Okay, so I heard two things yesterday. First, a professional writer scoffed at those who say they can't live without writing. He claimed only to write because he was paid to do it. Second, I heard that people actually make money performing as air bands (meaning they stand on stage and play air guitar while a recording is played).

I found myself indignant at both these things. First, while I wouldn't die if I didn't write, I am driven to do it, and I make no money. Second, while I have made my living playing music, I make very little now, and am disgusted that people are paid to do nothing when I have worked very hard to actually make music.

Now, this is, of course, a bald expression of my knee jerk reaction. I can step back and see these things from a different perspective. After all, you have to make a living some way, and a writer who isn't paid will starve if he or she has no source of income. And air bands are just silly fun, so why shouldn't they make money if people are willing to pay? I'm not going to step back, though. I know I can find a soapbox around here somewhere.

Yes, I found it. My soapbox is all about me, just like everybody else's soapbox is all about them.

To my first point: It is insulting to us writers with no publishing success to make fun of us for having a dream. Don't be a jerk. If you didn't have a job as a writer, maybe you wouldn't write, but I do, thoroughly without success. It may be sad or it may be heroic, but it's not a mockery.

To my second point: Yes. I am a classically trained musician. I play the oboe, but I'm really an English hornist. Yes. I get that my marketability is rather thin. And yes, I get that most people would rather watch an air band. And yet, I am good at what I do. Somehow it's sad that people would rather watch someone pretend to make music than listen to someone actually do it.

There is a legitimacy gained by education and profitability. If you have letters behind your name or a nice salary, you are legit. If you make a crowd happy, you are (if I can quote MC Hammer) too legit to quit. The rest of us are lucky if we can be Don Quixote instead of Sancho Panza. Hey look, my soapbox just turned into a windmill. That's more appropriate, since I'm just spinning my wheels.

But I digress. Behind my name, I can add B.M. and M.M., which most people would construe as poop and chocolate. Both are necessary to life, I don't care how high and mighty you are.

I digress again.

Thank you. I have found my point. I would rather be silly than indignant. Still, if I have managed to communicate anything, I stand by it. On my soapbox. My windmill is currently under repair.

I wonder about technology sometimes. With the exception of my dad, I have the least tech capability of anyone I know. If there's a way to mess up a computer, I'll find it- and I don't mean dropping it, spilling juice in it, or leaving it outside in the bushes. I haven't done any of those things. I mean a general sense of helplessness on my part and habitual freezing on the part of my computer. I can't even explain what's wrong, but I'll try to do something and it won't work. Specific, I know, but I can't even comprehend the lingo of computers, and I know the meaning of the word perspicuous.

That's a joke, by the way. The meaning of the word perspicuous is funny because nobody knows what perspicuous means.

So, back to my point. My computer is infested with ants, and I already said I didn't spill anything. That's not my point, but an ant just ran across my screen and I killed it.

This is my point, as I flick the dead ant off my fingers- every time we develop a new technology to make something better, something else gets worse. I learned recently that screws and levers are classified as simple machines. I wonder why it is that the newest technology is obsolete within days, but screws and levers are still used and identifiable?

My first novel is in fragments on several computer disks, but I don't have my old word processor, so I can't look at the pitiful work I did back then. I have a gazillion cassette tapes that I can't play. My senior recital is on reel to reel, but the screwdriver in the kitchen drawer still comes in handy.

When I was a kid, a new appliance could be counted on to work for the next twenty or thirty years, but now they last no more than ten, but they're more efficient. You can find anything in the world on the internet in three minutes and buy it from your most comfortable chair. If you're me, you'll wonder why it never came and realize weeks later that you must have left a field empty. Sigh and start over.

One day, will someone have to reinvent all those old rusty farm implements we ignore in small town museums? The cotton gin isn't a beverage, but does it matter any more? What machines will last? Will we become so tech savvy that we are helpless in the real world?

I've been thinking about self image. There have been a lot of posts about the difference between our inner and outer beauty, but that's not what I've been thinking about. I think most people gain a lot of self worth from the things they're good at.

It is a really good feeling to be good at something, and to know it. Really fortunate people love their jobs. I suppose those who have great hobbies are lucky, too. I have a lot of hobbies, and I admit, I feel good about myself when I do the things I love.

One thing that was once a job, but has become a hobby, is music. At that, I failed spectacularly in a rehearsal earlier this week. It was epic. I was mortified, not because I can't abide looking like a fool in public. That doesn't bother me at all. It was that I derive my self worth from being a good musician. Failing at that makes me feel worthless.

By now, I've worked through it. I've spent time doing other things I'm good at. Still, why did I put myself through such a miserable couple of days? I tell my kids that failures happen. I say they should still try. I tell them to remember how much they love their activities, even if they have a bad day.

Maybe they'll grow up better adjusted than I am. Then again, maybe they'll call themselves idiots every time they make a mistake.

I'll just keep on doing what I do. There will be days that I feel talented, and days I'll feel worthless. With luck and practice, instead of feeling worthless, I'll remember that I love my favorite activities. I'll continue to do them. Hopefully, I'll have more successes than failures.

