Start

I dug out Elsa and the Tie-down Man. Harder than it sounds. I was flooded with the memory of placing two books I’d been working on in the box, feeling as if I might never get back to them, but I forget about the note. Written to me by that other me, the sick one, the one uncertain she would ever get back to writing at all, let alone novels.

Everything overwhelmed me then and I was a bit afraid I would feel that again. I didn’t like that feeling. That vulnerable, out to sea feeling. And everything made me feel that way. It was strange. The only thing that soothed me, the only thing that I felt eager to do was cook. And even that I had to simplify. The most pleasure for me was chopping vegetables. I even dreamed of it. That steady chop, chop, chop. The solid feel of the knife against the cutting board. The pile of vegetables getting bigger.

One of the things that were most upsetting was the way my brain worked. My thoughts were foreign, stilted and dead. There was no flights of fantasy, no stories clamoring to get out, no dreams to plunge into each night. There were no dreams. None. When I tried to write, thoughts poured in, but I couldn’t capture them and the few I did, were disjointed and just little pockets of thought that went nowhere. I was so scared. Who was I if I couldn’t write? What was I?

It haunted me and caused me the most sorrow. More than my diagnosis, more than the fear of never getting better or of dying. More than the thought of being on dialysis for the rest of my life.

Finally, embarrassed, but depressed and a bit panicked I asked my doctor about it. He answered with entirely too much calm, “Oh, that’s normal. Side effects of the medicine and the illness can do that, too.”

In everything I read, in all the side effects I was told about no one covered this. Nor could the doctor tell me how long it would last or if I would write again. When I tucked away my novels I wondered if it was forever.

As I read my note, I remembered how I felt and took a minute as I lifted out the research, the edit notes, the pictures. I waited for that overwhelmed feeling to come. And truthful there was a twinge, seeing all the work I’d put into the writing, know the time I’d spent and maybe, wasted, but I gathered it and took it to my desk to put in order.

I told myself, I didn’t have to tackle it all at once. I was under no deadline. I would simply put it in order, reread Elsa and the Tie-down Man and go forward. One step, then the next. Maybe, it wasn’t even any good. Maybe, it couldn’t be saved.

After putting the manuscript and notes in order, I looked through it for the contest entries with their critiques. Missing. I knew they were somewhere. I remembered putting them somewhere safe. I remember that thought. Put it somewhere safe. But so many things ended up lost, missing or gone. There was just a little panic before I got my step stool and dived into the only other place it could be. On top of the supply cabinet in a box marked ‘magazines.’ For good reason, too. There were magazines in it…and my contest entries with critiques. Relief washed over me, made me laugh and cry. Like a mother who’d found her lost child. So important. Too important.

Well, I just heard about my son’s neighbor whose house got broke into. Hard drive, back-up hard drive and UBS drive all stolen, along with I-pods and electronics. What was what I thought of? Not my identity, not my huge music files, not my family pictures, I’m ashamed to say. But my writing. Fire, flood, what do I first think of?

But I found my manuscripts. I have a place to start.

A place to start. As Carl Sandberg said, “I don’t know where I’m going, but I’m on my way.”

Perspective and Point of View

There’s a storm on the horizon. The weatherman is talking snow, cold, wind. I’m so over all that, but there it is. It’s sad, too. My lilacs are out just enough that I think I might lose them and the leaves on my Japanese maples and tree peony have already frozen once. That is spring in the Rockies.

I won’t be as extravagant this year with the flowers, cutting back on some of the more expensive plants. That’s the economy and my husband’s repaired knee and it’s all right, too. I’m going for a simpler look anyway.

Sometimes the best times are the not so good times. You know how it is. The best plans get tripped up and you make the best of it. That happened again this weekend, but it turned out a decent, unplanned time with family, a change of pace and some reflection. Reflection is a good thing and I’ve decided perspective, like point of view, changes everything.

The swap meet is just another example of perspective and point of view. I love a good swap meet or yard sale. Trolling through other people’s cast-offs, finding something you have a need or purpose for, or best yet, you can repurpose. It’s a bit like a treasure hunt, but only you know the secret of the treasure and that’s—what you make of it.

Just last week I took a story that I’d submitted to several magazines and had rejected and changed the point of view. It changed the story, my writing and I hope the outcome. I like it so much better anyway. Who knew?

