writing

Spa Week Continues: Remembering and Returning

November 29, 2012 by admin

“You’re just scared.” With her trademark high-pitched giggle, a gentle hug, and a warm smile, country music legend Dolly Parton soothed Stephen Colbert as he displayed a rare moment of vulnerability. As one icon calmed another, they eventually performed their duet together.

After a “busy” day at the spa, I caught up on Colbert episodes in the evening, and Dolly’s presence brought back warm memories. My parents were country music fans, and I saw Dolly in concert at least twice, maybe more. When Dolly sat onstage alone with her guitar singing “mountain songs” of her childhood, such as Coat of Many Colors, that younger version of myself longed to write with that kind of simple beauty.

Oh, yeah, that…the songwriters of my youth pointed the way to my own love affair with words. Somewhere in the hassles of daily life, I had forgotten.

This week I have busied myself with stripping layers of tension and stress away, and what has remained? That which was already there. I have a plethora of tools at my disposal to help me navigate life’s stresses, but I sometimes forget what I already know. Slowing down, taking a break, has allowed me to say, “Oh, wait, I could do that…I could try this…”

Truth is, I had let the fears and anxieties take over. And yes, I had to admit, I uncovered some anger, too. I had allowed the behavior of a few thoughtless people to disrupt my zen. Upon further examination, perhaps I allowed them to do so because of the fears…my anger emerged because yet again, I had held myself back.

After lunch I felt some agitation again, just a day after spending hours in the spa. Some of life’s troubles had revisited and were churning inside me once again. I wandered over to the pool and alternated laps with dips in the hot tub, feeling my strength in the water with each stroke, grateful for the power of a healthy body. Once I had that “good tired” feeling, I went back to my room.

I had forgotten that according to Ayurveda, the sister science of yoga, water calms my fiery “pitta” nature. Later, while doing a specific yoga practice aimed at calming pitta, I was reminded of that and much more.

This week I have remembered that when I get into trouble with writing, I can always return to The Artist’s Way. Usually it takes just a few exercises in the book to get me jump-started again. I logged in to Julia Cameron Live and let her remind me, with her patient teacher’s voice, of what I had first learned from her more than fifteen years ago.

I also remembered that I can use yoga as therapy to quiet my inner storms and fears. Sure, I planned to meditate, but I’m someone who needs physical movement to really let go. As I’ve mentioned in this blog before, My Yoga Online is a great resource for videos, and I am using it extensively during this retreat week. (If anyone wants a two-week trial, let me know, and I’ll set you up.)

I had forgotten that for me, whatever the problem, writing is the cure. When I write, I am a happier person. Period. So I will keep writing, even if I feel like I’m talking in an (almost) empty room.

I had forgotten that even though we live in Paradise, we need a vacation now and then…and my sojourn on the sofa this summer while I waited to resolve medical difficulties doesn’t count. I was too tired then to do anything but catch up on every season of How I Met Your Mother. I needed solitude away from the house in which there are always rooms to clean and meals to cook.

Reading a novel this week, with great subject matter but unfortunate editing, I remembered that our work can be good without being perfect. While I want to create quality work, sometimes it’s just time to put the darn thing out there. I have good work worth finishing, and it’s time to get to it.

Mostly, I had forgotten that I’m a better writer when I see it as an adventure. The “get your butt in the chair” advice doesn’t work for me. Yeah, it appeals to that internal critic and editor, but for making new work, it needs to feel like I’m making mud pies. I need to be the small child who doesn’t care if her clothes get dirty, and allow myself to get lost in the exploration, the play. Early drafts are muddy and messy anyway. Why not just plop myself down and revel in it?

As I go forward, I hope I will also remember the moment of Stephen Colbert’s naked struggle as he sat next to his idol with guitar in hand, strumming along and harmonizing as best he could. He’s just scared. And so am I. And that’s just fine…I can find my way through my song, too.

The Zen of Wool

October 10, 2012 by admin

A group of ladies sat outside in the fresh spring sunshine spinning wool into yarn. Each wheel had its own charm and one, or sometimes two, treadles. Fluffy fiber transformed into even strands that wound onto their bobbins. They looked serene, relaxed…happy. “I want to do that,” I said. So, when I saw the name and telephone number for Amelia Garripoli, aka The Bellwether, I was ready. She was starting a new beginner spinning class the next week.

