tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3388837357290932092024-03-05T10:00:52.759-08:00Writing from the DarkA.J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/17101750330318702321noreply@blogger.comBlogger19125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-338883735729093209.post-28954347501570995562021-05-21T11:47:00.006-07:002023-06-26T12:58:09.591-07:00Road Rage 2021<p> <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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</p><p class="MsoNormal">Stories don't have to be made up; sometimes they just fall
into my lap and it's my job to record them (fictional elaboration allowed). Wednesday
I was leaving Subway (the one near Walmart here in Hillsborough). Stopped at a stop
sign in the parking lot, looked both ways, and proceeded. Whiz! An aqua blue car barreled
toward me on the right, doing at least 45 mph (in a parking lot—okay, it's a
road that runs through a parking lot, but still…). I slammed on my brakes, narrowly
avoiding a collision, and as she flew by the woman driver honked her horn and gave
me the finger. The scowl on her face became a photo in my mind. I went on to my
next short errand, and was on my way again in about 10 minutes. <br /></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I turned left onto Highway 86 ("new" 86, as we
call it here). Crossed over I-85 where a sign on the overpass always gives me a
smile, "Tolerance Ends." <br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgswecE1gfiW6Z4Dg9-h0lHNUoIuYLMGO_dITNZPHBdgcAfzcWBkCuLoAQvp0j84-BTbClI6J8Jv6FGZbQoQwUDSp1N2XAIyiGgoMCHAh5BegtGaqV77y9YQfjuampVq_A4z4kPhgMUuKAxhl0X-sdSJf1-cBLmm7lMMJY0MOJNk3s4SnBw_7gu8l5BrC4/s913/tolerance%20ends.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="592" data-original-width="913" height="207" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgswecE1gfiW6Z4Dg9-h0lHNUoIuYLMGO_dITNZPHBdgcAfzcWBkCuLoAQvp0j84-BTbClI6J8Jv6FGZbQoQwUDSp1N2XAIyiGgoMCHAh5BegtGaqV77y9YQfjuampVq_A4z4kPhgMUuKAxhl0X-sdSJf1-cBLmm7lMMJY0MOJNk3s4SnBw_7gu8l5BrC4/s320/tolerance%20ends.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">And came to a stop in a long line of cars
before the entrance/exit ramps; soon realized that the holdup was an accident a
little way ahead of me. One of the two cars involved was the aqua car that had raced by me in the Walmart parking lot. The
driver stood by her car, apparently unhurt, assessing the awful damage
to the front end: hood accordioned and popped open, a smashed-up mess. The
other car had damage to the rear end. Several people stood there, and I assumed
whoever was in the other car was okay, but I really don't know.</p><p class="MsoNormal"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When I got home I told Jean-Michel about this, and in the
telling said I felt oddly sorry for the woman who'd almost collided with me.
She must have had a reason for going so fast in a parking lot, and for slamming
into the rear end of another car just minutes later. An emergency? A bad day? A
broken heart? A death in the family? Or just a distracted, out-of-sorts, angry woman
using her accelerator to express her fury. I've been there, have driven that
way, hell-bent on demonizing the highway in my rage. I'm so grateful to be an
old woman whose anger switch is mostly turned off. And deeply thankful that I
wasn't a split second faster leaving Subway.</p>
A.J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/17101750330318702321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-338883735729093209.post-84877522080428853982019-05-04T12:28:00.001-07:002023-06-26T12:57:18.223-07:00Writing from the Dark<p>I was eleven when Mama and Daddy built their new house at 1869 Queens Road West, Charlotte 7, NC, on a lot that was half an acre; 4,000 square feet, 5 bedrooms, 3-1/2 baths in the main house (including the toilet and sink under the basement stairs for use by black maids, yard people, etc.), and a 500 SF studio over the two-car garage--the "rec room" or "wreck room" as Daddy referred to it. The property cost $40,000 in 1951, when realtors sold houses at a list price/SF of $10/SF--the median list price/SF today is $152/SF). Our original house was torn down in the 1990s, all except for the garage and rec room, and a new house was built; it recently sold for $2,140,000.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1GY8OH0a2rFgNL9OJHn14HBGgbz4XK9_aYnJGyxf16_HXbzIDXsIjdZ2ial8dzCIALLSK1WJjqNW18GqDdLsgHoKN_3j2AAKUyqc-WxrvOToyZA8UJWt54vf_KMCb19X0MrwMCs1dENM93pCN7MKYEIGIzWzv67O1Vh55fsBLCd7nYmJzFam3FPCtrbk/s590/1869%20Queens%20construction.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="404" data-original-width="590" height="219" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1GY8OH0a2rFgNL9OJHn14HBGgbz4XK9_aYnJGyxf16_HXbzIDXsIjdZ2ial8dzCIALLSK1WJjqNW18GqDdLsgHoKN_3j2AAKUyqc-WxrvOToyZA8UJWt54vf_KMCb19X0MrwMCs1dENM93pCN7MKYEIGIzWzv67O1Vh55fsBLCd7nYmJzFam3FPCtrbk/s320/1869%20Queens%20construction.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<br />
The main house was redwood and brick; it comprised a half basement, ground floor, second floor, and full attic. In the entry hall on the ground floor was a wall toggle switch that turned the attic fan on and off. In the spring, after turning off the furnace, Mama would open several strategic windows and doors (namely the kitchen door on the back of the house away from the afternoon sun, and with a screen door) and turn on the attic fan. Thus until nightfall the house was dark, with a pleasant breeze running throughout. We didn't turn on the air conditioning until late June, and turned it off in mid-September.<br />