I am feeling indecently well. Though my morning walk has become just a tad bit sad, (my companion L.E. is no longer able to join me. She’s only six but has had hip problems since she was a pup. Not hip dysplasia, but another anomaly) it’s still invigorating, makes me happy and stirs this writer’s mind. And my garden…I love it in the spring as each new flower says hello. The rock cress looks amazing slipping through the castle rock along my wall. Along with the yellow daffodils…

And to top it off, a wonderful comment on my blog, a little encouragement. A challenge for my readers. Today, encourage, compliment and in general, make someone happy.

Finally...

I’ve been putting it off, avoiding it, talking about it but not doing it. I don’t know for sure what I’ve been so afraid of. I really don’t, but there was fear. Definitely. But I did it. I opened up my novel files and read the first chapters of two of my novels. The two I love the most. I still love them. I think there is tons of good in them. I think their viable. Should I actually say, saleable?



They need work—editing, rewrites, polishing, but they are both much better than I thought. Was that it? Was I afraid after the illness, recovery, time they would look like complete and utter failures? Or was the biggest failure and I knew it was, that they haven’t been polished and sent out? Have I been avoiding that? Have I been avoiding sending these novels out into the world? Courting rejection?


Or is it the size of the job that overwhelmed me until just lately? I have been so easily overwhelmed. I think that comes from learning how vulnerable I am, we all are. Maybe, hopefully, the time I’ve waited to work on my novels will be a good thing. I kind of think so.

So—the plan is to take a day and gather the chapters of Elsa and the Tie-down Man together and begin the process of getting the thing ready to submit. I seriously need a, unbiased reader or two. I’ll see what I can do to find one, later after the long and arduous task of getting this novel ready for submission. In the mean time, I’ll set aside two days a week to work on this. For now, I think that is as much as I can handle with my other writings and other responsibilities.


I’ve also been taking notes, good, solid notes for the memoir. Deciding on direction and purpose finally. That was the problem with it all along. I started the memoir while I was recovering from MPGN, most to try to get back to writing. Thinking it would help to write about it and because I really thought I had learned something that I should share, but I just couldn’t get it off the ground. Whether because I was too close to the situation still( which I suspect) or whether the medication was proving to make any big, long term projects impossible(which I suspect.)


It doesn’t matter though. I’ve spent some time taking notes for the memoir (waiting in doctor’s offices, in line, at night.) While doing that, I found the purpose, the direction and the voice I want to use. That’s enough for now. I can’t believe how much stuff has come forward with that and some really wonderful questions I’ve found.


I’m reading memoirs, alternatively with fiction. I like to read as many western historical as I find just so I know there is still a market and to know what that market is. Praise horse shoes and shotguns. Oh, hurry Kaki Warner with Open Country. And reading memoir does the same. So I’m knee-deep in writing, reading and gardening. Could anything be better than that?

Less, Better

I’ve got the window of my office wide open for the spring breeze and smell—turned loam, grass, and the faintest whiff of wood smoke. Maddie Rose has the right idea as she stretches out across the loveseat, the sunlight heating her underbelly. Again, I envy her. But Zoie, our elder cat, has moved to the bench by the open window to study bird flights.

I’ve tended my houseplants and taken the vegetables out of the greenhouse to enjoy the morning light. The sun is soaking my house with heat and the only thing that comes to mind is: Ahhh. Spring. Thank goodness and blue stockings.

I’ve had a shot in the arm over the weekend, buying tomatoes, cabbage, broccoli, and herbs for the garden, though that meant jostling through crowds of other garden-starved people packing the nursery. The place looked like a kicked up ant hill.

I love watching people, but never so much as at nurseries and restaurants. I love to see what everyone else picks out and how they put things together. I try to figure out why, too. Which is another form of the great story question: What if? And the conversations. What wonderful rich sources.

And what a sight for winter-dulled eyes. Petunias and geraniums in a sea of purples and pinks. I know how it feels to overdose. It was all I could do not to take one of everything. I stuck to vegetables and it felt like I was leaving my heart behind as I walked out of the store without one flower.

The only thing that could have made it better was a delicious book to read on the front porch. And that has always been what I’ve wanted: to write a book that someone like me could curl up with on the porch swing, lemonade and a soft afghan nearby and the book, my book, so good it can’t be put down.

I’ve had a few insights over the weekend, too. Several great ideas for stories and essays. I’m feeling pleased and yet, exhausted. It was a busy week and I get real frustrated because I don’t have the energy I use to, but I try to be grateful just to be doing what I am doing.