My first spinning efforts, like me, were tense. Terror showed up in the thread as it alternated between “not spun enough” and “spun to within an inch of its life.” Here I was with yet another “enjoy the journey” activities, darn it! 10,000 hours, Garripoli says, is what it takes to develop mastery. At my age, let’s see, that calculates to…never mind.

As I practiced spinning, I thought about my writing. I’ll get the obvious out of the way: while spinning yarn, I thought about spinning yarns. Buh dump bump. Cue groans from the audience.

Still, if you can deal with sucky drafts, writer’s block, and working in spite of life’s constant interruptions, then you are qualified to learn to spin. Having taken a few months off from writing, I just traded in messy drafts for messy yarn.

I could have just bought yarn in the store. Knitting should be enough, right? But no, I have to keep going down the rabbit hole. Maybe spinning a cleaned, carded fleece would be enough. But then…

I hadn’t planned to buy a wool fleece, but the bag of rich, deep brown fiber looked too delicious to pass up. It came with a photo of the sheep, for God’s sakes! I had gotten a glimpse of him lounging out in his field. I imagined turning his winter coat into one for me, and I salivated at the thought.

My teacher had given me instruction on fleece washing, but I decided to catch some YouTube videos to brush up. Turns out that there are many ways to wash a fleece, with plenty of adamant opinions about the right way to do it. I watched several and took the common denominators to heart. Namely, don’t turn the darn stuff to felt. This happens when we do “too much.” Too much agitation, too much temperature, too much handling.

Hey, it works, even when my teacher isn’t around!

I thought of an essay writing class that I took years ago in Houston. During my critique, people praised my work, my skill, my emotional connection…then asked me to revise it in such a way as to remove the circus tent poles that held the whole thing up. When I tried to rewrite it, it disintegrated into one long, boring mess. Too much handling. We writers have to find that balance, and we have to surround ourselves with people who won’t critique our work down to a pile of mush. Fortunately, while I can’t do anything about a felted fleece, I could reconstruct the original essay — which I then got published.

As I carded the fleece, it turned from globby matted fistfuls to smooth, soft hair, lighter in color than I expected, more of a golden tan. Each rolag, or rolled fiber taken from the cards, felt like fragile cotton candy. But would it spin?

I fed the fiber to the wheel, I felt something shift. I’d spun fiber that had already been prepared, but this was different. It was as though starting to read a novel from the beginning instead of jumping in at the middle. I knew it better. I had a relationship with the fleece. My work was still uneven and imperfect, but less so…and as I gently tugged on the fibers to lengthen them, I felt the rhythm of the treadle under my foot, the wheel turning at just the right speed, and the yarn filling the bobbin.

With each turn of the wheel, I felt my love of writing return as I longed to share the experience. I remembered each tender draft of a manuscript, messy and uneven. With yarn, it’s possible to add more or less twist where needed to create even strands. With novels, each draft brings improvements and new insights into the writing process. With time and patience, both the yarn and the writing smooth out.

Spinning is a form of meditation, and I see when my mindfulness disappears. All of a sudden my gorgeous strand of yarn has doubled in width, or the wheel turns in the wrong direction, causing my work to unravel from the bobbin. I stop, take a breath, fix what I can, and then go again, just as I do with my “regular” meditations. Our minds wander. That’s what minds do. All we can do is come back to the present moment.

The same is true for a manuscript. There are places where the writing sings, and then sentences where I say, “Huh?” Even after several drafts, I find places where my mind has checked out of the story and decided to explore other territories while I thought I was writing. The writer’s life requires patience and an ongoing return, return, return to the present.

Even in the end, the thread is never perfect. Yes, I can even it out and fix obvious mistakes, but in the end, homespun thread will never have the technical perfection of storebought. Mine won’t, at least!

Writing is never done and never exactly right. But at the same time, there is the time to let the book go out into the world, warts and all. A book is never perfect, never fully finished. The moment comes when the author must say, “Enough. Enough. This is the best I can do now.”

One day my fleece will be a sweater or a throw, something warm and soft and nurturing to the body. From sheep to sweater, I will know every aspect of this particular fiber. No other fiber will feel or act exactly like this one. It is my first, and it feels like a miracle. I feel the same way when I see one of my books for the first time. For all the imperfections, all the stumbles, all the struggles, there is a book in my hand, a miracle of cover and fonts and page numbers, with a story that only I can tell. From start to finish, it is mine, and perhaps it will fall into the hands of someone who will feel as though she has just donned a warm, soft, nurturing sweater to shield her from winter’s cold.

