Novels, pierced navels, and pictures

I confess.  I’m behind on my word count by about 2 thousand words.  And it’s only been two days of the crazy rush to draft an entire novel in just 30 days.  Falling behind from the get-go, not such a good move.  And yet, I am proud of the beginnings I have made.  I got up. I wrote first.  I did not check Facebook or start editing photos.  I wrote.

I love how the rush of ideas crowds my head at other times of the day.  I need my little notebook now more than ever.

Already I have done the thing my daughter warned against.  I’m second guessing my choice of project.  Maybe I should have started with the other one.  But no, I think she’s right.  The important thing is to choose and go with it.  This is the project, my best one at the moment, my deepest, most multi-faceted piece of fiction.  And I’ve only been waiting about ten years to write it.  Okay. More.

God knows I’ve spent at least that long on character sketches and back-story, on research and drafting, on alternating between view points and narrator’s ages.

My college poetry professor  says I’ve been writing this one my whole life and I know he’s right.  (Dear lord.  College graduation was almost 20 years ago!)  It’s about time I get this one done though  I don’t know if I will finish it in 30 days.  I know this: I will have 50,000 words to upload.   I will get my success certificate.  Success is sometimes, after all, about productivity more than perfection.  Well, always, success is about productivity more than perfection.

I’d do well to remember that one.  In every area of my life.

That’s why yesterday when my friend called to see if I would follow through on the idea to pierce our navels, I said yes!  YES!  Let’s do it now.  (Well, we waited until today since I was swamped with novel writing and picture business.)  But the point is, we did it.  Like we said we would.

I said yes even though I’ve lost not a single ounce for all the sweat I’ve poured out at the YMCA.  I said yes even though I knew the needle would pass through my stretch-marked skin.  I said yes, even knowing the sparkle of the clasp will be cushioned with the warm pudge of my soft middle, the only fat on my body that bothers me.  (Remember from the former post you are supposed to forget that.)  I said yes though initially I could think of no landmark reason to do it right now.

My girlfriend just turned forty.  She lost a bit of weight.  Why now for me?  Friends asked.  I asked myself.

Well.  I’ve been meaning to for seven months.  The moment I saw Girl’s piercing last March, I knew I needed to have one.  She told her friend, Steph, “when my mom sees this, she’s gonna want one.”  And she was right.

“But I have no particular reason to do it now, ” I said to her on the phone today.  Really I was calling for reassurance I wouldn’t faint, that I’d still be able to dance at Zumba tonight, that the healing is not painful.  I got all those assurances and more.

“You’ve had a helluva year,” she said.  “That’s reason enough.” It made me tear up and swallow hard.  Have I told you how much I LIKE my kids?  (Dang, they’re awesome.)

On top of that, I pierced my navel because I think they’re pretty and sparkly and sexy.  I don’t care a single bit whether a particular man likes the idea and thinks I should do it.  I don’t particularly care whether HE thinks it’s pretty or sparkly or sexy.

I’m certain I know men who think they’re pretty disgusting.  But the point is, that’s not the point.  And that’s my point.  Get it?

The right man will like it.  And even that is beside the point.

Most importantly, it’s a way to love my middle even when my six-pack is still hiding in its insulated cooler.  Who cares?  Even this least lovely part of myself deserves to be loved too.  And that’s why I did it.

Do I feel sexy?  Oh yeah, baby.  For lots of reasons.

Never mind we went to a dark whole-in-the-basement-place my dad would cringe seeing.  He was a young kid I could have had in class four years ago if he hadn’t dropped out, later got his girlfriend pregnant.  He loves Jesus.  It’s spelled all around his shop and up his arms and around his neck in all sorts of symbolic, meaningful shapes.  Never mind he pierced us, me first, in the very first open chair and made me pull up my shirt and walk to the mirror where other waiting customers could see.

Never mind when I went back to the chair, he pumped it up to height, each increment jiggling my soft, naked middle in the direct gaze of an Army recruiter who stopped by to dream about his next tattoo.  And apparently watch each step of our piercing.  He waited patiently.  I concentrated on loving my belly.  I asked Cassie to hold my hand.  The kid called me a wuss, which was comfort in itself and told me to breathe deeply once and it was over.

I bet you want pictures.  I will post one.  When I’m not sweaty from Body Blast followed by Zumba.  When I’m not exhausted from the weight of wonderful creative work I’ve been waiting way too long to finish.  When my head’s not full from updating my operating system and choosing a host where my photography can’t be right-clicked and pirated.

The title refers to thousands of football photos I’ve been sorting.   It refers to my absolute delight with my choice to spend time shooting high school sports.  For the football project, I’m getting love letters from parents to their players.  It makes me ache.

Those young men are just wonderful.  Parenting is just wonderful.  And I still get to see it, up close and personal.  I get to show it for what it is in real life even though when you’re in it, nothing seems to slow down long enough to capture it.  I get to make it into art.  I get to capture life’s best moments. (c)

And that’s a beautiful life for me.

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