<br /> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin_4nI16lVwqnGov2EL9vAeVvEuLiilCF9rUEsjo4eU7NvyJ26G85yHR-3Pz6cvc5eJo8EILa90qTiqDa9TfYtG4KbXdaJ8sN6vGtnnxLaZZSdDV1QbU7LSue2moY5pvMMMm2PKQ3CHw1dzIH7wUzV_wOtmKAIyLlm8XiMytAbofc2CyYOhXVRo7NvKnA/s2988/new%20red%20roof.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2241" data-original-width="2988" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEin_4nI16lVwqnGov2EL9vAeVvEuLiilCF9rUEsjo4eU7NvyJ26G85yHR-3Pz6cvc5eJo8EILa90qTiqDa9TfYtG4KbXdaJ8sN6vGtnnxLaZZSdDV1QbU7LSue2moY5pvMMMm2PKQ3CHw1dzIH7wUzV_wOtmKAIyLlm8XiMytAbofc2CyYOhXVRo7NvKnA/s320/new%20red%20roof.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />Now it's early May in the middle of North Carolina (near Chapel Hill), where my husband and I live; we share 1,700 square feet on the main floor, and our A/C quit a week ago. So every day I close the blinds in the morning and turn on our 4 ceiling fans...the resulting dusk at noon reminds me so much of growing up, adapting as Southerners have done for several hundred years to the heat of noonday. In the past we adapted with high ceilings (10-12') and heavy drapes and (once we had electricity) fans. Now we're dependent on A/C, and have little ability to adapt otherwise.<p></p><br /><br />A.J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/17101750330318702321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-338883735729093209.post-78724272232558508872019-03-11T09:31:00.002-07:002019-03-11T09:35:56.061-07:00TIME TRAVELRandom thoughts on writing, my writing: <br />
<br />
I've never questioned why my novels are set in earlier times, have only followed my instinct to set my stories 50 or 60 years ago. A burden comes with that decision: research. But I compose from character, and when I'm beginning a project I don't worry about getting the facts straight, or about the research that will inevitably be necessary. I just write. In a strange way, when a character is really yammering at me, it's like taking dictation, and I get as much down as I can before collapsing into bed, both excited and worn out.<br />
<br />
Have noticed recently that my short stories are, for the most part, future set. Just observing here, not judging, but fascinated that my long works (novels ) are set in the past and my short works (stories) are set in the future. Wonder what a psychologist would make of that. <br />
<br />
I have advice Scotch-taped to the top of my monitor: "Trust the process. Let go of the results." That's something I've repeated to the members of my writing groups (the three I led for many years and the one in which I have been led for 32 years now). It's time, once again, to heed that comment.A.J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/17101750330318702321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-338883735729093209.post-53699059410977619832019-03-11T09:30:00.001-07:002019-03-11T18:31:59.312-07:00When I can't/don't write<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Here I am again,
on a bright March morning, not writing. I gaze out at my empty back yard that's
usually teeming with wildlife--squirrels, deer are the most frequent
inhabitants, but I've seen groundhogs, raccoons, beaver--and my mind is blank.
No characters begging for release back into the lives I've created for them. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
I bought 3 boxes
of pens 2 weeks ago in a fit of optimism that the way they glide across the
paper will facilitate my writing—that the ease of getting words on paper will
make it not just possible to write whatever's next, but will inspire me, will
create characters, PLOT—ah, there’s the rub…WHERE IS THE STORY GOING?? I am so
restrained by not knowing <u>when the story is</u> and where it is going.
An exercise, finally, started the character table DOB and DOD…this is SO
important! Get to know these people.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Who are they?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
What do they want?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
What stands in the
way, individually, for each?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Establish a TIME
LINE.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Thoughts on a character, Mr. Blank…is
he married? I think not. I think he’s in his late 20s, still living with his
widowed mother, who is not well—she’s a good woman who would NEVER put demands
on him, but who is ill and helpless and has no one else (Mr. Blank has a sister
in California who leaves care of their mother up to her brother…maybe mother
and sister suspect he might be gay, but never address that thought). His mother
will somehow/sometime meet his sweetheart. Mr. Blank's mother intuits the
closeness between her son and this young woman. Mr. Blank, as a single man tied
to his mother, is more appealing than a married man cheating on his wife and
children; he also shows a willingness to stick with someone when the going gets
tough. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
DO THIS. DO THIS.
