NaNoWriMo and Baseball's "Off" Season

Just a quick program note, boys and girls:  Yours truly is going to attempt National Novel Writing Month (commonly known as NaNoWriMo to the inside crowd) this year.

However, I have no intention of getting a novel done with this exercise.  Instead, the focus is to learn the long-term habit of working on a novel daily.  Some things, of course, will have to be compromised.  Beginning Tuesday, November 1st, I will be in a more limited or non-extistant capacity in one or more of the following while I devote myself to my "baby":

• Facebook
• Foursquare
• Twitter
• Meetup
• Blogger
• Rotten Tomatoes
• GoodReads
• Email
• Texting

I'm kidding on the last two...of COURSE I'll check those just as faithfully.  (#Maybe #JustKidding)

Think of it as my maternity leave while I hatch this evil plan to win readers.  Have a great Thanksgiving, all, and I'll catch you again in December.

If you missed this post, you can catch it again in its entirety here.

Write on.

The Knot, End of the Discussion (For Now)

Whenever I experience a change in my own habits, I tend to panic.  My subconscious says, "Nope, don't think so," and then I'm scrambling to figure out what the flip I really want, when what I really want I just established.

Since the advent of the novel, I have a problem:  I don't really want to read.  I can't wait to find out what happens next in my own story, so anything on-line, off-line, longer than a poem, smaller than a breadbox tends to be an obstacle.  (Hell, blogging tends to be an obstacle.  But I am here to record the truth of the matter, dear writer.)  Shut up, world, and let me see what the protagonist does now.

I know why I want to shut off the outside and just write:

• I'm afraid I'm going to lose this great story if I read someone else's; 
• I still have a whole bookcase of books not yet read.

Lack of work/life balance, that's all.  I still need to read; if I wrapped myself up in my own work I would be operating with a sense of hubris that is relative to that of a Yankee player or Top Gun pilot.  But by feeling this way about reading, I can come to a compromise; I no longer need to finish a book because I was dumb enough to buy it (even though it's bringing me down), and I no longer need to clean off a bookshelf in a month.  I've read down the stack to the point that all of the books from the floor are gone, everything's properly shelved, and if I stop myself in the bookstore with "hey Jo, you have enough books and your own book at home" then I can curl up with a book and stop clocking in at one hundred pages a sitting.

Unless, I'm writing, that is.

I'm grateful to finally be picky, and grateful to have a novel, strangely enough.  In the advent of no husband, no children, no pool and no pets, I'm grateful to have my version of a progeny, and one that I adore so freely, without having to learn about the subject matter from the ground up.

Write on.

The Knot, Part Two

Feeling about ten times better about my life and my writing these days.  I'm adding a very simple and very   difficult lesson to every session with my ex, the Internet, and it seems to be working.  Here's the process:

• Don't avoid the Internet, but don't court it, either.  Which means I am spending a LOT less time with it
• When I do meet with Internet, I just listen.  All good therapy starts with listening.  I don't talk back much
• When I do meet with Internet, I listen without experiencing everything as a personal insult or a reason for me to change.  I just listen, without changing my stripes every fourteen feet and without getting defensive
• Internet just IS

And then we've got what I do instead:

• I took a radical new approach with my resume, and got an interview
• I am just throwing myself into dates with Novel, who seems far less judgmental than Internet
• I don't spend every waking minute with Novel, so that when Novel and I part ways we can say it was a good experience
• I read books SO.  MUCH.  BETTER.  I just sit there and relish them, swim in them, until my fingers get all pruney with someone else's poetry and stories
• I have reduced my complaining by half.  I'll never eliminate it--I catch myself complaining in my head, and then realize how much I sound like Andy Rooney after a while, and it's not my intention to sound like him

Yes, the kids (blogs) may suffer at first from my amicable break-up with Internet, and friends may forget me, but God, did you see that turn of phrase in the second-to-last sentence of my third chapter of Novel?  Did you catch that cool breeze this morning in the Park?  Did you hear the Blue Angels rock the Casbah on Thursday while you chewed on a coffee-soaked mint leaf from a little place by the ballpark?

I did.  God, it was fun.  And Internet seems to be healing just fine after our divorce.

Write on.

The Knot, Part One

I'm going to take this in parts.  It's easier to unravel one thread at a time.

