Editing Refocus

Sometimes, while I’ve been editing this book, I’ve wondered if I can still create a story from the blank screen. It’s been so long since I started a new novel, after all. I get hungry to begin, to start a new story, meet new characters, be in that world I make up, instead of the world I made up. I think it is a hunger for that other kind of creating.

Also, I worry and wonder if the last years have lost me more than I realize. And lost what I may never get back.

I know I am creating as I editing, sure, but it is different. It is a recreate, of sorts, a clearing up of a vision, many years old now.

I actually draw a lot of hope from feeling I want to begin, start, do something new, too. I don’t want to feel stagnant, dead in the water and just floating along. I want to write new, and I think writing something new keeps those muscles agile and strong. It also creates a different excitement.

But I have realized that if I am to finish this book, progress as a writer, reach my goal I must focus. Focus has been difficult these last few years. I felt so much as if I’ve been catching up, finding all I’ve lost, making up for lost time. I’ve felt a nagging to hurry, hurry, hurry. Some of that comes, I know, from wondering if I would every do…this. Write. Create. Do what I always felt was one of the things I was born to do. I was made to do.

So, as in so many times and troubles, I turn to poetry. After the morning hours of editing, I switch to writing poems and poem ideas. I don’t push or struggle, but wait, writing idle thoughts, doing thought maps, finding words. I let my mind go off on whatever tangent it wants.
I don’t often end up with any full-blown poem, ready for readers, but I end up with gems, in need of polishing. Perfect starting points for some in depth poetry retreat or session. I end up feeling as if I’ve created some small foundation to something wonderful and that eases the hunger for another day.

The novel comes back in focus, my goal doable.

Summer’s gone, with just a few more weeks of sunny days and warmth and the garden. Grasshoppers have grown lazy, the ‘Autumn Joy” sedum is turning pink, the hydrangea has gone brown and there is a hint of goodbye hovering near my pansies. I can’t truly blame them. I planted them last fall with all the hope that their brave faces would see me through to October, November and those first shaky beginning of spring. And they did.

I take the poem writing outside with me. Why not? Those days are not long mine to take. So I store them up like the hummingbirds hovering over the salvia garden up on the second tier of my garden stocking up on nectar. There are lessons there, I suppose, so I take poems, words, hopes with me on my morning walk, too, where the scent and chill has been decidedly autumny. It’s amazing how that morning walk and the poetic expressions and phrases gets me ready to knuckle under once I get home.

And so I will.

And so I do.

P.S. It means nothing big to anyone but me, but I braided my hair today. It’s been two and a half years since it was thick enough to do that and I smile happy tears.

Research

Over the years, I’ve taken hundreds of pictures for my research files. I write mostly western historical, so I haunt museums. Nothing gets the details down quite like the actual item: studying it, imagining your character using it, feeling it. Many of my pictures are the old-fashioned film kind and admittedly, I never did find a good way to file them so they were easy to find.

Digital photos help with that, but replacing all my film photos with digital would mean revisiting a lot of museums. I wouldn’t mind. Virginia City Nevada was a step back in time, mysterious and haunting. I didn’t get enough of Cody, Wyoming, but the truth is, right where I live is rich with museums and western history.

My local amusement park has a pioneer village tucked in among water rides and carousel where homes and cabins, a livery, a church and furnishings can be studied and photographed. Wednesday I spent a few hours doing just that.

It’s not like I don’t have all the details, props and facts already researched and figured out for Ellie and the Tie-down Man, but I wanted to get the feel and reality of the times. It would have been even better if I could have touched the table worn smooth by scrubbing, run my hands over the quilt made with one inch squares from a family’s worn-out clothes, or felt the heat of the potbellied room stove.

Instead, I stood at the glass partition separating me from the relics and tried to erase all the other looky-loos and put myself into that cabin with the best of my imagination. It worked, too, for the most part, (aside from the smell of chlorine, hot dogs and fries.)

I came home with wonderful pictures, a sense of time and place I needed and notes for some poetry that’s been wanting out, wanting attention. You see, as hard as I’m working on my novel, I still sneak time for my poetry. I have to. The poetry demands it. And as I said, poetry has always lead me into my best writing, helped me find my voice and taught me about concise wording.

I have been gathering together poems I’ve written with the hopes they could become a chapbook. I’ve figured out the title and direction I want the book to go. And the two projects are keeping me focused. Better yet, the research was a boost to both and a good day spent out of the office.

Write What You Know

One of the first instructions given to writers is to write what you know. Most of us know much more than we think. This is what I know:

I’ve spent the last two years thinking about my experiences. About what I’ve done, what I’ve learned. About my teachers.