Stay with the not knowing. Be willing not to know where I’m going. Be
uncomfortable. Go into each “exercise” willing to be uncomfortable, willing not
to know where I’m going. Practice what I preach…i.e., when I go to my crayon
box I should stop looking at the colors...just take whatever my fingers find;
be willing to have opposing colors together. Don’t question whether I can or
have the right to tell this story.. Don’t let myself get railroaded by doubt.
BE IN TODAY. BE NOW!</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
What is it that
keeps me from working on a new novel or on old short stories? Why am I not NOW
sitting at my keyboard and—AT THE LEAST—transcribing notes from a year ago? I
sit here icing my recently wounded left shoulder, heating pad on my lower back,
79 years old and otherwise CONTENT with my life, and, in fact, contemplating
the launch of my second novel; the only thing lacking in my life (aside
from a cure for my daughter's cancer) is my inability—at this moment—to write.
Many years ago, as I approached the final draft of <i>Dry Grass</i>, did I have
the same reluctance to write? Did I daily come up with reasons not to write?
Did I plan so much—so many things—in my daily life that constant writing was
impossible?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
I sit here in a
different recliner (the former one is downstairs, still functional, and the
current one is in its place—the identical footprint). I look out at the same
tree—just budding now—that rises at Matt and Cheryl’s house. None of their
three daughters had been born. Through the window I see the enormous pile of
split wood from the half-felled tree that—if allowed to continue to age and
eventually rot—could take at least Charles and Nancy’s roof, if not
ours, but which has never been a threat or fear for me. There are so many
things to fear, but fear of not writing is my greatest.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
How do accomplished
writers of many novels do it? Why am I not writing? There is so much ease in my
physical position, lying in this recliner with a fine pen in hand on these
cheap legal pads. An occasional car passes. Earlier the mail truck—J-M went
out and collected the mostly junk and mostly tossed it. As I wait
for the ice and heat to soothe my ancient joints, I have thoughts of how “we”
might direct traffic from our street after the construction at the end of
Mitchell is finished, houses erected and sold. But it is certainly two years
before any noticeable increase in traffic here, so why do thoughts of directing
it so consume me?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Why can’t I live
in <u>today</u>, grateful for my remarkably good life—it is indeed quite
remarkably good—is it because I still fear success? Surely not.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Another gratitude
is that I share my life with a man who—though quite noisy—puts no demands on
me. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in; text-indent: .5in;">
Afterthought: I’ve
just discovered that doing this handwritten page and a half (transcribe to this blog) has greatly relieved my angst. This (the scribbled pages) <b><u>IS
</u></b>writing.</div>
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<![endif]-->A.J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/17101750330318702321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-338883735729093209.post-29504480153404155432019-03-11T09:12:00.000-07:002019-03-11T09:12:42.827-07:00Don't PanicAugust, 2017: I was heading east from Carrboro to a Raleigh address south of Garner, about a 50-minute drive. Chose to take Highway 64 instead of the interstate so I could cross Jordan Lake on the gorgeous afternoon. I rolled down the windows, turned up the volume on my book on CD (<i>Thirteen Ways of Looking</i>, a collection of novellas by Colum McCann, delicious in every way). South of the lake a thought hit me. There's a BIG box of books in the trunk, and I'm on my way to pick up a dinette set purchased on Craig's List...no way the table and four chairs would fit in the trunk with that box of books. I'd forgotten to take the box out before leaving my home in Hillsborough. So I pulled well off the highway onto a grassy verge that bordered a forest. I opened the front passenger door, struggled the heavy cardboard carton from the trunk, dragged it across the grass and managed to heft it onto the front passenger seat. All was well until I decided to shove it onto the floor, thinking maybe one of the chairs I was picking up would fit in the passenger seat. The box slipped, pinning my right wrist between it and the dashboard. A bracelet on my wrist was caught on something I couldn't see, and I was well and truly stuck. Couldn't stand up to flag down a passing car for help, besides which there was little traffic on this rural road. The more I tried to free myself, the more my back ached. I thought about the "Drama in Real Life" section of <i>Reader's Digest</i>, that I could well be fixed in this ridiculous position--butt skyward--for days. I heard the rumble of something approaching, tried to wave with my left hand, which barely cleared the hood of my Prius, and despaired as whatever it was rolled on by.<br />