Things you should know about my current mood:

• Not the product of hormonal cycles.  I have two weeks until that.
• Not due to the weather.  Sun's out.
• Not due to money issues.  Yet.
• Not due to current events.

I have spent the weekend, and will probably continue to spend the coming week, trying to determine what causes it.  I do know this much:

• Whenever I walk away from the internet for entire days, the feeling abates.

And what is that feeling, you ask?

• Loneliness
• Hopelessness
• Uselessness
• Lack of ambition (on my part)
• Lack of creativity (on my part)

Why do I pick on the internet?  Because:

• My relationship with the Internet/Social Network feels like I'm married to a Yankee shortstop
• Said Spouse treats everyone else so well, and supports the kids (the "kids" here being my blogs) for free
• Everyone else loves the Spouse for the money they make, the sexy look they have, and the way they can do EVERYTHING
• Well, everything but create fulfillment.  

Why doesn't the Internet/Social Network bring me happiness?  After all, I explore all of the recommendations I get, I try all of the latest Network options, I follow all of the advice and check in at every interval possible.  I worship and completely support the Internet/Social Network.  Why do I feel like I'm one giant nervous tic, expecting my Virtual Spouse to fix "it?"  I don't even know what "it" is.

And why, when I walk away and think for a whole weekend, do I feel like I might be normal again?

Someone needs to get an amicable divorce.  I don't think counseling will work here.

Write on...while I call my lawyer. 

Encrypted

I've been carrying a Moleskine journal with me more and more lately, a soft companion with no rules.  I clip a gel-writing pen to the cover, usually with some outlandishly-colored blood in its veins, and I sit in bars, coffee shops, bookstores (not for the faint of heart, that; staff may think you are writing in a book of theirs) and park benches, spilling the beans.  I sometimes get out my BlackBerry and take pictures of the evidence, and put it on Foursquare for geographic reference or on Facebook with a fat cookie or cake piece to get comments...and I do get comments.  For the sweets.

Rarely do I get compliments on Facebook for my writing.  I'm starting to wonder if it's because I write in cursive, and if the friends who follow me on Facebook can read something that isn't a downloadable font.

I'm a minority in the pictures of this subject.  I'm also a minority in my writing groups.  Often in a group of three to fifteen people I am the only one going analog.  I adore analog.  I'm truly myself with analog, free to stumble, run, swim or fly over the pages.

Sometimes, though, the pages represent time wasted eternal to an outsider.  "You go to so many writing group meetings," say non-writing friends, and even some fellow members.  "Is your bedroom overflowing with filled journals?"  No, but more because I am a slow writer, a careful writer, even in private.  I got my very deliberate cursive from a strict teacher in the sixth grade, who told me my handwriting was awful (it was legible), and that if I made a concentrated effort to improve it, then I would be accepted into her special class for something called Calligraphy, where I could dip a pen in ink and create fancy letters like the ancients.  Few kids bit at this bribe, but I was lonely enough then to bite at anything...sort of like I am lonely enough now to bite at any social networking site or technology just to find companionship.  With the calligraphy class I learned to change my handwriting (my fifth-grade handwriting and my seventh-grade handwriting look like two different people--I'm lucky I didn't have to sign things at that age), and grip the pen with such worry that two things happen when I write:

• You can't take my pen from me--the hand will come along for the ride;
• I cramp up about a page in and can no longer feel my middle finger at the tip.

I have been told to loosen up by other teachers, physiological medical professionals, even psychiatrists.  I've tried, but then the distinctive art is lost.  I would rather be in pain and combative when it comes to my writing than relax and lose the picture.

Occasionally, someone will shock me and be on my side.  I'm used to my handwriting, so the shock comes from seeing the beauty again from the outside.  There's a cafe in North Beach in San Francisco that has fallen in love, collectively, with my pages--I have been known to get free drinks with my letters.  I've written for charity without a laptop, contributing by the page, for the penmanship.  And occasionally someone in the writing group will see me prepare for the session and their jaw will drop on the table.  "That paper is unlined," they'll say, and point, as though I just hurled a submarine pitch and the ump called it fair.  "How come you can do that and the paper is UNLINED?"  Because I'm a freak, I think, but just smile to the inquisitor.  My control issues work FOR me in this department.

