Category: Blog

Blessed Release

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I got in my one-thousand words this morning.

I have to let it sit there on its own line, because it looks so good to me. It’s one of those celebrations that belongs to me and me alone. Well, and to Isabel, who’s been sitting here offering silent support. Though I suspect she’s just waiting for me to stop typing and start petting.

This is significant to me because I haven’t written my self-required one-thousand words a day since I started this blog. That was my greatest fear — that writing this would suck away my energy from working on my novel, or the sorority book or some of the essays I’ve promised to anthologies.

I knew going in that it would be a challenge. That I was changing my rituals and patterns. I gave myself the first week just to get used to writing the blog. Then I started phasing in my other writing again. And it just wasn’t working. I’d blog, then add my posts to Facebook and MySpace, but not open my email. Sometimes I couldn’t resist and would open my email, which is the kiss of death, the end of all further creative writing in favor of email replies. But, as I actually gained some friends on Facebook, that became the death knell to further writing.

So, today, I finally reversed the order. I did my 1K first, then wrote this. It’s my own personal 1K Day, and the best part is I can have it every day!

Yes, I know you don’t really care. You don’t feel my rush. If you’re not a writer, you probably think I’m nuts. But I know the writers out there understand.

Ten years ago, when we put on a Writers Summit for our region, we made a t-shirt. (Gotta have the shirt!) On the back we put this quote from Mark Rutherford:

“There is in each of us an upswelling spring of life, energy, love, whatever you like to call it. If a course is not cut for it, it turns the ground around it into a swamp.”

That’s why it feels good to get my words in. I’ve cut a course today and the swamp is draining. New life springs up in its wake. It’s a good day.

Ritual and Madness

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Today it was the kitties’ turn. I’m feeling flu-ish, so I skipped the rec center and slept in. Because I went to bed at 9 o’clock, this meant that I still woke up by about 6:45. David took the opportunity to skip, too, but had gotten up at 5:30 anyway, to soak in the bathtub. When I stirred, deciding I wouldn’t sleep anymore, however much I’d prefer to stay in my warm, dark den, both kitties trilled delighted meows at me and came running in to leap on the bed.

You’d think I’d risen from the dead.

I dragged myself into the kitchen and they bolted for their food dishes — which had still some dry food in them, mind you — portraying desperate starvation the way only a cat can. I mentioned it when I visited David taking his bath, to say good morning. Oh yes, he said, both cats had been coming in to stare at him accusingly. I wondered why, since they normally don’t get fed until about this time anyway, when we get back from working out.

It’s the wrong pattern of activity, he said; a disruption of their routine.

If you read yesterday’s post, you know this comment hit home for me. The creative gurus are all about ritual and routine. Write every day. Write at the same time every day. Play the same music while you write. All meant to coax the subconscious into performing, like a well-trained pet. They compare the subconscious to an animal. Our unthinking animal side.

What happens when it falls apart? When I can’t access my current novel in progress because I haven’t yet reinstalled Word. When I can’t listen to my writing playlist because I haven’t reinstalled Sonic Stage. When the getting up and getting breakfast isn’t timed the usual way and the yummy canned food doesn’t fall in the bowl as expected. Frantic behavior, is what.

I have a friend whose mother every morning goes for a walk and then has her nonfat, sugar-free latte. I know about this because this woman’s husband, my friend’s stepfather, called my friend for advice. Apparently if she for some reason is made to miss her walk and latte, she becomes nearly hysterical. He wondered how to deal with it. And maybe was asking a slightly deeper question: is she a little crazy?

Maybe insanity isn’t just doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result. Maybe it’s becoming paralyzed if you can’t do the same thing over and over. Ritual may feed the animal in us, but the higher being in us must remain flexible. Overcome and move on. Whether it’s a computer malfunction, sickness, losing a job, losing everything — the trick is being able to rise above the ritual and cope anyway.

In the end, ritual is a luxury.