<br />
I am not the panicky sort. I am self-sufficient and confident in most situations, but I admit to panic that afternoon, to thoughts of animals in the forest along the road. Sweat trickled down my face--HOT doesn't describe August in North Carolina--and the pain in my back became more of a focus than my trapped hand.<br />
<br />
Again the noise of something approaching. I straightened enough to see a pickup truck in the westbound lane, and again I lifted my left arm, certain the driver wouldn't be able to see my hand above the top of the car, waving. But I heard the squeal of brakes, strained upward to see a man getting out of the truck. "You okay?" he hollered. "No," I shouted back, trying not to sound desperate. "I need help."<br />
<br />
He walked up, assessed the situation, and moved the carton as if it were no heavier than a box of Kleenex, and saw that my bracelet was caught on an industrial-size staple that had worked loose from cardboard box. He bent the staple and I was free. As I straightened, I laughed. "Well, I'm 77, and I guess my age has finally caught up with me."<br />
<br />
Then I got a good look at my rescuer, who was no spring chicken. He said, "I've got you there, be 80 in the spring."<br />
<br />
I thanked him as he turned to leave, saying, "No problem, any time."<br />
<br />
I got back on my way to Garner, wishing I'd asked his name, had properly thanked him. I chided myself for making more of the mishap than it was, thinking I really could have moved the box of books if I'd just tried harder, all the while rubbing my bruised and scraped wrist, the bloody scratch from the staple. I finally came to realize that there are times when I'm helpless, when I cannot fix a problem, and that most of my life my independence has been a character defect that has prevented me from admitting my helplessness.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />A.J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/17101750330318702321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-338883735729093209.post-54618839061330266942015-06-15T14:29:00.001-07:002015-06-15T16:05:21.867-07:00Tall Motel Beds--Form Over FunctionHere's a picture of the bed in the Comfort Inn where we stayed last week in
Marion, NC. There's a trend in motels now to make the beds tall--maybe
to save the backs of the housekeepers, who have to make dozens of beds
every day. However, I'm paying to sleep there, and even though I'm tall
(5'8"), I cannot get in and out of the bed (and I need to do that 2-3
times a night). Sitting on the bed (like to put on socks) is NOT an
option. I pulled the desk close to the bed for perspective. The de<span class="text_exposed_show">sk
is 29" tall--the bed is a couple of inches taller--so imagine trying to
sit on the desk, then swing your legs up to lie down on it. I asked for a
stool and all the inn could offer was a booster seat (it's on the floor
by the bed). Also note the pillow--dollar bills are 6", so the pillow
must be 8" or more--they look great at the head of the bed but are
impossible to sleep on. I bring my pillows when I travel by car (not an
option on flights).</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIrnbdMeUMc_3aha9EfWf_Snd_qH-hA4DTYn9XEGlsQ8oCDUT9YG1lcjN8p1UPymf52NuzXetyHzaydH61t1lU5Up7aNzepFaROaQ2TsKW5Ax-1R_G8pF6EGFsAVM2aHW08H5Jd9lZ7GPb/s1600/tall+bed%252C+bad+pillow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIrnbdMeUMc_3aha9EfWf_Snd_qH-hA4DTYn9XEGlsQ8oCDUT9YG1lcjN8p1UPymf52NuzXetyHzaydH61t1lU5Up7aNzepFaROaQ2TsKW5Ax-1R_G8pF6EGFsAVM2aHW08H5Jd9lZ7GPb/s320/tall+bed%252C+bad+pillow.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
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Here's a
quote from a site that popped up when I Googled standard bed height:
"The average bed height today is about 25 inches. At this height, your
feet can reach the floor when you're seated on the edge of the
mattress."<br />
<br />
This bed is at least 31".<br />
<br />
One other really
weird thing--there are no towel racks. Not one. The linens are stored on
shelves below the bathroom counter, and there's no place to hang them
when they're damp. We prefer not to get the room cleaned every day and
to re-use the towels, so we've been draping them on chairs.<br />
<br />
At breakfast Saturday there was a couple with their two children, a boy 5 and a girl 2-1/2. I asked the couple if the kids could get up on the bed. The father answered, "No, I have to lift them up every time. They get down by sliding off. Our daughter sleeps between inflated cushions that keep her from falling off, but we were concerned about our son rolling off the bed in his sleep, so we put pillows on the floor on his side." <br />
<br />
Sigh.<br />
<br />
The above was written 6-13-15; since then I've corresponded with Choice Hotels, the company that manages Comfort Inns. Their response was boiler-plate CYA, and they obviously will not deal with the tall beds. In response, I sent them this link: <a class="moz-txt-link-freetext" href="https://adata.org/factsheet/accessible-lodging">https://adata.org/factsheet/accessible-lodging</a><br />
<br />
Note particularly:<br />