This afternoon I was skimming my news feed through Twitter and found this, tucked in amongst the baseball stats, Kindle Fire announcements, and publication pointers.  My favorite journal manufacturer is sponsoring a project to collect something that may be a lost art in just a few generations, and that art is HANDWRITING?  You mean at some point someone is going to need a comparable Rosetta Stone to decipher me?  You mean that I, the least hip person and probably not one of the smartest people on the face of the planet, is using something akin to Navajo spy messages or passing down an oral tradition in recipe?  

Or code?

And all of the apathy toward my life from outsiders, all of the things I'm not smart enough to see and all of the things I have to keep up with to be published and "liked," were washed away.  I have a gift.  I have the writing equivalent of the knuckleball, long lost to pitchers because they can't maintain control of it.  I can maintain control of it, in the knot between my fingernail and my hand.  I have the ball at the seams, and I send the curves flying, so slowly that the page thinks it can be hit out of the park, still swinging at something lost in the tomorrows.  Suddenly, I feel relevant, and...surprisingly precious to an unsuspecting world.

Write on...a lost art.

When To Let Go

The baseball season is over.

Well, at least for me and the other die-hard Giants' fans.

The bandwagon fans will be completely gone again in a few more weeks.  For those of us who will always wear the orange and black, this is a relief--with any luck, ticket prices next year will be reasonable.  We have our reasons for heroes.  The only thing left to endure is "Not so hot now, are you?"

Beating my head against a wall, I keep the common sense to myself, only to write it here...

People.  The Giants were never hot.  They were scrappy.  And they weren't scrappy enough this year.

I'm good with that.  But I'm also content that at this point, Bochy is pulling a Ohio State University coaching trick, only in reverse.  Ohio State University coaches, two of them now, tend to put in their greener, second string if they are light years ahead of the opposition in the second half.  It makes them look like good sports, their second string becomes deep, and they have a better team.

Bochy is operating on the same principle, in the reverse.  He's losing, and losing so badly that he is using this time for "development."  I won't see a lot of the same faces next year because Bochy needs a new hitting team.  (He needs a new hitting coach, too--but I digress.)  He's so far behind he can put in his second string and give them time to learn to be his hitting heroes.  He's creating a deeper team than he has right now.

Which isn't hard, since these guys have nowhere to go but up.

*****

About a month ago I was in the shower, and I was happy when a story idea bloomed in my brain.  What I wasn't happy about was that it was a story for a novel.

I guess it's a good development that I recognized it as a novel instead of trying to write it first.  But I ground my teeth anyway...I'm just now getting the hang of writing short stories.

And a damn novel shows up.  I haven't even published a short story, or even submitted one.

So I wrote around the novel for a few weeks, daydreamed it, free-writing.  Tried to talk myself out of it by writing around it.  What actually dampened it was reading the book "Moneyball," by Michael Lewis.

You guessed it.  The novel was about baseball.  And reading "Moneyball" made the novel unbelievable.  That, and the Giants had a homeless fan who has been missing since July, which was a part of my novel before I knew they had a homeless fan that they were looking for.

Let me reiterate--the novel has dampened.  But it hasn't gone away.  It just makes me think of how to write it better, or how to re-shape the idea.

I can't help it...I so love baseball.  It seems stupid not to write about it.  It seems stupid not to do it, better.

And, since I'm not such a hot writer, but scrappy instead, I have nothing to lose.

Thanks, Jim Tressel.  Thanks, Bruce Bochy.

Write on.

From the Department of "Well, That Was Dumb"

I'm having one of those mornings where I got off to a weird start. I bought yet another laptop bag yesterday, and in the transfer of writing supplies to take with me to the library I forgot my pouch of back-up pens. I've Tweeted the fact, Facebooked the fact...I'm obsessed. This was supposed to be a writing session.

And it was. Just an on-line one, is all. I'm still working on adaptability issues, obviously. City writer, country writer. :) (Thanks, Robin.)

And for those of you following my bag count...I picked up this little gem at the outlet mall, Kenneth Cole, $17, AND it matches my current handbag. Oh, I'm such a girl.