Looks Like Disaster

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You already know how much it annoys me when the computers don’t behave like they should. It’s shocking to me sometimes what a house of cards my life is, all precisely perched in a trembling tower…on my laptop. When the laptop misbehaves, the shuddering terror of lost files races all through my life.

All the photos. I love the ones from this Christmas in particular. What if the back-up didn’t get them all? It was acting funny too.

My finances. I’d have to reconstruct at least the last few weeks to figure out where we’re at. Oh God — I’d have to reconstruct all of 2008 for my taxes. When will I do that?

My novel. Does Liz have the most recent version? If the back-up won’t work (it still won’t run), when did I last throw the novel on the jump drive?

The emails. Ohhh…all the emails I’ve saved but haven’t quite dealt with yet. Our house sale, the move, correspondence with editors, agents, friends. The hundreds of little tasks predicated on information in those emails.

See, I ended up reinstalling Windows Vista, because I had corrupted files and it was getting worse and worse and … that’s what the online stuff said to do and that I wouldn’t lose my files. But I did lose my files. Nowhere to be seen last night. And I couldn’t restore without reinstalling my backup software, which took time.

Finally, exerting heroic self-control, I went to bed, to deal another day. And in the night it came to me. A folder called “Old Windows” was promised at some point. I looked this morning and there it is. There is everything. My world is restored, the light pours through the clouds, the birds spiral in wheeling delight.

Now I just have to figure out how to get the programs to run again…

January 27

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Eighteen years ago today, David and I went on our first date. It was on a Sunday evening, after the Superbowl (because I had a party to go to and he had the kids for the weekend). And it was bone-cold with hard frozen snow everywhere, like it is now. For many years, we celebrated on Superbowl Sunday, because it seemed more congruent with the original event. Over time, however, as the Superbowl migrated farther and farther into February, it began to seem silly. We had to look up the original date. From the list of Superbowls, of course.

But now things have come around and the Superbowl is this Sunday. I don’t know which we’ll observe, tonight or Sunday. We never seem to come up with all that much to do to celebrate, which is okay, too.

For many years we talked about reprising our first date. The problem there? It was a terrible first date. It was cold, it was late. There had been a huge going away party on Friday night, I’d gone on a long ski excursion Saturday, chili and beer all afternoon hadn’t perked me up, I wasn’t sure of him, the movie was terrible, he asked if he made me nervous and dropped me off. We didn’t kiss until our third date. And no, I don’t know that date at all, except that it was well after Valentine’s Day. Long story. Suffice to say, it took us a while to recover from the first date.

“Your anniversary of what??” a friend once asked scathingly. I notice that people (read: other women) with wedding anniversaries get upset when I mention our first-date anniversary. They’ll often trot out their own dating history and tell me what their cumulative count would be, if they counted from the first date and not the wedding. They almost dare me to argue, which I never do. The beginning is the beginning, no matter how inauspicious. I’ve come to believe that a bad beginning holds all the luck in the world.

Happy Anniversary, My Dear!

Local Storm Report

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I don’t mind shoveling snow. Perhaps because I don’t really have to do it all that often. People think of Wyoming with snowy mountains, which is accurate. But our town is between two mountain ranges, part sagebrush plain, part wind-carved hollow. We’re a high-altitude desert with only 8-10 inches of precipitation a year. Compared to, say, New Orleans, which might get 8 inches of precipitation in a single storm.

So, when it snows, we don’t get a whole lot and it’s seldom very wet. I don’t mind shoveling it.

I didn’t shovel at all yesterday. I just let the snow fall, piling up in heaves and pillows. Even when it cleared a bit in the afternoon and the neighbors all headed out to clear the walks, I stayed in my armchairl, papers all around me. With dusk, the snowfall resumed and by this morning all their little tunnels were filled again, fluffy and smooth.

But I did shovel this morning, after the rec center. Sunday is over, so the snow can no longer rest. It must be cleared away so business can resume. People trudge by in their Monday morning boots.

I stay inside and watch them go.