9/11: Remembering

September 11, 2012 by admin

Hi, all. I’m still on hiatus for another week or two as I work out a few minor health issues. In the meantime, I didn’t want 9/11 to go unacknowledged, so I’m re-running last year’s post for those who weren’t with me then. May we always remember those who died, and may we reflect on our mortality to make our own lives fuller and richer, as they are precious and fleeting. Namaste and see y’all soon!

***

Most people don’t talk about the day before 9/11. We all remember where we were when the planes hit the towers, but how many remember what happened the day before?

Salmon Rushdie was scheduled to speak in downtown Houston that night. As a newbie writer, I was giddy with excitement about hearing him. He had recently emerged from exile after living for years in hiding. The fatwa against him for writing The Satanic Verses, allegedly blasphemous to Islam, had been lifted.

All was not well, however. By afternoon protesters had lined the streets around the building, and some had apparently not gotten the memo that the fatwa had been lifted. I heard reports that made me uneasy about going – but I had my ticket, darn it, and I was going!

Along the way that day I made jokes that now, as I reflect back, cause me to cringe. “If I get killed by Muslim extremists tonight I won’t be in to work tomorrow.” “If I get killed by Muslim extremists tonight just know that I died for my art.” I was puffed up with my own cleverness.

To get into the building, I had to walk through the protest line. I kept my head down and shuffled through as best I could, trying not to look at the signs or into the eyes of those who would want someone dead because of something they wrote. I thought we would have to go through metal detectors or some security, but we just walked in. People on my right and left all expressed some anxiety about being there that night.

Rushdie seemed the most relaxed of any of us. With humor and aplomb, he dismissed the protesters as “British Literary Critics” and regaled us with stories of writing. As the evening wore on, in the presence of his courage, I felt my own courage start to soar. If he could stand there and face us under the weight of threats against him, what could I do? The evening passed peacefully, and no one was harmed. When we left, the protesters had gone home, and I walked into the clear night without fear.

The next morning I wrote about the heady feeling of freedom that had stayed with me. I could write! Maybe I would never have Rushdie’s skill or accolades, but I could write my stories. I drove into work as though on a cloud.

An hour later, the planes struck.

I worked on the 36^th floor of a 60+ story building in Houston in the energy industry. When we realized that the planes hitting the Twin Towers was not some horrible accident, we felt like sitting ducks. The Williams Tower is outside of downtown and sits alone among much shorter buildings. We didn’t know the terrorists’ plans. Granted, if they wanted to hit the energy sector they would be more effective by destroying pipelines and structures as opposed to paper pushers, but we were an easy target if they had chosen it.

We went home, like everyone, to watch the horror unfold on television. We would learn about the Pentagon and about United Flight 93. We would feel the grief of the loss of so many fellow Americans, and we would mourn for the families left behind.

Ten years later, we still see the ramifications of that day. Our first responders are sick and dying, and not getting the support they need. Our country has become rabidly anti-Muslim in a level of hysteria last seen directed at Communists (or alleged Communists) by Senator McCarthy in the 1950s. We continue to be embroiled in conflicts, one of which was manufactured as our leaders played on the sympathies of distraught Americans.

As I write this, the clock is literally just turning to the early morning of 9/11. I am in a hotel in Zurich, preparing to travel home on a plane. We stop in D.C. on the way, and I would be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous. I trust the Swiss to do their jobs thoroughly. America? I wish I could feel the same way, but we seem to be more concerned with attacking each other than in solving the genuine and severe problems that we face. The terrorists don’t need to attack us; we’re doing a good job of destroying each other.

I still write, and am more and more committed every day. It’s small comfort in the scheme of things, but it’s something. I try to remember not the terror as we watched the first attack on our soil, but Salmon Rushdie’s courage. It is all I can do.

Best Blogs Thursday and Then Some!

July 12, 2012 by admin

The lovely and talented M.H. Gerber has tagged me for a blog hop called The Next Big Thing. Thank you, M.H.! She’s been one busy lady, with three books out. I’m so impressed!

After I take care of my weekly Best Blogs business, I’ll answer some questions and point y’all in the direction of some authors to watch.

Some weeks it’s easier than others to find new blogs worthy of recommendation, but yesterday the indomitable Totsymae, one of my all-time favorite bloggers, tossed me a gift when she turned me on to The Good, The Bad, The Worse. Blogger Linda Medrano covers a variety of topics with intelligence and humor. She’s fun and interesting, the kind of person I would like to get to know better. I’ve been catching up on her posts with great delight. Check her out!