I'm at the Carlsbad City Library this morning, the Georgina Cole branch, while Serena volunteers at the Senior Center. Yes, I could have volunteered with her. Yes, I was selfish about my writing and chose that instead this week. I'm used to the San Francisco Public Library, which isn't much different from this library at the satellite branches. The two biggest differences are:

• The librarians here are so friendly they greet you coming in, and they invite you to stay and read a while. "It's hot out there; you better stay put," was my instruction on Wednesday. I readily complied and read for two hours that day. (Had plenty of ink and I read the whole time--oh, for God's sake, let it GO already, Jo...) The San Francisco librarians are pleasant, but you have to get in front of them and make yourself known. I suspect that has to do with the second difference, below...
• About 30% of the patrons at the SF Public Library are homeless people, camping in the temperature control with free knowledge. I don't begrudge them that, although it lends an unmistakable aroma to a library in San Francisco that for the most part does an excellent job of keeping me from curling up with a book there. In this library there is just one homeless person, and none that I could find at the main branch over on Dove Lane. The homeless woman here seems disturbed but well-behaved--I imagine she doesn't want to be thrown out in this heat.

I love the Main Branch of the SF Public Library for it's grandeur, but I must say that I love these little libraries for their humanity. Today I had to journey upstairs for a vacant writing table, but Wednesday I got a table right by checkout, and got to talk to children. One little girl who I swear came up to my knee insisted on showing me the correct way to self-checkout (Tina Fey, Jr.), and another little girl passed my table and demanded that she wish me goodbye and that I have a good day. This friendliness seems consistent with much of Carlsbad--Mike and Serena's neighbors invite me over to their units and show me pets and renovations with relish, offer up sunburn cure-alls, and ask if I'm looking for a vacancy down here. They even nod in agreement about my love of San Francisco--"Oh, I understand, hon. Just saying you have a home here if you want it." At the cafe yesterday two people stopped to ask me about the library book I was reading, and if I was reading it for work. STRANGERS. It's like Mayberry meets Surf City.

Well that's enough writing for now...I'm going to finish that book I started on Wednesday and wait to see what the tide will bring.

Write on. :)

Rain, And Distractions

So I woke up this morning to rain, which made me grumpy. Ok, I was kind of grumpy already--lots of dishes in the kitchen today that I didn't need to do, but I do them every day so I did them today. Grumpiness out of the way, and then it rains. Grumpiness renewed. I was going to go to the grocery store today. No dice. Eating the last of my food.

Ok, mood reset.

The only thing I have to do today is write. When the holiday is over I probably have to go back to work--which means I'm going to have to do some crappy job that has nothing to do with writing, or nothing to do with managing or teaching...holy criminy, Jo, just STOP. I keep forgetting to take one day at a time. Yes, it's raining today. Yes, there were a boatload of dishes. But one frickin' day at a time.

I'll learn it. Just watch me.

Meantime, Giants have scored one against the Cubs and I'm getting my writing done. And I don't have to go to the grocery store.

Write on.

An-tici-pa-tion...

It's a gloomy morning here in the Inner Sunset district of San Francisco, although God knows the sun is trying to burn through the fog. I am moving around the apartment, doing "knucklehead" stuff, as they would call certain tasks on "West Wing" that fell below the radar of POTUS. I got cleaned up, had my healthy breakfast, did one load of dishes (there were two loads in the sink, so I have more knucklehead stuff for this afternoon), paid bills, filed papers, and in a few minutes will get to the job search. I am doing knucklehead stuff for a couple of reasons: I do this garbage every Monday; and I am waiting for UPS to deliver a package. Last month I signed up for something called Lost Crates, where, once a month, the recipient gets a sampling of the latest and greatest in art and/or writing supplies, without knowing what they'll be. It's probably the last thing I can afford, but I was intrigued, just to see what it would be, to have the anticipation of looking forward to something akin to a care package, as though I was still young enough and still learning enough to get those.

It's been a couple of months like that, though...looking forward to Giants games, to the Treme tour concert, to the Woody Allen movie, all at discounts, and all unexpected. This package will be the last big event for a while, and then I'll have to create events of my own--maybe a new job in the traditional sense, maybe a story sold.

*****

For a long time I thought of Meetups as something formal, only operated by the truly sane and secure in themselves. The founder and original organizer of the Meetup series that I attend, "Shut Up and Write!" set the bar high. He's the perfect vision of manager/facilitator/mentor/motivator; when one of the group's members says, "Hey, why don't we have one in Berkeley?" his response is, "Yes, why don't YOU look into that?" This empowerment has created a spreading of the group throughout the Bay Area and continued it to New York City (with two groups there) and a new possibility now in Toronto. It's a great way to spread the word and the concept of the group geographically.