Maybe, the lessons I’m learning is to scale back. To do less, better. Not a bad idea in gardening, life or writing.

Trust Again

The garden has been whispering, luring me until finally two days ago, it demanded. I love playing in the dirt. This spring’s weather has made it difficult to get into the yard and the events of the last few weeks have prevented it. (if I listed all that has happened you’d think me Job) I’m so far behind, that I started letting all I had to get done stress me and affect my writing.

I had to take a minute, breath and really think about what I wanted from my life. I’ve been really struggling to do this and not let stress and my own obsessive compulsive behavior get the better of me.

My writing is going along so good. I’ve put several things in the mail. Yiipee! A solid improvement and good thing. I’ve been rewriting a ton of old stories that were nearly completed when I got sick. And better yet, writing new ones and getting that itch for diving into a novel. So, instead of seeing what isn’t done, I’m trying to see what I’ve accomplished.

The garden will do what it will do. I will get to it. Maybe not as soon as I usually do, or as well, but I will get to it. And it will look beautiful, too, no matter what. Because I have dependable, hardy perennials, shrubs and roses that are the backbone of my garden. I planned it that way. I need to trust I did right.

I find that trusting oneself is difficult. Sometimes, more than trusting others, but it is vital to the writing life. I think it is one of the things that has been hardest to get back, too. Somehow, when I got sick, it shook my trust in myself. I never had a hard time making decisions before. And as I’ve said before in this blog, I could no longer even decide whether to buy a new pair of jeans or get a kitten. I’ve always been pretty independent and quite frankly, I didn’t like this side of me. That vulnerable, weak, boo-hoo-someone-help-me side.

I was never a feminist, yet I wanted to do things that were not accepted as girl-appropriate at the time. I wanted to be a veterinarian before women were allowed in any veterinarian colleges, I wanted to be a drummer when no drummer I’d ever seen was female, let alone a guitarist. I wanted to drive a jeep when girls didn’t do that either. I was told no, can’t, shouldn’t too often. I didn’t like the way things were, I thought it was unfair. I mean, why were the things I was interested not allowed for a girl to do? I was a pretty feminine girl most times, but I did like animals, drummers, big, off-road cars. Still, I didn’t know you could fight it. I wouldn’t have thought of making a stink.

I’ve always been independent, broadminded and confident in my instincts. I’ve relied on them, always. In my life, in my writing. In fact, it was something I prided myself in. And for good reason. My instincts have served me well over the years. So, I must relearn to trust them again and I am.

Reflections

As I was going through some files: submission guidelines and the like, I noticed the bulging tickler files I have. Tickler files are stories, essays, poems that really hit home, that sparked an idea for my own writing, made me think, helped me look inward. One of the saddest things I noted was how few woman’s magazine still publish short stories and end page essays. Those I have saved are some of the best, heart-filling writing. In my view, certainly worth the paper and time to read. I wonder sometimes if this isn’t the down side of our full lives and squeezing of every dollar. Even on a broader scale.

Was it readers who lost interest or was that the easiest way to cut costs. We are glutted with information, useful, needed information. We have TV magazines, 24-hour news, celebrity watch ever in the news. Couldn’t we do with something lighter, more tuned to what is good news? This is one of the reasons I watch Sunday Morning on CBS. Yes, it’s news, but for those few hours, it is positive news, looking at good, note-worthy stuff. Some of the best celebrity spots have been on that program. Factual, without ignoring the salacious stuff, but not focusing on it, either. I found out what Dustin Hoffman would kill to do, I found out how Vic Firth got into making drum sticks and why.

Can I take this information to the bank, is it information I can use? Will a short story or heart-tugging essay help me get rich? Probably not. But you know what? It may not help me do two things at once, it may not help me save and invest money, it may not get me prepared for the next looming disaster, but it enriches me.

I mean, if there isn’t time to reflect, to read a 500 word essay on a night in the garden, mother-daughter book clubs, boys being boys; if I can’t read a short story about friendship, love, survival, is there time for quality living? Remember ‘gossiping’ over the fence with a neighbor, sitting on the porch at the end of the day, reading a small piece at the end of a great magazine that helps you put life in perspective, delving into a story that makes you laugh and cry and remember.

