It rained all night. Sometimes, hard enough to wake me. The wet and cold continue. Perfect weather for a writer. Perfect weather for editing.
I’ve plugged away at a fourth of Elsa and the Tie-down Man. Goals: eliminate a fourth of the book there-by tightening it and as I go about doing that, assess the merits of the book. Is it any good? Does it still hold my interest after all these months abandoned? Is it publishable? Worth more work?
I have a few regrets, but really some regrets are useless. I regret that I didn’t do a better job explaining my thinking on the edits I had been doing before I got sick. When I put the novel away, why didn’t I, at the very least, put in a few notes as to my thoughts of the book at that time? No sense regretting that now, though. I know I wasn’t in the shape for much insight, but that knowledge would be helpful now.
I can’t guess. The only thing I can do is go forward or quit. I choose forward. That means the book will be different than intended at the time it was written.
Of course, it would be different. I’m changed, so I bring to it different eyes. I’ve found that in every bit of work I do. When I reread a poem or short story I see it in a much different light than first intended. Most often, what I do to my work then, improves it. Because there are new layers to me, I can put new layers in my work.
This is an unexpected benefit of digging out this novel to edit. I had noticed the change in my writing—where I was coming from, how I wanted my work to come across—as I worked on my old poems and short stories to ready them for submission, but in the vaguest of ways.
I started on Elsa with a lot of trepidation, only to find, as a writer and a person, I have grown. Dare I say improve?
Rainy Monday and I’m heading forward.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Friday, May 21, 2010
April's Books I Love
You may have noticed that I’ve stopped reviewing books. I struggled with that monthly blog and I’m certain it came across as borriing. There were problems with the whole thing. I hate to say anything bad about what I’ve read. Some of the writer’s are friends, some I’ve just always loved, but more importantly for me is the fact that writing a bad book is just as hard as writing a good book.
I know.
So, for several months I’ve been wrestling with the whole reviewing books thing. I mean, I don’t have a gun to my ribs, no one is telling me how to do this blog, right? It’s mine. That’s the joy of it and the healing power of it. Because, have no doubt, writing this blog several times a week has saved me in so many ways. Biggest being, it kept me writing when I barely could. That sounds so small, but it has been huge.
Why was I so intent on doing reviews on the books I read anyway? But, I seemed to be. I really had this need to do something about the books I read. For writers, I’ve always thought the books they read are as important as the books they write. And I love nothing more than to let others know about a great book. I think it is a responsibility for a reader to pass on to other readers books worth our time. And talking about books is part of the joy of reading them, don’t you think? And sharing them.
Finally, a decision came to me in the middle of the night, as so many things do. I will only write about the books I truly love. The others don’t matter. If a friend were to ask me about a good book that I’d read recently, what book would I mention? That’s what matters. That’s what I truly wanted to share on my blog.
Last month there were two such books: One Good Dog by Susan Wilson. This is about second chances and living a life worth living. I’ve always been a sucker for animal books and this book was intelligent and uplifting. Not quite as good as The Art of Racing in the Rain by Garth Stein, but darn close and with the same little kernels of wisdom.
And A Homemade Life: stories and recipes from my kitchen table, by Molly Wizenberg (the creator of Orangette). Another passion of mine is cookbooks. I love them. I read them like novels. My favorite cookbooks are wards or organizations spiral bound fund raiser type books filled with everyday recipes. It’s the one thing I can rarely pass up at yard sales, antique shops and flea markets. Best yet, are cookbooks with tons of personal notes in the margins. It’s like reading a secret memoir, a tiny window in someone’s life, a story. And I love story I find there.
In A Homemade Life, you get stories, wonderful, personal stories. Wide-open windows into Wizenberg’s life, like chucked full margins of notes. Even better are the luscious, yummy-sounding recipes. Most recipes sound gourmet and beyond the everyday, simple home-cooking I do, but intriguing.
I think I’ve mentioned in this blog before my love for cooking. I’ve always cooked even when I was young. As a busy mother and wife it often became only a necessary task, but there have always been huge aspects of cooking that speak to me. Baking, I’ve learned is a wonderful stress-reliever and I learned after I was sick, chopping vegetables was very therapeutic.
Wizenberg is a fine writer. Each recipe’s story so well written that you can almost smell and taste the food. Long after I finished the book I thought about the stories and the recipes. Many would be difficult to make or even talk my husband into trying, but oh, how I’d love to taste each recipe.