I took my first writing class in the sixth grade from Mrs. Mildon. She taught me how to see things, she taught me empathy, she taught me another way to read and though I already loved books and reading, she taught me another dimension of reading. How to study a book. She taught courage and how to stand up to things that knock you down.

She was diagnosed with breast cancer in 1963, in the middle of the school year. We had to cut the writing class short, but she kept on teaching for several years, missing few days, despite the cruelty of treatment back then. Teaching meant everything to her and she showed me just how to honor what you love.

She taught the students in her creative writing class many basic writing skills but first and foremost, she taught us to be true. True to our writing.

Her words:
· Beauty and sharpness of expression, yes, but sincerity first.
· We work for sincere, meaningful descriptive writing
· And her most repeated: Give your words wings—but remember: “I’ll never write a line I have not heard in my own heart. —Rostand

Reading and writing are cornerstones of who I am. My most lasting memories are of my parents reading to me—at bedtime, while braiding my hair, at lunchtime.

I talked early (according to my sister, I never shut up). Words are a security blanket comforting, real, understood. If I want to learn how to do something, I need the written instructions sets it in my head best.

I like words straightforward and simple. I like them turned on their ear and played with. I love playing word games. I love rolling words on my tongue just to try out their music. Words have lead me to and through many things. It is how I see the world. It’s how I navigate the potholes of my life.

I always thought I was destined to be a writer and have thought so since I first took up a pencil. Self-published (I was ahead of my time), at seven. I sold short stories, mostly western historical, (horses played a prominent role, of course), to my mother for a nickel. (A Butterfinger cost a nickel. See where I was going with my pricing? As you can see, I’m also an avid chocolaholic.) I tried selling stories door to door. That didn’t go over very well, but I could always count on my mom to buy my latest work.

More recently, I’ve had short stories and essays published in national magazines, wrote an inspirational column for URWA for four years, won several poetry contests. I also have a drawer full of unpublished work. Tons of poems, short stories, essays, plus nine novels. I admit, some probably shouldn’t see the light of day but some should.

I’m owned by two cats (Zoie and Maddie Rose) and master to no one but my dog. (and L.E. ( my dog) might dispute that) As of this moment, I have been owned by eleven cats and have owned nine dogs.

I’ve waited up all night, heart in my throat for a new teenager driver to come home and held many a dinner for a hard-working husband. I’ve been a grieving daughter, an angry wife, a frustrated mother.

I’ve been a baby, a fey child, a tomboy, a little sister, a daughter, a girlfriend. I was a daddy’s girl, a rebellious daughter, a flower child, a straight-A student. A high school newspaper reporter and a poet. I’ve been an introvert, an awkward daughter-in-law with her foot in her mouth. A carhop, a pet-shop worker, a dog groomer, a dog obedience instructor, a bookkeeper, a bride and pregnant.

I’ve been a vegetable gardener, flower gardener, home-canner, seamstress, crocheter, knitter, quilter, cross-stitcher, decorator. A movie-theater custodian, a PTA mom and the proud mother of graduates, grooms, and adult children. I’ve been a soccer mom, a t-ball mom, a neighborhood chauffeur and a salesperson. A supply clerk, building contractor, designer, cook, columnist, member of the RWA and URWA, grandma and the primary-care giver to an elder breast cancer survivor. And a friend to many, I hope.

I’ve survived childhood, the 60’s, Mr. Hansen’s current events class, dating, marriage, motherhood, sister-in-laws, mother-in-laws, daughter-in-laws, grandparenting, aging, illness, more than one recession, lost jobs, lost hope, downturns, upturns and everything in between. Survived three broken arms (not my own), chicken pox, measles (both kinds), mastitis, gout, anemia, rickets and MPGN. Survived childbirth, a D and C, a hysterectomy, a colonoscopy, an upper GI, a CAT scan, a cystoscope and a kidney biopsy. Car accidents, a broken tailbone, heartache, headache, laughter, tears, and despair. I’ve done emergency care for cuts, rebar speared through a child’s leg, more than one head trauma, blood infections, HS purpura, a Woolly monkey, and a hit-and-run cat. Lived through countless sleepless nights, police calls, loneliness, blame, abandonment, over-whelming chaos and peace.

I’ve been animal-crazy, horse-crazy, boy-crazy, baby-crazy, Beatles-crazy (watched ‘Help’ nine times in one day), Neil Diamond-crazy, Kojak-crazy (don’t ask), Magnum PI-crazy. And just plain crazy.

Been too thin, too fat, on a diet, off a diet, healthy, sick, and just right.