<h2 role="heading">
<small>To improve accessibility
of places of lodging, best practices include:</small></h2>
<ul>
<li> Ensure beds are of an accessible height (recommended bed
height is between 20 to 23 inches from the floor to top of the
mattress).</li>
</ul>
For my next out-of-town stay, I'm booked at the Hampton Inn in Brevard, NC, which also has tall beds. I don't really need a handicap room, but that's what I've booked, because it has regular height beds. Thus, if others follow my solution, there will be a dearth of handicap rooms.</div>
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As for pillows in motel rooms, again it's the motel's choice to put huge pillows on the beds--they look so nice, those fluffy pillows on those tall beds, but are impossible to sleep on. I wish the president of Choice Hotels had to sleep on one of those pillows.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvCks9uV9XESmtGuKbfhslTgVPgBd9b3ZYpoUkY2Wnqvr8uxEoCzKYKiBYUmfsWqY1YTbnZRREGKRqAwhNz8kraTVJh4peNAAuVYdOJj8tc6WIphf_dJTdoHveDfWCE2Hdp9UT2o5FKenr/s1600/pillow+before.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvCks9uV9XESmtGuKbfhslTgVPgBd9b3ZYpoUkY2Wnqvr8uxEoCzKYKiBYUmfsWqY1YTbnZRREGKRqAwhNz8kraTVJh4peNAAuVYdOJj8tc6WIphf_dJTdoHveDfWCE2Hdp9UT2o5FKenr/s320/pillow+before.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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That's a "before" photo of a pillow in a motel in Nashville, meaning before I operated on it and removed the excess cellulite:<br />
<br />
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That's the stuffing I removed (after carefully opening a seam on the pillow). Then I had something I could sleep on:</div>
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I of course replaced the stuffing before we left, and repaired the seam...the good night's sleep was worth the trouble. <br />
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Ah, well, I've accomplished nothing other than to get these issues off my chest. Now I go back to work, and will sleep this evening in my 25" tall bed on my 50-year-old feather pillows. Lovely.</div>
A.J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/17101750330318702321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-338883735729093209.post-56779815693320267252015-02-26T08:16:00.000-08:002015-02-26T17:46:55.874-08:00In de Stilla de night<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Stilla, Our Odd-Eyed White </div>
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She was a flea-bitten mess when we got her from a farm in northern Orange County, NC, in 2003. Our first day with her was spent mostly at the vet. She was seven weeks old, barely weaned, and weighed all of 2 pounds. Two of the other cats in her litter--both white--were deaf. Her odd eyes--one blue, one gold--saved her hearing; in this photo she is about five:<br />
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For years when I left the house, I sang "Bye, girl. Talking 'bout bye-i-i girl." Then upon returning home, I sang walking up the
ramp to the back porch, "Hi, girl. Talking 'bout hi-i-i girl." Opened the
door, and there she was. Whether she knew the difference in the "Bye"
and the "Hi," singing to her gave me enough pleasure to justify it. <br />
<br />
We killed her yesterday. Had her put down. Put her to sleep. Euthanized her. Committed pet-icide. Watched while a kind veterinarian gave her a lethal dose via a needle inserted into the only vein they could find. Saw her eyes glaze over as I sang her away, cheek to cheek, "Bye, girl..." This time it was she who was leaving.<br />
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She had a lovely bed. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijBkqvHEEVAsdCrXLdlcZSOccaM1DV2y2_-NR0VzE02kc_MxFJ_dS9X7QsyPkMxTIRFJvQQNZa312dftyMxl0k4u_mZMbmE4iYC82Sus27tnaOVhSJkF6oFZFH3TSaTL44rTRezoiKHki6/s1600/stilla+kitty+sack+4.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijBkqvHEEVAsdCrXLdlcZSOccaM1DV2y2_-NR0VzE02kc_MxFJ_dS9X7QsyPkMxTIRFJvQQNZa312dftyMxl0k4u_mZMbmE4iYC82Sus27tnaOVhSJkF6oFZFH3TSaTL44rTRezoiKHki6/s1600/stilla+kitty+sack+4.jpg" height="224" width="320" /></a></div>
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But any open bag was an invitation she accepted over and over.<br />
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I used to teach a writing class on Tuesday evenings; one of my students had allergies. About half an hour before class, I'd start trying to get Stilla into the laundry room (where her litter box and food awaited her). She'd run wherever I wasn't. From the kitchen into the hallway. Then as I got to the hallway, back to the kitchen, then the living room. I'm chasing her all the while, calling, "Stilla, damnation, it's Tuesday." Eventually I got Jean-Michel to help me catch her, then deposit her in her room. One Tuesday evening we're about to go through this ritual, frustrating for all involved, and as soon as I say, "Stilla, it's Tuesday," she sedately turns and walks into the laundry room. From then on, no matter what day of the week it was, if we needed her to be shut off in the
laundry room I'd call out, "Stilla, it's Tuesday!"