One particular has been put on my to-be-tried list: Slow-roasted Tomatoes with Coriander because come July and August I have no doubt there will be an abundance of tomatoes from my garden due to a kind of snafu.
The weather has been just beastly. No, that isn’t even accurate. The weather has been Heckle and Jeckle. One day spring, next day winter. Hard to do gardening in that sort of situation but my husband and I sallied forth and planted cabbage, broccoli, lettuce, spinach, chard, scallions, radish and tomatoes. Four tomatoes: two Juliettes' ( We love this variety of grape tomatoes. They look like little Romas. They’re so sweet and last forever on the counter) and two Early Girls. We carefully put hot caps on, too. But the poor things froze even under those hot caps, so back to the nursery I went. When we finally got around to replacing them in the ground, weeks later, the original tomatoes had developed tiny, new growth.
After all, that I couldn’t bear to kill the tough little things and tear them from the ground. I have eight tomatoes looking pretty healthy. I’m going to need to do some slow-roasting and freezing, don’t you think?
And that’s just fine, too, because nothing’s better than a pint of roasted tomatoes added to the spaghetti sauce recipe I had to develop because of my low-sodium restriction.
Toni’s Spaghetti Sauce
1 onion, chopped
1-2 garlic cloves, minced
2 (8oz.) cans tomato sauce
1 (6oz.) can tomato paste
1 pint of frozen roasted tomatoes (or fresh roasted tomatoes)
1 teaspoon of sugar or 1 carrot
¾ teaspoon of Italian seasoning or your favorite combination of oregano, basil, rosemary, thyme, sage, marjoram (If you use fresh herbs and that wonderful, use about twice that amount or to suit your taste)
1 tablespoon parsley flakes or 2 chopped fresh
1 lb. lean ground beef or chicken or turkey
Brown ground meat over medium heat until all red is gone. You can salt and pepper the meat while it’s cooking, but I only use pepper. Drain. Add onion and garlic and cook until transparent. Add tomato sauce, tomato paste, roasted tomatoes. Stir in seasoning and reduce heat. Simmer for 30 minutes. Cook pasta while simmering. 4-6 servings.
I know.
So, for several months I’ve been wrestling with the whole reviewing books thing. I mean, I don’t have a gun to my ribs, no one is telling me how to do this blog, right? It’s mine. That’s the joy of it and the healing power of it. Because, have no doubt, writing this blog several times a week has saved me in so many ways. Biggest being, it kept me writing when I barely could. That sounds so small, but it has been huge.
Why was I so intent on doing reviews on the books I read anyway? But, I seemed to be. I really had this need to do something about the books I read. For writers, I’ve always thought the books they read are as important as the books they write. And I love nothing more than to let others know about a great book. I think it is a responsibility for a reader to pass on to other readers books worth our time. And talking about books is part of the joy of reading them, don’t you think? And sharing them.
Finally, a decision came to me in the middle of the night, as so many things do. I will only write about the books I truly love. The others don’t matter. If a friend were to ask me about a good book that I’d read recently, what book would I mention? That’s what matters. That’s what I truly wanted to share on my blog.
Last month there were two such books: One Good Dog by Susan Wilson. This is about second chances and living a life worth living. I’ve always been a sucker for animal books and this book was intelligent and uplifting. Not quite as good as The Art of Racing in the Rain by Garth Stein, but darn close and with the same little kernels of wisdom.
And A Homemade Life: stories and recipes from my kitchen table, by Molly Wizenberg (the creator of Orangette). Another passion of mine is cookbooks. I love them. I read them like novels. My favorite cookbooks are wards or organizations spiral bound fund raiser type books filled with everyday recipes. It’s the one thing I can rarely pass up at yard sales, antique shops and flea markets. Best yet, are cookbooks with tons of personal notes in the margins. It’s like reading a secret memoir, a tiny window in someone’s life, a story. And I love story I find there.
In A Homemade Life, you get stories, wonderful, personal stories. Wide-open windows into Wizenberg’s life, like chucked full margins of notes. Even better are the luscious, yummy-sounding recipes. Most recipes sound gourmet and beyond the everyday, simple home-cooking I do, but intriguing.
I think I’ve mentioned in this blog before my love for cooking. I’ve always cooked even when I was young. As a busy mother and wife it often became only a necessary task, but there have always been huge aspects of cooking that speak to me. Baking, I’ve learned is a wonderful stress-reliever and I learned after I was sick, chopping vegetables was very therapeutic.