Now, back to The Next Big Thing. Here are my answers to M.H.’s questions:

1. What is the title of your book/WIP?

Currently, I am completing Blood and Loam, a Vietnam-era book about a young woman coming of age in a time of social and political upheaval.

I’m also drafting a series of essays and a new novel with the working title House on the Hill. I’m sure that will change several times, though!

2. Where did the idea for the book come from?

With Blood and Loam, I wanted to write about the confusion I felt growing up in the 60s and 70s. Women’s roles were changing, and I was getting a lot of mixed messages. I’d had some turbulent relationships in those days, so I wanted to explore the life of a young woman with little self-esteem. Originally it was set in 1980, but when I switched it to 1970, it opened all kinds of exciting doors! A lot of things happened that year that reverberate through our current political climate, so the setting has become its own character.

3. What genre would your book fall under?

Good question! I am calling it historical fiction because the Vietnam-era setting is essential to the story. The main characters are female. Just as in The Foreign Language of Friends, I write about women who don’t get along very well – in this case, a mother and daughter. For some reason I am fascinated by the friction that can exist in female relationships. So, I suspect that some people will call it “women’s fiction,” but I don’t think it really qualifies.

4. Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?

Stella: Lindsey Lohan. Yes, you read that right. I’m rooting for her to make a comeback. She needs to stop messing with her face, though.

Ruth (Stella’s mother): Sarah Jessica Parker. I need someone petite and blue-eyed. She needs to die her hair black, though.

Adrian: Colin Farrell or Johnny Depp. I need someone who can come across as dangerous and sexy at the same time.

Luke: John Goodman. Well, John may be a little old for the role these days, but I need a big, beefy, blue-collar type of guy.

Grandma Hannah: Dianne Wiest.

5. What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?

When the violence at Kent State erupts, new graduate Stella Kellar returns to her small, Midwestern hometown to escape the turmoil, only to find that some wars are personal.

6. Is your book published or represented?

No.

7. How long did it take you to write?

Years. Seriously. I first drafted the novel more than 20 years ago, but made the mistake of getting it critiqued too soon and ended up tossing the whole thing in the trash. It was originally a horror novel, but I didn’t want to end up being stuck writing horror — that’s not what I do. In 2010, I used NaNoWriMo to rewrite it in its current form. It’s now been through two developmental edits, and I think one more will do it.

It’s a hard book to write, but I think I have the right story now. I had to be older, wiser, and a better writer to do what needs to be done. There are big themes and some events in the book that are so controversial, I was told by one expert, that no major publishing house would touch it. I’m uncomfortable with it, but it’s the story that wants to be told, so I’m sticking with it.

8. What other books within your genre would you compare it to?

Good question. I’m reading some other Vietnam-era fiction now to see what other people have done. Right now I have no idea.

9. Which authors inspired you to write this book?

None and all. This book has no real roadmap – it’s unlike anything else I’ve read. That’s one reason it’s been so hard to write.

10. Tell us anything else that might pique our interest in your book.

It’s sexy and violent, with multiple taboo topics!

Some writers to watch whom I have tagged:

Juliet Greenwood: Check out her elegant, lovely Eden’s Garden.

Ute Carbone: The author of a fine novel, Blueberry Truth, Carbone has some new work out that I’m excited about reading.

Karen Wyle: Author of a powerful, character-driven sci-fi novel called Twin Bred. I recently had the privilege of being a beta reader for one of Karen’s WIPs, currently called Reflections, and she’s working on other stuff as well.

Have a great weekend, y’all! I’ll be busy the next several days at the Port Townsend Writers’ Conference. I’m sure I’ll have lots of news to report next week!

Blog of The Week: The Creative Penn

June 28, 2012 by admin

Normally I don’t recommend blogs that pertain specifically to writers, because not everyone who reads my blog is a writer. However, many of you are, so a good one is worth mentioning now and then.

Recently I enrolled in Joel Friedlander’s Self-Publishing Roadmap, and as part of the package he included several bonuses, one of which was Joanna Penn speaking about marketing novels. I’ve been following Penn on Twitter for a while, but it wasn’t until I heard her webinar that I became a true-blue fan. In less than 90 minutes she boggled my mind with her generosity and spirit. Through a combination of free and paid information, she provides expertise on navigating through new media. In addition, she writes novels, so she knows the challenges of marketing fiction successfully. Many of the experts I’ve run across online are great at nonfiction but provide little help for me, so Joanna is a great find.