It's creating a bit of skirmish back here in the home turf, though.

Different organizers take different accountability for their groups, to be sure. The founder wants to make sure that every Shut Up and Write session is consistent, so that if you like Shut Up and Write you'll tell your friends, and either they'll come with you or go to a Shut Up and Write in their neighborhood. Keep in mind that the group has reached that level--this past week there were meetings in Berkeley, SoMA, the Mission, the Inner Richmond, and the Castro/Duboce Park area. I love that layout--I can finally go to Meetups close to me (for me, a Meetup that's close is one bus-line away from me), and I'm sure others find the locations that aren't close to me close to their homes or workplaces. It's a great idea. And so what if meetings fall on the same day as other meetings? It's still a great way to choose.

It's a great selection for everyone but one of the organizers, that is. Last week two of the organizers scheduled for the same time slot--one a long-established meeting in the Mission, one a first-time meeting in the Inner Richmond. Delightfully, the Inner Richmond is not only closer but in a library, so that I have a shorter commute AND I don't have to buy coffee and snacks to write. Surprisingly, the first-time meeting had more people sign up and actually show up than the long-established meeting, and I know from talking to that facilitator before that he was probably livid. He is a facilitator that does contract work, and he's in the middle of a project right now and doesn't come to his own meeting very often, but he hates it when other groups try to copy-cat or try to borrow the Shut Up and Write concept. I've always bit my tongue to keep from reminding him that we borrowed the concept from Natalie Goldberg.

I see this week, on Monday, that neither Wednesday group has scheduled. I can almost bet what has happened. Either neither one of the facilitators are scheduling, waiting to see if the other one will, or, they are both duking it out with the founder to see if this is ethical. Either way it seems a bit erratic--there's no Wednesday night meeting yet, and, if you want to grow your group, shouldn't you get a calendar up as soon as possible so that potential group members would want to make plans? Don't you at least want to LOOK stable?

All I could think of was Natalie Goldberg's final pages of "Long Quiet Highway," where she sat for peace in downtown Santa Fe every weekday from noon to twelve-thirty. She had been practicing Zen for years, and this wasn't a protest, it wasn't "partisan," it was just her way of dealing with the first Gulf War. I look at it this way--if I could write regardless, like Nat, then I'm grounded, I'm stable, and maybe others will join me. I'm thinking that they will be more likely to join me if I show up myself, but if not, well, that's their practice. Maybe it's time to establish a practice of my own, a Shut Up and Write of my own, to show up to regardless.

And it would be something to look forward to, without any doubt at all.

Damn. Baseball.

It's been a rough stretch here in Mudville. And for a girl whose desk, up until yesterday, was covered with Giants' paraphernalia, it's been a shameful week. I work with men as a majority, and men don't care about fondness for a player or players, or even understand how I can have a fondness for THESE players, and I can't help it, which makes it worse.

When I joined the club called "Giants' fans," I was a long-time dormant baseball fan. The best part about baseball back in the states was the location of my apartment to the minor league ballpark and how they set off fireworks every other week right over my balcony. My first baseball game ever was in SBC Park (as it was called then)--I never saw the Cardinals or Royals play, or, even further back in the states, never saw the Tigers, Reds, Indians, or any Chicago team play (those were the closest geographical baseball locations in my childhood). My last passion for baseball was the Twins' victory in 1991, and that's because I had a crush on Kirby Puckett. And why did I have a crush on Kirby? Because he was a freak of nature--he didn't look like an athlete. From the point that I was aware of Kirby I started an unconscious hunt for players like him, players who didn't look like athletes, and I found a lot of them in baseball. Football players, basketball players, boxers--they all fit stereotypes most of the time, but not baseball players. In those days, baseball players looked like real people.

And then Kirby took drugs and went blind and died, and Sammy Sosa and Mark McGuire came along, and with college and work and steroid use by a lot of players I sort of forgot about baseball. I remembered it again when my brother took me to a game my third month here, but then it went back to sleep--the Giants still had Bonds at that point, and I wanted a team of real people. Post-Bonds (ironically, that looks like a sign you'd see on Bryant and 7th), I started to pay attention, and went to more games. The field was full of regular guys again--my favorite one at that time being Mike Matheny. Mike was followed by Omar, Dave Roberts...and I started knowing the names of the players. This year I knew them all, up until yesterday, and I knew their quirks and their challenges and their strengths. I knew their rituals. I knew their good-luck charms.