April Godsends

• Walking in the rain


• A yellow umbrella


• A new, beautiful granddaughter-a miracle


• Spring sunlight slanting over my bottle tree


• Blooming lipstick plant


• A sister’s shoulder to cry on


• A helping hand from another writer


• Finishing a writing project and putting it in the mail-Hope in the mail


• An afternoon nap with the sun streaming through the window


• Green-up

Luring the Muse

Sometimes when you’re looking for a story, a poem, that essay or even a solution to a writing problem you have to lure in the ideas. Slyly, like fly-fishing. Tease the waters. Tap, tap, tap the water with the just perfect fly, play out the line. Wait. Wait some more. Let the sun heat your head and face, be careful where your shadow sprawls, let the breeze lap your senses and the water and tree smells coast over you. Let everything drift away like so much debris.

Like scrambled pictures you look at to see pictures underneath, it’s best not to look directly at the picture. Focus beyond, look to the side, never straight on. Never push, for the harder you try the less likely the idea will come. Relax. Offer stimuli, thought, silence and observation.

Watch the little redheaded girl trying to catch grasshoppers in the field. Notice everything about her and find your truths in the picture. Test your thoughts about life. Never forget to collect experiences.

Writing is lonely stuff. Solitary work. Most writers, most artists have done as I have-lowered their head, plow the road to publishing by sitting at their desk writing.

It’s what writing advice tells us to do. Butt in chair until blood, sweat or tears appear. It’s true. We must put in the hours, write the million words so a hundred are diamonds. We must do the writing, but we must not forget to live either. Do the things you love, you need. Open to life and when the unexpected comes: when the dog finds the mud, the water pitcher breaks, the kids call, the neighbors keep you awake, the car breaks down, a new baby arrives remind yourself that you are looking for something real to write about and you just found it.

Character

I’ve really been floundering. I’m sure that’s been obvious. Oh, I’ve stayed with my writing. I’ve worked on poems I’m proud of and, I suspect, are the best I’ve ever written. I’ve intended, for years, to put together a book of poems. I work on that each week, bit-by-bit, writing new poems, editing those I already wrote, organizing and planning the book, researching publishing companies and other options. I have always loved writing poetry and it does fill me with joy and purpose. It has been my writing lanyard. The thing that keeps me honest, true, and hanging on.

I’ve worked on this blog, producing at least two blogs a week, practicing the writing, the editing, doing some solid blogs, too. I’m proud of many of them, even when I read them, months later. And the act, the self-made deadline is great practice and it has really helped with my confidence. It was the best thing I could do when I was recovering. It was, for me, a way to restart.

But really, sometimes both just feel like treading water. I long to go back to writing novels. I’ve kind of sniffed around searching for a story, something that fires me up. That feeling has been terribly lacking since my diagnosis. Ok, all that did knock my feet out from under me for a while. I had to work on my health, recoup. And, thank goodness, I have. It took time and some fear and heartbreak, some losses but I’m feeling so good. I get tired faster, but the writing really does fire me up, gives me joy. Yet, I flounder. I haven’t been able to find a story to be passionate about. I search, I get little ideas, but they go nowhere, don’t give me that old flash I use to get.

Until…a generous comment left on my blog. From, of all people, Kaki Warner, author of Pieces of Sky, the book I have written about several times. A semi-famous writer (her words, not mine) A simple encouragement. Fifty some odd words. To me, someone she hardly knows. I had to write her back and thank her. Low and behold, she wrote another comment for me. This time, she gave me back a memory of where I’m going wrong in my ‘search.’

Concentrate on character. Simple.

But I forgot. I forgot how I wrote the eight novels I have filed away with characters that came first, before the story. Characters I loved, then, and still love and remember now. Character started it all. My stories always began with character. I ‘saw’ Elsa or Sooner, or Kate first, then the story followed. What a generous gift for someone Kaki Warner hardly knows. It opened me, somehow. Gave me back something I lost. The memory of my characters and their stories.
When I first got sick and we hadn’t yet figured out what was wrong I was struggling to edit a novel that I had felt had great promise.

As I sickened and the doctors got more puzzled and concerned I just couldn’t remember from one day to the next what I had edited or any thread of the story. I remember the horrible day I gathered all the research, chapters and edits of Elsa and the Tie-down Man, put them in a file box and stuffed the box on a top shelf in my basement.

I didn’t cry. I’d used up all the tears. I just put the novel away, along with all the others I’d written with such hope. I hadn’t looked at one page since. Had not one desire to do so…until Kaki’s reply.