Wizenberg is a fine writer. Each recipe’s story so well written that you can almost smell and taste the food. Long after I finished the book I thought about the stories and the recipes. Many would be difficult to make or even talk my husband into trying, but oh, how I’d love to taste each recipe.
One particular has been put on my to-be-tried list: Slow-roasted Tomatoes with Coriander because come July and August I have no doubt there will be an abundance of tomatoes from my garden due to a kind of snafu.
The weather has been just beastly. No, that isn’t even accurate. The weather has been Heckle and Jeckle. One day spring, next day winter. Hard to do gardening in that sort of situation but my husband and I sallied forth and planted cabbage, broccoli, lettuce, spinach, chard, scallions, radish and tomatoes. Four tomatoes: two Juliettes' ( We love this variety of grape tomatoes. They look like little Romas. They’re so sweet and last forever on the counter) and two Early Girls. We carefully put hot caps on, too. But the poor things froze even under those hot caps, so back to the nursery I went. When we finally got around to replacing them in the ground, weeks later, the original tomatoes had developed tiny, new growth.
After all, that I couldn’t bear to kill the tough little things and tear them from the ground. I have eight tomatoes looking pretty healthy. I’m going to need to do some slow-roasting and freezing, don’t you think?
And that’s just fine, too, because nothing’s better than a pint of roasted tomatoes added to the spaghetti sauce recipe I had to develop because of my low-sodium restriction.
Toni’s Spaghetti Sauce
1 onion, chopped
1-2 garlic cloves, minced
2 (8oz.) cans tomato sauce
1 (6oz.) can tomato paste
1 pint of frozen roasted tomatoes (or fresh roasted tomatoes)
1 teaspoon of sugar or 1 carrot
¾ teaspoon of Italian seasoning or your favorite combination of oregano, basil, rosemary, thyme, sage, marjoram (If you use fresh herbs and that wonderful, use about twice that amount or to suit your taste)
1 tablespoon parsley flakes or 2 chopped fresh
1 lb. lean ground beef or chicken or turkey
Brown ground meat over medium heat until all red is gone. You can salt and pepper the meat while it’s cooking, but I only use pepper. Drain. Add onion and garlic and cook until transparent. Add tomato sauce, tomato paste, roasted tomatoes. Stir in seasoning and reduce heat. Simmer for 30 minutes. Cook pasta while simmering. 4-6 servings.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Feeding the Beast
Easy is right. Begin right
And you are easy.
Continue easy and you are right.
The right way to go easy
Is to forget the right way
And forget that the going is easy.
Chuang-Tzu
To Hell with the workshops, rules, writing books for the time being. Can’t afford them. Don’t have time for them. While ever one I’ve ever taken, read or listened to has taught me much more than the cost, by and by, all the things I learn gives me also that tiny bit of hesitation. Am I doing this wrong? What about that suggestion?
Sometimes, what my writing needs is freedom. Free-dom. Abandoned rules, tossed outlines suggestions, forgotten ‘blueprints,’ ignored organizational tips. Chaos writing, free spirited word gathering, wasted time. That’s what I need to rejuvenate writing flow, get my creative juices excited again.
I can’t think of a better time for that than spring racing into summer. I’ve already been elbow deep in planting my gardens: vegetable and flower. That has always jumpstarted my creative thinking.
Even with all the rain and cold we’ve had this month, May is a favorite of mine. There’s the gardening and the warming…and there’s the lilacs. Lilacs are tied up in my memories of childhood: my own and my children’s. Lilacs are my mother. All through May a big bouquet of lilacs graced my mother’s kitchen table and their scent is summer beginnings. In honor of that, I have a sweet-scent bouquet from my own shrubs sitting on my file cabinet draping purple and white pinnacles over cut-glass vase.
Back to childhood and summers. Remember childhood summers. The wildness, the freedom, the long, hot days stretching out forever…a whole summer. Remember and let go of a little discipline and stuffy office work and go a little wild with your writing.
As I plug away at editing Elsa and the Tie-down Man you can be sure I’ll spend at least a few minutes each day in chaos writing; rules and suggestions ignored and only my summer wildness at work. I think I’ll even find some time for a picnic in the canyon and a nature hike or two. River haunting and museum visits. Most writers called it filling the well. I call it feeding the beast.
And you are easy.
Continue easy and you are right.
The right way to go easy
Is to forget the right way
And forget that the going is easy.