then watch her run into the laundry room. No chase. In her own inimitable way, she won.<br />
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In the fall of 2014 we were gone for five weeks. Our cat sitter visited Stilla regularly, kept her litter box clean, played with her, etc., so she wasn't abandoned. But upon our return, she stayed by my side for several days. This photo shows her at my elbow as I worked, and her naps on my desk gave me a good excuse not to deal with the stacks of mail that had accumulated in my absence. <br />
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And for about a week after our homecoming she slept with me at night (unprecedented)--in this photo I'm reading while scratching her belly; she fell asleep and stayed there until my hand went to sleep, too, and I had to disturb her.<br />
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<br />
For several years we had a portable humidifier in our living room, a water tank on wheels, maybe two feet square. After some trial and error, Stilla discovered that if she ran and jumped onto it, she could ride it for several feet across the floor. Jean-Michel didn't believe me when I first told him about this game, but one morning at breakfast he got to witness our cat turning our humidifier into a carny ride. (Never got a photo of it...)<br />
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Her most steadfast post was in the window of our laundry room, where we'd installed a board above the dryer for her to sleep in the sun. I wish I had a better photo, but am glad I at least have this one.<br />
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<br />
The thing I admired most about our odd and odd-eyed Stilla was that everything she ever did was on her own terms.<br />
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'Bye, girl. Talking 'bout bye-i-i girl. A.J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/17101750330318702321noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-338883735729093209.post-68934086145718127392014-02-12T18:12:00.001-08:002014-02-12T18:12:20.225-08:00Everyone's a CriticRecently on Facebook I stated my opinion of a famous writer's most recent novels (a big thumb's down from me, after years of respect for his oeuvre). Several other members of the group followed up on my comment, agreeing with me. Last night I woke with an overwhelming need...went to the computer, found my post on Facebook, and deleted it. Went right back to sleep...no twinge of conscience about having started a discussion and ducking out. This morning as I worked on my latest post here (Making Myself Up), I kept remembering my need to delete the Facebook comment...why?<br />
<br />
The Internet has spawned a horde of critics. There are whole sites devoted to nothing other than opinions: books (novels especially), poetry, art, anything creative--as well as appliances, rugs, furniture, hardware, software--you name it, there's a site that will criticize it. Many of those sites track the numbers, giving a choice of, say, five stars for the best and one or no stars for the worst, then an "average" that can make or break whatever is being criticized.<br />
<br />
I've tried not to follow the critiques of my novel on numerous sites: goodreads.com, amazon.com, shelfari.com, etc., and discussions on several groups on eons.com, bookbrowse.com, and various such groups. But I do it...I go in and look at the numbers, then at individual comments. And I sweat blood over the negative criticisms.<br />
<br />
This is not a plea for kind reviews, rather a statement about those who are--say--fans of the mystery genre, or of romance, or science fiction...they are highly qualified to post reviews in their genre. But what about a fan of literary fiction criticizing mystery or romance or SF because--in that reviewer's opinion--the work isn't literary enough?<br />
<br />
I'm just saying: if you're a fan of illustrated short stories, don't review my novel. I'll return the favor.A.J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/17101750330318702321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-338883735729093209.post-20933031038440939102013-02-09T07:06:00.000-08:002013-02-09T07:06:38.741-08:00Nothin' Ain't Worth Nothin' But It's Free*<h5 class="uiStreamMessage userContentWrapper" data-ft="{"type":1,"tn":"K"}">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"><span class="userContent">I've seen a lot of Facebook posts about "women get it free"--then there's
usually a URL that takes us to a site that promises all sorts of free
goodies. All one has to do is sign up. I must reiterate what I've
suspected for many years: beware of "free" offers--anything free is
worth what you pay for it. Here are a couple of paragraphs from the user
agreement at worldwide web dot get it free dot us:<br /> <br /> "...you
generally provide: your name, mobile phone number, zip code, e-mail
address, postal address, date of birth, gender, user name, password and
other registration information; (b) transaction-related information,
such as when you make purchases, respond to any offers, or download or
use applications from us; (c) information you provide us when you
contact us; (d) credit card information for purchase and use of the
Site; (e) information you enter into our system when using the Site,
such as contact information which is clearly labeled at the time you s<span class="text_exposed_show">ubmit
it; and (f) information you post on our Site." (PLEASE note two things:
"mobile phone number"--which renders your cell phone available to
marketing calls; "credit card information for purchase and use of the
Site"--Yikes.)<br /> <br /> They then explain how your personal information
is used: "We do this by transferring, licensing, and/or sharing your
personal information with Our Companies and hope you will be interested
in the marketing materials and/or promotions with which you are
presented. Our Companies also transfer, and/or share your personal
information with unaffiliated list brokers, affiliate marketers, and/or
companies that want to advertise other products and/or services. Once a
third-party obtains your personal information, its subsequent use is
controlled by the business practices of the third party, which is beyond
our control."<br /> <br /> Is it free? Or are we being persuaded by the
idea of getting something for nothing, especially when those
"somethings" are products that have been pushed at women for
decades--makeup (myriad ways to make us look "better, more
desirable"--whitening toothpaste, anti-aging cream, lipstick, "intimate
lubricant" (pink, of course); soap (laundry & bath products);
chocolates and "get in shape" CDs; baby products; craft books &