I'll keep writing, focusing on writing well, but hoping to be published one day. I'll keep knitting and weaving, just because I like working with fibers. I'll play oboe, English horn, soprano, alto, and bass recorder, and classical guitar (guitar poorly, but I have low expectations there). All of these things I'll do, remembering that I love them. I want to do them well.

Here's my question. I haven't been able to resolve this at all. When I play music well, it is a spectacular feeling. There is very little I'd rather do, and I feel great about myself. When I play badly, the feeling is just the reverse. If you minimize the low, can you still appreciate the high?

Well, Christmas is almost here. I have avoided Christmas tunes by selective radio listening and refusing to do any Christmas shopping until frighteningly late. Life is good. You see, as a musician, I find Christmas music heinous- unless you play the ancient tunes on ancient instruments. I'd be perfectly happy to listen to a rendition of Greensleeves on recorder or lute, or even a sackbut (which I may have spelled wrong, but it's so much fun to say.)

Last night, my record was broken, because I actually played in a Christmas Concert at the Masonic Center. The concert went well and didn't annoy me because my tolerance for holiday music hadn't been tested yet this year. One song that didn't annoy me, but usually does was Walking in a Winter Wonderland. What bothers me about this song is simply its overuse. There's nothing wrong with it, I've just heard it a thousand times.

This morning, I went for a walk in the snow. The song, Walking in a Winter Wonderland just doesn't set the mood for me that Winter really is. So, without being overly poetic, I just thought I'd muse about what it's like for me when I walk in a winter wonderland.

On my way home from dropping my daughter off at school, I noticed the sound of my boots packing the snow each time I stepped. Even with my head bundled in a hat and a hood, the sound intruded. Everything else was silence, like the blanket of snow shushed the wind. Nothing moved but snowflakes, and even they fell in slow motion. A car went by from time to time. Loud, but a reminder of life.

I love best in winter a white sky. Blue is too bright. Today, the sky is gray. The gray sky mutes the colors. Trees are black lashes in the distance. Near, they are bark colored- a tone neutral to the point of being indescribable. Pine green seems near black. It is a study in contrast, but not tone. Simple. Calm.

No more cars now, just my feet. I begin to hear the impact of snowflakes against my jacket. Such tiny missiles they are, but slow as they fall, they don't alight. They chip against me, hard little shards that seem so delicate.

To me, this is wonder. This slow walk through stillness, so quiet that a solitary snowflake makes its impact. I talk to God in these moments, and he doesn't answer. It doesn't matter, though. I don't answer him, either.

I say to God, thank you for my feet, that can crunch through this snow, and for my ears that can hear it, and for my eyes that can see this beauty.

I am calm now, and inspired. I would love to write, or sit in a window and snuggle with my guys. They, too, have an appreciation for snow. I think, though, that I have things to do. Lots of shopping. Ugh...

I've been thinking lately about ideas. Sometimes people say, "I have an idea. I just have to develop it." I think that's wrong. Ideas don't get developed. Ideas just are. They are complete in and of themselves. What needs to be developed is our expression of the idea.

I'm a writer. I write. I don't get published, unless you count this blog, and I don't. I am an unrecognized and unpaid writer. That's ok with me, because none of the things I love to do achieve recognition or payment, and I'm not in this life for the money. I must confess, I do enjoy recognition. I thrive on kudos as much or more than the average person.

Still, I started out this entry about ideas. Or, maybe Ideas. They say every story that can be told already has been. All we do now is find new ways of expressing ideas. Love, revenge, sacrifice, journey, coming of age... the list could be a lot longer.

Ideas are amazing. They're invisible, but so powerful that, in the minds of the wrong people, they can be devastating. On the other hand, they can bring enlightenment. Inquisition/Reformation, American Revolution/Stalin's rise to power, Love is All You Need/I'd Rather See You Dead, Little Girl than be with Another Man.

I'm working on a novel manuscript. Maybe this is obvious, or maybe it's strange. I don't know, but I think stories convey ideas. They aren't just stories. Even if the storyteller thinks he or she is only telling a story, essential truths are at work, either in the mind of the storyteller, the receiver of the tale, or both.

My first novel is about embracing who you are. My second is about how our judgments of one another shape our relationships. I have two in the works now that are just stories. I don't see a moral, or a myth, or a fairytale. I'm bogged down in the middle.

This happens to me every time. It's the crucial What is this story about, anyway? phase. I've considered some archetypes. Beauty and the Beast: Beauty's love saves the beast; King Kong: 'Twas Beauty killed the beast; The Hunchback of Notre Dame: Damn, don't they both die? I can't remember. Then there's the Christ figure, but that's been done. To death. Ha ha.

I don't know if I'm communicating with the world here, or trying to blog my way out of a slump. As I said in my title, I'm organizing the shelves in my mind. It's kind of funny. As I sit here typing, I can see this much of my title: Organizing the sh... I suppose you don't have to assume the next word is shelves. Another word would be just as appropriate, just not a word I use myself, unless I am completely alone and pissed off.

Ah well, I must soldier on. Scene after scene, building conflict until the point becomes clear. What idea am I expressing that I cannot yet see?