Chuang-Tzu
To Hell with the workshops, rules, writing books for the time being. Can’t afford them. Don’t have time for them. While ever one I’ve ever taken, read or listened to has taught me much more than the cost, by and by, all the things I learn gives me also that tiny bit of hesitation. Am I doing this wrong? What about that suggestion?
Sometimes, what my writing needs is freedom. Free-dom. Abandoned rules, tossed outlines suggestions, forgotten ‘blueprints,’ ignored organizational tips. Chaos writing, free spirited word gathering, wasted time. That’s what I need to rejuvenate writing flow, get my creative juices excited again.
I can’t think of a better time for that than spring racing into summer. I’ve already been elbow deep in planting my gardens: vegetable and flower. That has always jumpstarted my creative thinking.
Even with all the rain and cold we’ve had this month, May is a favorite of mine. There’s the gardening and the warming…and there’s the lilacs. Lilacs are tied up in my memories of childhood: my own and my children’s. Lilacs are my mother. All through May a big bouquet of lilacs graced my mother’s kitchen table and their scent is summer beginnings. In honor of that, I have a sweet-scent bouquet from my own shrubs sitting on my file cabinet draping purple and white pinnacles over cut-glass vase.
Back to childhood and summers. Remember childhood summers. The wildness, the freedom, the long, hot days stretching out forever…a whole summer. Remember and let go of a little discipline and stuffy office work and go a little wild with your writing.
As I plug away at editing Elsa and the Tie-down Man you can be sure I’ll spend at least a few minutes each day in chaos writing; rules and suggestions ignored and only my summer wildness at work. I think I’ll even find some time for a picnic in the canyon and a nature hike or two. River haunting and museum visits. Most writers called it filling the well. I call it feeding the beast.
Friday, May 14, 2010
BLOOMING
Error is only the opportunity to begin again, more intelligently.
Henry Ford
My grandmother grew African Violets in her kitchen window. They bloomed almost constantly. My mother and my mother-in-law grew violets, too. A few years ago, I decided I wanted to carry on the tradition.
When I start something I tend to get obsessive so I bought books, soil, fertilizer, plants and pots. The few plants I didn’t kill, never bloomed again. I tried every trick I heard or read abou. The plants didn’t bloom.
After awhile I gave up. I had kids to raise, a home to make, and books to read and write.
I still bought plants that I couldn’t resist, trying to grow them spasmodically over the years with no success. My life was busy, often hectic and I thought they were labor intensive and I just didn’t really have the time for them.
Several years ago I noticed a lush double pink African violet on a shelf at my neighbor’s house. This friend’s plant was thriving. I knew how busy she was. She worked outside the home, had a challenged child and a challenging husband on the city council. What was her secret?
There was just no reason I couldn’t have African violets blooming in my window.This time I wouldn’t give up.
I tweaked one thing after another trying to get my plants to rebloom. I bought new pots that wicked water to the plants from the bottom. I used room temperature water. I moved the plants to the most light-filled rooms. I used specially formulated African violet soil and fertilizer. I added hydrogen peroxide to the water. I asked advice from those I knew were successful and applied every hint that made sense, and even some that didn’t.
And…I stuck with it, giving the plants a chance, whispering words of encouragement. I followed a simple, consistent schedule of watering, rotating, fertilizing.
I’d heard that African Violets have resting periods after blooming, so I learned to have patience. I tended those plants. After all, it only took a few minutes and the goal was modest.
African violets bloom consistently on my file cabinet. It’s no fluke. They’ve been blooming now for years.
What worked? I don’t know.
But I suspect persistence mostly. It could have been moving them, it could have been the room-temperature water, or the new pots. I’ll never know. Maybe, the time was right. Maybe, they were finally ready. Maybe, I was. Maybe, it was just not giving up.
What has this to do with writing? Everything.
Monday, May 10, 2010
The Kindle
I’ve been reading and hearing how important it is to use the latest forms of communication in order to have a ‘platform’, get our names known, promote our work and do research. Technology has made so much information and communication right at our fingertips. Our phones do almost everything now. And I’ll admit I love new technology. All the new gadgets fascinate me, even when I don’t understand them or can see no need for them.
Yes, there’s a big but coming. But…I still like the simple, low-tech way of doing things, too. And I’ve decided it has its place and value. Let’s not forget them.