According to the men I work with, knowing these things are laughable.

Yes, Molina can no longer heavy-hit. Yes, Molina is a heavy runner. There are a million reasons to trade him. But here's what I'll miss...the big guy that calmed down pitchers, the gentle role model that jogged out to the Junior Giant standing at home plate who was waiting for a signed ball in Molina's girlish scrawl, and that grin...that grin that was so difficult to produce and nearly always impossible to see behind the mask, but that you'd catch from a team photographer occasionally. I'll miss, too, his brother coming to visit with the Cardinals and the way they greet each other at home plate, Yadier and Bengie, two big guys with the egos of monks.

In other words, I'll miss his special brand of humanity. Each of the Giant players has their own--Wilson with his crossed arms, Rowand and his magnetic physique that keeps drawing pitches, Pablo and his dance up to bat, Lincecum's hurl, arm back there somewhere in McCovey Cove, and then whiplashed past that hair and through the strike zone. Yes, they suck right now. We all suck at certain points in our lives, and get paid a lot less than these boys to do it. And goodness knows I would love to see wins or a pennant or anything substantial in the second half of the season. But those aren't the main reason I go to the ballpark. I go to see my boys. I can't help it. In the words of Dido--"I'm in love, and always will be."

Only a girl could bring Dido to the field. Swing on, dear hitter. Thanks, Bengie.

Diamondbacks

So, I'm in the Mission District yesterday here in the City, and I am approached at one corner by a group of people wanting people to boycott the Giants/Diamondbacks matchup at AT&T Park about two weeks from now.

I'm all for making a statement, but this seems to be a cutting off of the nose to spite the face issue...aren't half the players in baseball from outside the US and south of the border? To give an example, here's the Diamondbacks' roster:

Arizona Diamondbacks Active Roster

Arizona Diamondbacks Active Roster

#	Pitchers	B/T	Ht	Wt	DOB
55	Blaine Boyer	R-R	6'3"	215	Jul 11, 1981
58	Juan Gutierrez	R-R	6'3"	210	Jul 14, 1983
15	Dan Haren	R-R	6'5"	215	Sep 17, 1980
22	Aaron Heilman	R-R	6'5"	225	Nov 12, 1978
46	Bob Howry	L-R	6'5"	220	Aug 4, 1973
36	Edwin Jackson	R-R	6'3"	210	Sep 9, 1983
31	Ian Kennedy	R-R	6'0"	195	Dec 19, 1984
13	Rodrigo Lopez	R-R	6'1"	185	Dec 14, 1975
50	Chad Qualls	R-R	6'5"	220	Aug 17, 1978
49	Carlos Rosa	R-R	6'1"	210	Sep 21, 1984
43	Cesar Valdez	R-R	6'2"	200	Mar 17, 1985
32	Esmerling Vasquez	R-R	6'1"	175	Nov 7, 1983
#	Catchers	B/T	Ht	Wt	DOB
28	John Hester	R-R	6'3"	220	Sep 14, 1983
19	Chris Snyder	R-R	6'4"	245	Feb 12, 1981
#	Infielders	B/T	Ht	Wt	DOB
3	Tony Abreu	S-R	5'9"	200	Nov 13, 1984
6	Stephen Drew	L-R	6'0"	185	Mar 16, 1983
2	Kelly Johnson	L-R	6'1"	205	Feb 22, 1982
25	Adam LaRoche	L-L	6'3"	205	Nov 6, 1979
11	Augie Ojeda	S-R	5'9"	175	Dec 20, 1974
27	Mark Reynolds	R-R	6'2"	220	Aug 3, 1983
4	Rusty Ryal	R-R	6'2"	200	Mar 16, 1983
#	Outfielders	B/T	Ht	Wt	DOB
5	Cole Gillespie	R-R	6'1"	205	Jun 20, 1984
34	Conor Jackson	R-R	6'2"	215	May 7, 1982
10	Justin Upton	R-R	6'2"	205	Aug 25, 1987
24	Chris Young	R-R	6'2"	200	Sep 5, 1983