supplies, etc. All offers end with an exclamation point.<br /> <br /> I'm done. This is my warm-up writing for the day.</span></span></span></span></span></h5>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"><span class="userContent"><span class="text_exposed_show"> </span></span></span></span></span></h5>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"><span class="userContent">*Title is from "Me and Bobby McGee" by Kris Kristofferson.</span></span></span></span></h5>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span class="messageBody" data-ft="{"type":3}"><span class="userContent"><span class="text_exposed_show"> </span></span></span></span></h5>
A.J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/17101750330318702321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-338883735729093209.post-66805993721972620422012-10-30T11:49:00.000-07:002012-10-30T21:15:48.907-07:00Ray of Light<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I'm slowly going through my correspondence with Ray, my friend of 26 years, upon his death on October 20, 2012. On his Death Certificate the cause should be: "His body couldn't keep up with his spirit."<br />
<br />
Age in years, 67. Age in wisdom, infinite. Here's a letter he wrote about writers' block or being in a fallow place (as my teacher calls it). This is the letter he wrote, with one sentence deleted because it was too personal:<br />
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 11.0pt;">AJ—</span></i></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo09UJlrbA1npmx0bxSEQFnYska-ZzD8-TfpMruOFBwUsslmkNcWD8BXAGvG51F0dphJmd8PKXVWcFBQNVVZAXKIOlcz4KnKBFn5bpfPc1IljB_Pxx1utYzdOFPeSgVpeCF-w6s2CS_6OB/s1600/Ray+sketch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgo09UJlrbA1npmx0bxSEQFnYska-ZzD8-TfpMruOFBwUsslmkNcWD8BXAGvG51F0dphJmd8PKXVWcFBQNVVZAXKIOlcz4KnKBFn5bpfPc1IljB_Pxx1utYzdOFPeSgVpeCF-w6s2CS_6OB/s200/Ray+sketch.jpg" width="145" /></a></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My impulse is to try and fix your reality for
you. And, of course, I know better. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(Pretend I did not suggest the following.)</span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sit down and write about not wanting to sit
down and write. Write about not knowing why you don’t feel like writing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Write about not knowing why or what it is
that’s the problem.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Write about not
wanting to know. Write about not caring. Write about not writing about not
writing about not writing about not writing.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 6.0pt; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: .25in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Pretend that you’re going to throw it
away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And so, write about what you do
not want to write about.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No one has to know.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Decide to write poorly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Choose to write inefficiently.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lead with your chin. Botch it. Fuck it up
purposefully.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wallow in it.</span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Misspell words.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>End sentences with prepositions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dangle infinitives.</span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 6.0pt; mso-pagination: none; tab-stops: .25in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Write about the child, sitting there refusing
to participate. Hold your breath until you get your way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lay on the floor, kicking and screaming.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Be ugly and vituperous </span></i><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 11.0pt;">[sic—vituperative]<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Tell God to eat a lump.</i></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Trick yourself. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Write letters. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Write as if you were hiding in letter
writing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Write about this powerful broad
who rocks with intelligence and a capacity for caring, and is merely eaten up
with low self-esteem, wasting away there, ego-tripping.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Banality itself.</span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Write about not wanting to write about not
wanting to write, and about why you don’t want to write about that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or throw that out and start a good science
fiction story with lots of sex in it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>Wherever the
bouga-bouga is hiding—whatever is taboo—wherever is the darkest shadow, write
about that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fill it with light.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Radiate light into the darkness of your
angst.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>See the situation being illumined
with the light of your very resistance to seeing your way to the solution.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>See the resistance as the right course of
action.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>See the light increasing to the
level of functional blindness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The whole
planet of beings, surrounded with so many suns they are all blinded by the
light, and having to develop sense organs within their skin to compensate for
being blinded by the light; beings who are intuiting through their skin, who
feel beyond the wall of light and sense the entire universe, past, present,
future.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Be the earthling receiving their
signal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What are they saying to
earth?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And who are you to be receiving
these intergalactic images?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What drama
does that set up?</span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Have a set back.</span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Imagine someone taking advantage of you, and
then kick their ass from here to Botswana.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>(Write about the carnage of it all—the trail of blood and guts, bone and