I’ve worn sun-dresses, poodle skirts, love beads, bell bottoms. Maternity smocks, pantsuits and holey Levis. Mommy jeans, mini-skirts, granny skirts, straight leg, peg leg, flare leg, tapered leg. Round toe, square toe, pointed toe. I’ve had curls, braids, ironed waist-long hair, bleached-out hair, ratted hair, neck-length hair, perms, balding hair and graying hair.

I’ve killed and dressed chicken, ducks and doves, helped cut up deer, elk and bear, watched cockfights, dogfights, girl fights and caught craw daddies, minnows, trout and worms. I’ve shot a rifle, revolver, Saturday Night Special, muzzleloader, slingshot, bow and arrow and the bull.

I’ve saved a hummingbird, a life, pennies, S & H green stamps, Gold Strike stamps, coupons, memories, books and I hope, my friends, and myself. I’ve fried and eaten grasshoppers; dug a hole to China (didn’t make it), raised puppies, guppies, angelfish, cat-faced spiders, ants and boys. Rode horses, been thrown. Got back on. Rescued ducks, dogs, cats, lost horses and lost wallets. Moved a mountain of mud with a shovel, a heart to tears, and three children out of the house.

I’ve been to court, to prison, to a mental hospital, seen the original Beach Boys in concert, hiked the high Uintahs, lived in small town USA all my life. I’ve shucked corn, snipped beans, dug potatoes, and picked peaches, raspberries, strawberries and a husband. I’ve cut asparagus, firewood, a path through a forest and a rug. I’ve made my own ice cream, root beer, pickles, Levi’s, sweaters, rugs, quilts, afghans, samplers, rules and way.

I’ve collected bugs, antiques, precious moments (figurines and minutes), old bottles, galvanized watering cans, aluminum cans (since the 70’s), newspapers, thimbles, all things Gone With The Wind, Rod McKuen poems, stamps, pictures, poems, ink bottles, paper weights, pens, blank notebooks, books, quotes, skeleton keys, milk glass salt and pepper shakers and random thoughts.

I’ve been loved, hated, praised, criticized, spit on, thrown up on, ignored, groped, pinched, broke, fixed, dropped, picked up, kissed, slapped, spoiled, scolded, heart-broke, adrift, depressed, exalted, forsaken and happy.

I’ve planted, sowed, buried, raked, mowed, leveled, tilled, shoveled, hoed, tamped. I’ve turned, fed and talked dirt.

I’ve loved and cared for fish, piranha, horses, dogs, cats, raccoons, skunks, squirrels, chipmunk, rabbits, chickens, ducks, tortoise, snakes, iguana, ant farms, sea monkeys, caterpillar, babies, friends, father, mother, grandmother, Woolly monkeys, squirrel monkeys, Capuchin monkeys, canaries, pigeons, parrots, mice, hamsters and tarantula’s. I’ve been dog bit, snake bit, horse bit, love bit, tick bit.

I’ve watched a man walk on the moon, the Challenger crash, 9/11, the Twin Towers fall, peace riots, race riots, my kids grow into adults right under my nose, pets live and die, money come and go.

I’ve fought global warming, gas shortages (more than once,) empty pockets and depression. Boycotted meat prices, the Vietnam War, and apartheid. I remember jacks, jump rope, Drive-in movies, I Love Lucy, the Mouseketeers, Spin and Marty, That Girl, Bewitched, pony-tail Barbie, Betsy McCall dolls, American Bandstand, leather jackets, duck tails, party lines, hula-hoops, mustang 64 ½ , a robin’s egg blue pink polka-dot beetle (it was the 60s), vinyl records, ’45’s, swine flu(twice), skate keys, skateboards(the first time around), Look and Life magazine, racial riots, Elvis and the Beatles on the Ed Sullivan Show, the assignations of the Kennedy’s and Martin Luther King.

I’ve read, watched, wept, written, succeeded, failed, failed again, failed big, tried, given up, started over, started over again. I’ve fed the hungry, helped the illiterate, housed the homeless, been robbed, been helped. I’ve lived, thought I’d die. I am, in some way, like all of you.
These are the things I know. These are the things I write about. Make your own list. Update it as you go. It makes you think. It makes you sad, glad, mad and proud.

And remember this: Through it all, two things never failed me—reading and writing.

In other words—words.

Getting the Job Done

That’s where I’m at right now with my edits: getting it done, doing what most writers call the ‘real’ writing. I tend to agree. Rewrites, editing is so much like panning for gold. Swirling what you have in the pan, looking for the nuggets of good. I truly love it when it’s going well, but when it isn’t; it feels a whole lot like trudging up a mountain trail.

You have a destination, you have great scenery, sometimes, you have great company, but after awhile you also have fatigue, sore feet and aching muscles. That’s when you have to reach inside and find what it takes to keep going.

