink so much at dinner, but it’s kind of a compulsion, and I don’t realize I’m doing it (dang, addictive, restaurant tap water!).
The result of all this is that I inevitable miss the life-changing, gut-wrenching, tear-jerking, climax of the movie, or worse, I miss the kiss! It’s very annoying and it makes me want the $10.50 (well $8.50 now that we’re in the military) back that I paid to use the movie theater bathrooms and see all the slow parts of their movies. It’s so not worth the money.
Well, anyone who has spent any amount of time with me knows how much money I spend for the privilege of using a movie theater bathroom while they actually watch a movie. This is the case with my dear friend Kasieand her husband Jared. Neal and I have seen more movies with those two than anyone else on the face of the planet. They know the routine: sit near the isle on the side with a door, laugh at Candi every time she has to go in and out of the theater, etc, etc.
So the other day Jared, being the thoughtful guy that he is (and never one to miss the opportunity to make himself laugh) gives me the address to this revolutionary internet site he’s discovered, www. runpee.com
No, I discovered, this is not a joke. It is a real site (complete with yellow headings and letters that dance). But the point is it tells you when to go to the bathroom and what you’re going to miss! And it’s always a boring part and sometimes it has multiple options and if you have an i-phone you can set a timer and it alerts you with a beep that it’s time to go!! LIFE. CHANGING.
So that’s the story of how my life was forever changed. I didn’t say it would be a good one. Now excuse me please… I need to use the WC.
Just because it’s Monday, and this has been on my mind, and we could all use a good laugh to start the week, I thought I’d share this gem. For those of you not familiar with Soylent Green this may not make sense.
I’ve noticed that every writer classifies their writing a bit differently. It may be a job, an academic pursuit, a hobby, an artistic outlet, or any combination of these things. For me writing is still a somewhat relaxing activity, though as I become more dedicated and set higher standards for myself it is becoming more work.
That’s not necessarily a bad thing. There is a lot of satisfaction that comes from working hard and seeing your efforts rewarded in the form of a thick manuscript. But I do find that I still need a secondary hobby, something that is purely for the love of doing it. For me that that is often flower arranging. I usually just make arrangement for my home or my friends and family. Occasionally I help out with events (like my sister’s wedding) but I try not to make it a job.
![47b8dd01b3127cceb6338fe2d9f100000026102BbuXDNw4Ze[1]](http://candicekennington.files.wordpress.com/2009/08/47b8dd01b3127cceb6338fe2d9f100000026102bbuxdnw4ze1.jpg?w=300&h=200 "47b8dd01b3127cceb6338fe2d9f100000026102BbuXDNw4Ze[1]")
![47b8dd01b3127cceb63054b678b400000025102BbuXDNw4Ze[1]](http://candicekennington.files.wordpress.com/2009/08/47b8dd01b3127cceb63054b678b400000025102bbuxdnw4ze1.jpg?w=268&h=400 "47b8dd01b3127cceb63054b678b400000025102BbuXDNw4Ze[1]")
I love flowers. They’re so… organic. Even pictures of them make me happy (except when they’re on wallpaper). I just love cutting them from the garden (especially if it’s my garden). I love taking them in their thorny, twisty, wild state and creating order out of the chaos. I love using things that are not typically associated with bouquets and throwing them into the mix.
It’s a bit like writing in that there are base core materials and principles for good flower arranging, but how you use them for any given arrangement will vary from person to person. And even if you use the same elements no two bouquets ever look the exactly the same. The flowers and hands that craft them are too unique.
I think it’s a good idea to have sources of enjoyment and relaxation outside of writing. I personally need other artistic outlets. I know may of you enjoy photography, drawing, painting, music and any number of other pursuits. So I’m curious do you consider writing a hobby, a job, a source of enjoyment? And what do you consider your other pursuits? Do they help you relax? Are they your job and writing is your hobby? Is writing your job? Can it be both a hobby and a job?