Modern Shouts and Whispers

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My friend, Marie-Claude Bourke, is a finalist in the Dorchester American Title V contest. For those not in-the-know (I certainly wasn’t — she hysterically ranted about ATV for quite some time before I could get her to give me a translation), it’s an online contest that Dorchester publishing has been running for, you guessed it, five years now.

Dorchester editors picked seven entries from contest submissions and posted them online. For round one, readers voted (by sending an email with the book’s title in the subject line) for the best first line. One contestant was eliminated. In the second round, readers voted for the best hero and heroine, from short descriptions; another contestant was eliminated. We’re now at round three, voting on the best story summary and two of the five remaining contestants will be eliminated. Oh, the winner gets a publishing contract. No mean stakes.

So, because it’s all about reader votes, M-C has been out there engaged in promoting herself and her book, Ancient Whispers, like an unknown Senator pushing for President. A little frenetically so at times (she really, really wants this and who can blame her?), and her friends and family have had to tell her to chill.

At first I wondered if it was fair, to campaign for votes. Shouldn’t it be left entirely up to the reader to decide? But then, do any of us believe that the books that sell well do so entirely on their own merit? Marketing is a fact of American life. And as authors, we’re all learning that we can’t just sit in our garrets and drop our pages out the window, hoping they’ll be seized upon with gusto and celebration. Well… we can, if we don’t mind starving up there.

And would an unknown Senator expect to be elected just because he’s the best and everyone should recognize his merit?

In many ways, M-C is learning how to do what she’ll need to do once she is published: let everyone know about her and her book. I guess I’d better start learning lessons from her.

Why Do I Feel This Party’s Over?

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I’ve been drinking too much wine again lately. It’s one of those things that just gradually ramps up. Over the holidays I indulged in both food and drink — including beer, which I love but is verboten if I want a flat tummy, which I do — but I’m ostensibly back on my training program, to get the body fat down just a little more. Only I haven’t quite ramped down the wine consumption.

It’s all a tolerance thing. If I don’t drink anything for a couple of weeks, then one glass of wine is enough. It’ll be delicious and satisfying, and perhaps even give me a little warm buzz. Maybe it’s the dark January evenings, but I haven’t done a ruthless, no alcohol diet yet this year. Instead I’m sipping red wine all evening long. It doesn’t help that Barefoot came out with the biggie bottle of red zin — it’s the wine version of hot chocolate. A pretty glass, a sparkling fire and that spicey bloody wine makes the winter evenings worthwhile.

And though I rarely get drunk, and haven’t made myself sick from booze in probably ten years (though we were all dragging rear Christmas morning this year from some really excellent champagne), I am so compelled by Pink’s Sober video.

I’ve been into Pink’s angry white chick music since her I’m Not Dead Yet album. Before that I’d written her off as a frothy hip-hopper, confused in my mind with Lil Kim and her ilk. I’ve since picked up her earlier stuff, too, and while there is some hip-hoppy stuff (apparently she was pushed that way by her early producers), a lot of it is raw and real and moving to me.

While I, even in my most dedicated Gamma Phi Beta college days, was never the party girl Pink depicts in her video, there’s a part of her I know. Perhaps it’s that ever-present fear that you could slip that far. Fall over the edge into an oblivion where you no longer recognize yourself. Pink’s plaintive cry “why do I feel this party’s over?” echoes the somber realization of the over-40 woman. I’m having to realize that the days of perfect resilience are over. I no longer blithely burn everything I eat and drink.

A friend of mine is an adrenaline junkie. He’s made a career of it. A fabulous career of doing amazing things like climbing unclimable mountains and kayaking through ice floes and writing about it all. Just after New Year’s he went ice climbing with a friend. An avalanche roared over them and the friend died. I saw my friend yesterday and I almost didn’t recognize him, he looked so unaccountably aged. Perhaps it’s the grief dragging him down and he’ll recover. But I wonder what the over-50 adventure athlete does when the activities he’s defined himself with are too much for him to recover from. Not all of them face this moment — many get themselves killed before that. I suppose the one who survives redefines himself. Fortunately my friend is a great writer and a man of many talents.