Everyone has something that works:

When my husband and his brother went grouse hunting, they’d wear themselves getting to where they hunted. On their way back to their truck, tired, cold and wet, they would talk about the hamburger and chocolate malt they were going to buy on the way home. They would describe exactly what it would smell and taste like, the whole way to their truck.

Bikers pick a landmark and bike to it, then pick another and another. They go miles that way. Hikers use the same methods. Walkers put one foot in front of the other, their iPod blaring in their ear.

When you tell yourself you’re tired, you just can’t do this anymore, when your writing doesn’t work and you think you will never be published, you put one foot in front of you.

And while you’re putting that foot in front of the next you keep your head in the game. That isn’t always easy. There are other stories whispering in your ear, trying to seduce you. Telling you, they’ll be easier, better.

I have a mantra to fight that. Nose over the toes. I read that in Hannah Nyala’s Point Last Seen: Nose over the toes. It reminds me not get my mind too far ahead of my feet. My mind too far ahead of what I’m doing.

Take today. Do the edits the best you can. Do that tomorrow and tomorrow until you get through the book. And if it needs it again. You start again. There is no other way, but that’s ok, because that is how you learn to do it better for the next time.

Happy edits.

Seasoning

I’m not sure why, but this pass through my novel has opened my eyes. Maybe, it was the long break between the last edit and this one. Maybe, that time gave me a better distance. I don’t know. It only seems I have a better grasp on what story I’m trying to tell.

It would be such a blessing if the two years I’ve spent not working on my novels, gave me something. I felt I lost so much. Time, mostly. It haunts me. Though I wasn’t working on my novel writing, I wasn’t idle. I read, a ton.

I took my trusty Writer’s Digest and the Writer with me to every damned doctors’ appointment. It was a way to cope with the whole situation. A situation I just hated. Oh, anyone would, but I have this terrible anxiety around doctors. I think it stems from childhood and when my Uncle Bruce (MD) visited. My family acted like the KING was coming.

Anyway, I kept my nose in the magazine and tried to concentrate only on the articles, instead of the worry that didn’t help at all anyway. Sometimes—often, I came away not remembering one darn word, but sometimes there was this glimmer of insight. I think it was because I was trying so hard to focus.

Truthfully, I had a whole lot less focus what with everything that was going on at the time. As I said many times (too many, in my opinion) my mind wasn’t working well, especially while I was sickest or on the biggest doses of the prednisone. And I wonder (hope), too, if the whole journey gave me a different perspective.

Perspective is good. Looking back can give insight. And certainly, when you go through something you learn what is most important. People tend to forget that too fast. But trouble makes you grow, and growing seems to me to be all good for a writer.

When I could write again, I spent a lot of time floundering. I tried to write a memoir about the illness. I was just too close and too grateful to be getting better. Going back over it seemed counter to my determination to take Christopher Reeves’ advice: Go forward. Maybe that time for that memoir will come, but it isn’t yet.

I worked on poetry, did a few workshops I’d been wanting to do. I think some of my best poetry came out of that, but that wasn’t all I gained. I think the time working on poetry gave my writing something that had been lacking for some time. A depth and a way of looking at each word. I got invaluable, insightful critiques from my instructor, too. Something I don’t have enough access to.

I have always gone back to poetry when I struggle with my writing. It has always helped. This time, I was more open to each lesson. A perfect case of: When the student is ready, the teacher will come. What’s more, each critique helped me analyze all my writing in a different way. That’s good for all my writing.

I have a theory: God or the Universe (or whatever you believe in,) gives you what you need. It’s the figuring out what that lesson is, that’s toughest.

Puts me in mind of a quote I’ve saved from years ago (I’m a quote collector, much like an inkbottle, paperweight, vase, pen collector) A ship is safe in the harbor, but that’s not what ships are built for.

The ocean is a big dangerous place and, for certain, even if nothing bad happens, there is going to be some wear and tear. That ship won’t be as spiffy when it gets back from across the sea, as it was when it left. It will have tales to tell. It has been seasoned. It will never be pristine again, but it will be experienced.

Now, I don’t know about you, but I’d rather ride in a ship that’s crossed the ocean and come back safe, than a ship that’s stayed in the harbor.

August Godsends:

· Summer thunderstorms
· Garden picked vegetables: sweet corn, zucchini, tomatoes
· Porch sitting in the evenings (with a good book)
· School supplies, obviously
· Knowing you must make the most of the remaining summer
· Picnics in the canyon
· The sound of the river (and smell)
· Bottles of green beans from your own garden
· Daisies
· Dragonfly evenings