I bought a Kindle over a year ago. I was planning to do a product evaluation, but I’ve hesitated a long time trying to decide if I like, love, or hate the thing. There’s so much I like that the things I don’t like seem kind of petty, but still they take away from the joy of my reading and reading is one of my most heart-felt joys. At one time reading was my only joy. It is so close to who I am. It is so entwined with that I can’t explain exactly what I mean. It is a secret about me that for years most who knew me wouldn’t know how important or how much I read. It is the thing some know about me that defined me. I have always read tons.
Reading is more than just the act of reading for me. It is this crazy, obsessive love of mine for books. Old books, all musty and dog-eared with writing in the margins, new books, crisp and new, for me to open first. I am a bibliophile of the first order. Nothing can pull me into a flea market stall faster than a big box of old books with burgundy, green and navy spines and creamy pages. You see, for me it is not just the reading, it’s the touching, thumbing through and the owning.
But…as you can imagine that kind of obsession causes a big space problem. The Kindle seemed a solution of sorts. I could buy (cheaper) new books (tons) stored in one book-like item. I could carry that library with me, a very tempting thought when I’m looking at a retired husband wanting to travel some. The Kindle does all that.
It lets you make the font as large as necessary so you don’t have to use your glasses. It lets you take notes, too, though, for me, taking notes this way, without writing in margins, without writing down and filling notebooks (I think another obsession) isn’t as satisfying. The books are generally cheaper, although, that is about to change a bit, which though not Amazon’s fault really, frustrating because one of the great selling points for me was newly released hardbacks at only $9.99. On that point, I was expecting the price raise. It’s just disappointing.
Yet, on that point, also, the book wars (among other things) has changed much in the industry and after all, I want to work in the industry. My take on the whole thing was that anything that gave more people a chance to own and read books ended up helping the industry as a whole. Not without growing pains, but helping.
Another thing that frustrates me about the Kindle, and I’ll admit it seems dumb, and maybe, it comes from writing novels, but I just hate that I can’t know how many are pages left, or how many I’ve read. There is a little think on the bottom of the page that shows you with dots about where you are in the book, but I’d like a way to know the page number I’m on out of the page number there is. Even with the change of font, I would think the technology would be there to do that.
I read in the tub. Nothing is better after a hard, long day to have a nice warm bath laced with lavender and a good book. Looking at the Kindle, it seemed to me that it would be as easy to read in the bath as a book. It’s not. I haven’t figured out why yet, but part of it is because it isn’t as comfortable in the hand.
Yes, there’s a big but coming. But…I still like the simple, low-tech way of doing things, too. And I’ve decided it has its place and value. Let’s not forget them.
I bought a Kindle over a year ago. I was planning to do a product evaluation, but I’ve hesitated a long time trying to decide if I like, love, or hate the thing. There’s so much I like that the things I don’t like seem kind of petty, but still they take away from the joy of my reading and reading is one of my most heart-felt joys. At one time reading was my only joy. It is so close to who I am. It is so entwined with that I can’t explain exactly what I mean. It is a secret about me that for years most who knew me wouldn’t know how important or how much I read. It is the thing some know about me that defined me. I have always read tons.
Reading is more than just the act of reading for me. It is this crazy, obsessive love of mine for books. Old books, all musty and dog-eared with writing in the margins, new books, crisp and new, for me to open first. I am a bibliophile of the first order. Nothing can pull me into a flea market stall faster than a big box of old books with burgundy, green and navy spines and creamy pages. You see, for me it is not just the reading, it’s the touching, thumbing through and the owning.
But…as you can imagine that kind of obsession causes a big space problem. The Kindle seemed a solution of sorts. I could buy (cheaper) new books (tons) stored in one book-like item. I could carry that library with me, a very tempting thought when I’m looking at a retired husband wanting to travel some. The Kindle does all that.
It lets you make the font as large as necessary so you don’t have to use your glasses. It lets you take notes, too, though, for me, taking notes this way, without writing in margins, without writing down and filling notebooks (I think another obsession) isn’t as satisfying. The books are generally cheaper, although, that is about to change a bit, which though not Amazon’s fault really, frustrating because one of the great selling points for me was newly released hardbacks at only $9.99. On that point, I was expecting the price raise. It’s just disappointing.
Yet, on that point, also, the book wars (among other things) has changed much in the industry and after all, I want to work in the industry. My take on the whole thing was that anything that gave more people a chance to own and read books ended up helping the industry as a whole. Not without growing pains, but helping.