Not only is her advice useful and specific, but she is also one of these chirpy, cheerful sorts that lets me know that I can fix my mistakes. I made some rookie errors with the production of The Foreign Language of Friends, even though it’s the third book I’ve produced. It was the first one, however, in this brave new world of e-publishing, and there are things I would do differently.

Is it too late to relaunch a book, I wondered? Never, Penn says. Unlike traditional published books, self-publishers can relaunch a book at any time, even years down the road. I busily scribbled notes and now have a plan for going forward — and a plan for setting up new work for the future.

Penn also has a regular podcast that I’ve found helpful, too. I just have one question: when does she sleep?

For those who aren’t interested in writing/publishing tips but want to go straight to fiction, Penn keeps a separate blog for fiction with the tagline “ancient mystery, modern thrill.” I’m looking forward to reading her books. In the meantime, she’s going to save me a lot of time, money, and heartache on my authoring, and she can do the same for you, too!

Under Construction

June 20, 2012 by admin

It’s fun watching big chunks of concrete wall disappear!

The house shakes as portions of a concrete wall come tumbling down, leaving gaping holes for future doors and windows. Upstairs, plastic sheeting covers a new patio door that will lead out onto a deck. The back yard is one big pile of dirt. The vegetable garden is a way station for stacks of pipe. Welcome to the wonderful world of remodeling.

The first few weeks, hubby and I left the house to escape the noise, but I’m tired of taking refuge in a coffee shop. I like to break up my writing tasks with exercise or housework in between, so I’m learning to ignore the sounds of electric saws and forklifts beeping in favor of keeping a regular routine. Yesterday I did an exercise DVD, and hubby didn’t even know it. I had squirreled myself away in a spare bedroom and turned the iPad up loud enough to hear over the banging and clanging.

I don’t like to complain. After all, once the work is done, I will have a home with

I don’t think I want to go tumbling down these steps!

plenty of room for overnight guests and entertaining. One side of the basement will have spectacular water views, and we are creating a wonderful, restful refuge for friends and family. My yard will no longer be an unusable slope, but instead a set of terraces with flowers, shrubs, and stone. I’m darned lucky and darned grateful. These are the kinds of problems people dream of having.

Still, it’s unsettling. As I write this, a radio blares downstairs so that the workers can whistle while they work. It’s hard to concentrate, since I normally write in silence. And there is something odd about seeing the basement stripped of walls, ceiling, and floor, and fireplace brick nothing but a pile of rubble. I tread carefully to avoid tripping over electrical cords and temporary drainage pipes, all extra hazards to an already-challenging set of downward stone steps to the garden.

I feel a bit like the work in progress that is my home. New to this part of the country, I am learning to garden all over again as I adapt to a new climate. I’m meeting new people and learning a culture that’s community oriented, as opposed to rugged Texas individualism. Once anonymous in a city, I am now exposed in a small town. These are the adjustments I wanted, but they are adjustments nonetheless.

As the book industry continues to roil and shift, I’m having to adapt, studying the craft of marketing and sales as well as writing. Despite having three books under my belt, it all feels brand new. Every aspect of life calls for patience, which is hardly my strong suit. I do a lot of deep breathing, and sometimes I just need a good sob to discharge discomfort.

Still, the strawberries are ripening, and so far the broccoli and onions look sturdy. The leaves of potato plants are spreading in one of the beds, and beets and tomatoes are making tentative progress. I’ve planted herbs in pots to sit on my living room windowsill. One of the terrace walls is basically done, and the guys have started work on the second. We’re turning the corner, moving from destruction to rebuilding. Amidst the cacophony of construction, progress reveals itself, bit by bit. My paradise may be under construction, but it’s paradise nonetheless.

I’m 50 pages into the first draft of a new novel, and I’m revising Blood & Loam one more time. I’ve just signed up for Joel Friedlander’s Self-Publishing Roadmap course, starting from scratch to construct a better foundation for producing and marketing my books. Over time, this will mean more changes: the look of the blog, where and how I sell my books, and the way I roll out new work.

I know that nothing is ever finished. We are never “there.” The destination remains a moving target, and there’s always something to learn, something to fix, something to discover, something to revise. There are always new ideas, and life, including publishing, will always be in flux. All we can do is take the journey, enjoy what we’ve built, and, if necessary, tear it down again.