It’s easy to feel like the party’s over when you hit the realization that second two-thirds of your life aren’t going to be quite as on fire as the first third. Or second half vs. first half. But maybe it’s just that it’s a different party. A party in which I can be satisfied with a single glass of wine.

Maybe two.

Labels For This Post

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If you’ve used Blogger.com, then you know that they offer you a template and examples on the create post screen. It’s an easy set-up to learn, which is always a good thing. I had enough anxiety about starting a blog without wading through techno-angst as well.

What’s funny is, at the bottom there’s a blank where you can fill in “Labels for this post.” And then they offer “e.g. scooter, vacation, fall.” Every day, when I fill in my labels, I look at “scooter, vacation, fall” and think about using them. I’ve considered starting some kind of special Blogspot Commemoration Day, where we all blog about scooters, vacation and fall. Probably I’m the only one entertained by the idea.

Last Fall we went on vacation to Italy, and we all rented scooters. It was really fun.

We went on vacation to Italy and were having a great time on our rented scooters until my mom took a bad fall.

The preponderance of “Scooters” in the Bush administration made us all want to go on vacation, until last Fall when Obama was elected and we felt much better about everything.

Okay, it’s out of my system now.

True Grace

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Yesterday I received an email from one of the writing groups I’ve joined. I don’t think I’ve met the woman who wrote it, but she sent it to everyone who’s on the email list
for the group:

Last Thursday I had a doctors appointment at [ ]. I expected to discuss new treatments. Instead she told me there was nothing more they could do for me. She estimates I have about 3 months. I’m totally at peace with pending death. I’ve enjoyed this group.

Adios,

Grace

I found myself near tears at this. Heartbroken and unutterably moved at her grace in sending this out, as if it’s just another thank-you note. I picture her like that: the kind of woman who sends you a thank-you note for the lovely lunch and mentions again how pretty your blouse looked. I’ve changed her name here, because I feel certain she’s not the sort of woman who would want her business all over the internet.

And yet, I felt compelled to share it. Perhaps how we face our deaths is the final measure of how we approach our lives. My great-aunt had little cards prepared — stamped and pre-addressed — to send after her death that said, “you’ve received this card because I’ve died.” She went on to tell us special things and asked us to remember her in happiness. My favorite professor declined extreme treatment for his cancer so he could spend his remaining days in the classroom.

So here’s to your “adios,” Grace. May your last months be filled with love and art and beauty. And may you be remembered in happiness.

Scarlett Take Me Away!

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Work has been stressful the last couple of days — dealing with contract stuff and cost overruns. I woke up this morning thinking about it, which is always a bad sign. I ran the tape loop of fretting as I got ready for the gym, as I lifted weights and at the grocery store. Even at 6:30 in the morning in a small town, I had to wait in line for a moment, where the magazines caught my eye, as they’re meant to do.

Scarlett Johansson beamed at me, all sultry eyes and milky skin. Kate Hudson sparkled with a saucy wink. For an instant I longed to be them. I thought, how wonderful to have Scarlett’s life, with her beauty and those gorgeous clothes.

Yes, yes — I know. Silly.

In my defense, the emotion washed away quickly. I know perfectly well that the conference calls today won’t be anything I can’t get through. And there are much worse things in life than suffering a little stress for the money I earn, that allows me to lead a very pleasant life. I know, also, that Scarlett’s life is also full of stress and meetings and working out at the gym. She might not have to stop at the grocery store on the way home, but that’s about it. And Kate Hudson has done several things that I suspect makes her emotional life not all that rewarding.

The thing is, I didn’t really long in that moment be THEM, to live their lives. What I wanted was to be those pictures. I wanted to feel what the glossy women seemed to feel. Which is what they’re selling after all.

At least I didn’t buy it.