Another thing that frustrates me about the Kindle, and I’ll admit it seems dumb, and maybe, it comes from writing novels, but I just hate that I can’t know how many are pages left, or how many I’ve read. There is a little think on the bottom of the page that shows you with dots about where you are in the book, but I’d like a way to know the page number I’m on out of the page number there is. Even with the change of font, I would think the technology would be there to do that.
I read in the tub. Nothing is better after a hard, long day to have a nice warm bath laced with lavender and a good book. Looking at the Kindle, it seemed to me that it would be as easy to read in the bath as a book. It’s not. I haven’t figured out why yet, but part of it is because it isn’t as comfortable in the hand.
Friday, May 7, 2010
May Godsends:
- Purple rock cress spilling over a cement wall
- Early morning bird songs
- Newly planted garden
- Warm days
- Patio furniture
- Quail in the back yard
- Grilling outdoors
- Flats of annuals waiting to be planted
- Open windows
- Fresh sheets dried on the clothes line
Monday, May 3, 2010
Doubt
As I sat down at my desk this morning, hot curlers and all, anxious to get all I needed done before an appointment, anxious for the appointment—the yearly (late) mammogram (including the Sonocine, which I’m doing because of the bit of dust up two years ago with a scare after a mammogram, right in the middle of fighting MPGN. You think you should only have to deal with one thing at a time, but that just isn’t how life happens) I knew exactly what I was going to write about this morning. Doubt.
I’d been thinking about the subject quite a bit lately, too. And with the gathering of my old manuscript, rereading the critiques, seeing all the notes, research, rewrites I had already done, some things happening to family members and the economy, the subject kind of bit me in the butt anyway.
Doubt came rushing in as I put the manuscript and all my notes in some kind of order. I could feel the overwhelming sense I just couldn’t do this crawl over me. Who was I kidding? I couldn’t do this. I was fighting so many other fights. Caring for an elderly parent, trying to keep family members bolstered through their problems, house and garden, day to day responsibilities. I couldn’t do it. It was too much. Maybe, later. Maybe, never.
I wanted to do this perfect. I wanted this book finally done, finished, but I wanted so much more. I wanted it published. I wanted it to be good, as good as Lavyrle Spencer’s Hummingbird or Endearment, or anything she wrote, as good as Kaki Warner’s Pieces of Sky, or The Art of Racing in the Rain by Garth Stein. I wanted so much.
That thought has been racing through my head all weekend. That finally there has to be something to come out of my work to show for all the time I’ve spent writing and trying. I have to do this and it has to be the best. I want… I want…
All these thoughts have been running wild through my head all weekend, like a pack of children kept up past bedtime. I corralled all that scurrying mind-doubt on my morning walk this morning. Hold-up and hold on. I’m writing. I didn’t know if I’d ever get to the point I’d be able to face a novel. I’m up to it, too, because I’m not taking it on, all at once. I’m just taking a small step at a time. And it doesn’t have to be as good as Spencer’s or Warner’s or Steins. It only has to be my best.
I’d been thinking about the subject quite a bit lately, too. And with the gathering of my old manuscript, rereading the critiques, seeing all the notes, research, rewrites I had already done, some things happening to family members and the economy, the subject kind of bit me in the butt anyway.
Doubt came rushing in as I put the manuscript and all my notes in some kind of order. I could feel the overwhelming sense I just couldn’t do this crawl over me. Who was I kidding? I couldn’t do this. I was fighting so many other fights. Caring for an elderly parent, trying to keep family members bolstered through their problems, house and garden, day to day responsibilities. I couldn’t do it. It was too much. Maybe, later. Maybe, never.
I wanted to do this perfect. I wanted this book finally done, finished, but I wanted so much more. I wanted it published. I wanted it to be good, as good as Lavyrle Spencer’s Hummingbird or Endearment, or anything she wrote, as good as Kaki Warner’s Pieces of Sky, or The Art of Racing in the Rain by Garth Stein. I wanted so much.
That thought has been racing through my head all weekend. That finally there has to be something to come out of my work to show for all the time I’ve spent writing and trying. I have to do this and it has to be the best. I want… I want…
All these thoughts have been running wild through my head all weekend, like a pack of children kept up past bedtime. I corralled all that scurrying mind-doubt on my morning walk this morning. Hold-up and hold on. I’m writing. I didn’t know if I’d ever get to the point I’d be able to face a novel. I’m up to it, too, because I’m not taking it on, all at once. I’m just taking a small step at a time. And it doesn’t have to be as good as Spencer’s or Warner’s or Steins. It only has to be my best.
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