Beth Mende Conny's Blog

As a fellow writer, I thought you would enjoy these. I wish I had written them, but, alas, they arrived in an email. Kudos to the author!

• Don’t sweat the petty things and don’t pet the sweaty things.
• One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor.
• Atheism is a non-prophet organization.
• If man evolved from monkeys and apes, why do we still have monkeys and apes?
• The main reason that Santa is so jolly is because he knows where all the bad girls live.
• I went to a bookstore and asked the saleswoman, “Where’s the self-help section?” She said if she told me, it would defeat the purpose.
• What if there were no hypothetical questions?
• Is there another word for synonym?
• If a parsley farmer is sued, can they garnish his wages?
• If the police arrest a mime, do they tell him he has the right to remain silent?
• One nice thing about egotists: They don’t talk about other people.
• Does the Little Mermaid wear an algaebra?
• Do infants enjoy infancy as much as adults enjoy adultery?
• Is it possible to have a Civil War?
• If one synchronized swimmer drowns, do the rest drown too?
• If you ate both pasta and antipasto, would you still be hungry?
• If you try to fail and succeed, which have you done?
• Why are hemorrhoids call “hemorrhoids” instead of “assteroids”?
• Why is there an expiration date on sour cream?
• Can an atheist get insurance against acts of God?

One day in second grade, while reading a Weekly Reader — a mini newspaper for students that featured articles about interesting people, places and things – I came across a short article about a 6-year-old girl who had published a book of poetry. Because she didn’t know how, literally, to write, she dictated the poems to her mother and, voila, she became an author.

Although I don’t remember the girl’s name, I do remember thinking, “Oh no! I’m seven and I still haven’t published!” Embarrassingly, I continued to utter those words well into my 20s, when I began publishing steadily. Even today, I utter a variation of them: “Oh no! I’m entering my middle years and still haven’t published my most important work!”

I’m willing to bet that similar words have slipped into your conversations with others or even with yourself. Such words belong to the universal language of writers. Share them as we may, however, they don’t necessarily give us strength. Ultimately, all writers stand – and sit – alone.

Sitting down to write is key; it is your only means for quieting the negative Muzak playing in your mind. I know this as fact, just as I know that to quiet is not to rid. My publish or perish fears will always be part of my life. I’m learning, still with difficulty, to accept the inevitable. And so I sit. … and sit … and sit.

The great thing in this world is not so much where you stand, as in what direction you are moving.
— Oliver Wendell Holmes

Our writing — our very words — have a power to move. Not just others, but ourselves. So make your world great; let your words take you in new directions.

Ideas are a shot of adrenaline; they engage our minds, make our spirits soar.

An idea travels at the speed of sound. It comes to us in a flash, unfolds just as quickly. It takes us right to the punch line, delivering a vision of our finished work in all its glory — something that shimmers, sparkles, shines, and changes lives.

Ideas are all these things and more. Ultimately, however, ideas are, well, just ideas. If we are to write — a book, an article, whatever — they must become more. They must move from the ephemeral to the actual.

They must be acted upon.

NOTE: I wrote this piece years ago, when my daughter was a babe and I was syndicating “Sunshine,” my parenting column. Ah, the memories it revives — eeek!!

I’m a mom who works at home. For those who think I’m being redundant — what mom doesn’t work at home? — let me be specific: I work for a living in my living room.

It’s not exactly an executive suite. There are blocks and rattles where leather chairs and oak filing cabinets should be. But it’s mine, at least a small corner of it, from which I write pieces like this one and others on parenting issues.

Working at home has its advantages. The dress is informal. It’s an easy commute, and there’s an eating establishment right around the corner (unfortunately). But it also has its drawbacks, especially if you have an infant around, as I do.

My daughter, as much as she loves me, has little respect for my work. For while she devours what I write — when I can’t get it out of her mouth — she’d rather I spend my time on other, more important things, namely her.

To be able to spend time with her is why I decided to work at home in the first place. Before she was born, I envisioned myself floating effortlessly from writing table to changing table, producing wonderful tracts on motherhood while producing a wonderful child. I would work as she slept, or so the plan went. It never occurred to me that I would give birth to an insomniac, or that I’d be trading a 9-5 job for one that began at 6 a.m. and ended at midnight.

To work at home, I quickly discovered, is to work in snatches of time and to pray that you can pick up something as quickly as you’ve put it down.

To work at home — as a writer at least — is to be foolhardy. You’re always chancing that the legislator or educator you’ve called for a quote won’t call back at an inopportune moment (e.g., when you kid’s pretending her cereal is hair mousse or when she’s looking for just the right light socket to stick her finger into.)

But inevitably, the phone does ring.

For example, one evening several months ago, I was wrapping presents on the living room floor when the physician I had been trying to reach called. Just as I picked up the receiver, I heard a loud gurgle coming from my daughter’s diaper. She had let loose a mudslide on the rug.

What to do? Hang up? Scream out that I’d call back later?

Unfortunately, if the doctor and I didn’t talk then, we couldn’t talk until after my deadline. So I went ahead with the interview, taking notes with one hand, while wrapping my daughter’s backside in wrapping paper and tape with the other.

Luckily, things like this don’t happen often. Neither my rug nor I could take it. But that’s not to say that most other workdays pass uneventfully or efficiently. Not when I’m playing working mom one moment and just plain mom the next.

Slowly, however, I’m getting used to feeling that I’ve got a split personality. And I’m getting used to the interruptions. I’ve even come to welcome them. After all, one of the greatest pleasures of work is goofing off from work. And what better way to goof off than to have a willing accomplice, one who can’t snitch because she can’t yet talk.