hair, snot and piss stains…)</span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Write about two or three pages an hour.</span></i></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 11.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Don’t write.</span></i></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 11.0pt;">[Signed] <i>An early Happy Birthday!</i></span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHPnXIBYK7m7yhh-HYrP9TysfC7NYB4RlE2Ow4Ln6v0XU921CQuvsjbKgr4Wj7mgyuKXpADblEk0dZwGSM7h-9c5l03h6I4JHBOmscKi5DPz29Ei8ImNHncQ1NvD4hvNZOD5KzvbyTvJ8G/s1600/GearProfile.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHPnXIBYK7m7yhh-HYrP9TysfC7NYB4RlE2Ow4Ln6v0XU921CQuvsjbKgr4Wj7mgyuKXpADblEk0dZwGSM7h-9c5l03h6I4JHBOmscKi5DPz29Ei8ImNHncQ1NvD4hvNZOD5KzvbyTvJ8G/s320/GearProfile.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Courier New"; font-size: 11.0pt;"><i> Ray</i></span></span></div>
A.J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/17101750330318702321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-338883735729093209.post-44275480696444494842011-11-14T11:55:00.001-08:002011-11-29T10:40:01.865-08:00Making Myself UpA couple of weeks ago I shared time in the car with a friend who is also a writer and has a tremendous influence on my own writing. We were going to a fancy-dress event, and I'd taken great pains choosing what I would wear, tending to my hair, jewelry, and makeup. When I picked up my friend, I noticed how nice she looked, and for the first time in the 25 years of our friendship also noticed she had on no makeup. My skills at observation aren't bad...I love to write about details, and I tell my writing students to use details to further plot, setting, character, often citing Chekhov's gun: "If there's a gun in act one, it must go off by act three." Or some variation on that notion. I pride myself on my powers of observing and remembering details. So how is it that I'd never noticed that my friend doesn't wear makeup?<br /><br />She and I are the same age, so it's not as if a youthful countenance makes it unnecessary for her to paint her face. Her skin is lovely, but not flawless. She uses her best feature to her advantage: a full head of curly black hair that she keeps dark, but allowing the gray at her temples to remain untouched. That evening I asked her if she'd ever worn makeup, and she said, "Oh, I experimented with it in college, but it always made me feel clownish, so I never used it again."<br /><br />Lately, in addition to having new thoughts about makeup, I'm questioning pocketbooks (I will get to the point of this blog in a minute or ten, I promise). An acupuncturist who's been seeing me for shoulder pain has recommended that I rethink carrying a pocketbook...my go-to purse is a Baggalini, designed by flight attendants for ergonomics and efficiency. I carry it backpack style, one strap over each shoulder. It's filled with what's always felt requisite: in two outer zippered compartments are a calendar, a notepad (for random creative thoughts), a comb, a bib (don't ask) and a handkerchief; inside are 10-12 credit-card thingees (eg, three credit cards, my AAA card, my social security card, my library card, etc.), a change purse, checks (to keep from having to carry a checkbook), my cell phone, business cards in a fabric case, 3 pens, a small tube of hand lotion, a cloth for cleaning my glasses, folding money, bookmarks to advertise my novel, and my makeup bag (zipper closure, about 4x4", crammed full).<br /><br />How do men do it? How do they survive without pocketbooks? For one thing, they don't carry as much as women do, and for another, they have pockets (many years ago I stopped buying slacks without pockets, but even still, my pants only have two, not the four that men count on, and I seldom have a pocket in my blouses). And for a third and most important thing, most men don't wear makeup (I know a couple of them who do, but I won't go there).<br /><br />Back to my friend who wears no makeup...she carries a huge pocketbook that is almost always crammed full, so it's not true that giving up makeup will free me of pocketbooks.<br /><br />TWO WEEKS LATER: For at least two weeks now I've gone without makeup, with one exception--a reading last week...in the car I put on makeup without even thinking about it. When I realized what I was doing, it was too late, and I shrugged off my feelings of having in some way let myself down. My title for this post came to me in several variations: "Making Myself Up" and "Making Up Myself" and "Making Up" and "Pretending." I'm keeping the first one, because it most conveys what's behind this ramble...when I cover my skin with concealer (aptly chosen Mad-Ave term), when I define my brows, thicken my lashes, add blush to my cheeks and color to my lips, I've made up someone I am not.<br /><br />For now, I'm facing the world with what assets I have: good skin, clear blue eyes, hair that behaves most of the time. There's something honest about not enhancing myself, and I plan to continue this experiment until I have a definite take on how I want to live from now on (with or without my concealers).<br /><br />I have a new Baggalini--a hip bag, no weight on my shoulders. Most important of all, it's too small for makeup.A.J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/17101750330318702321noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-338883735729093209.post-75106520237088017022011-11-02T12:59:00.000-07:002015-06-15T16:56:34.526-07:00Back to High School<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> <br />
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Last week in Clinton, NY, I returned to high school. First in two senior creative writing classes taught by the phenomenal Deb Hepburn, Clinton High School. Her energy and enthusiasm are amazing. I don't know how old she is, but I think she's close to a contemporary of mine, and I'm 71. I'm tall-ish (5'9") and she's short-ish (I'm guessing 5' even); I'm bountiful and she's trim...physical polar opposites, but meeting her was like meeting an old friend. If I could be a high school teacher, she'd be my model. When she welcomes a visitor to her class, she rings gongs, over and over. I never saw her sitting down, and when she walks, she bounces. She introduced me to the kids and stepped back, letting me take over. The only time she spoke up was on the one or two occasions when no one was coming up with a question for me...she prompted her students and they responded immediately to that. When I appeared at Barnes & Noble the next day, she bought 21 of my books because she wanted to give them to her students. I'm still stunned by her generosity and dedication. She wants to teach until she drops!<br />
<br />
My second experience with high school students was having dinner with the ABC Scholars of Clinton and the Mohawk Valley...seven young men: two freshmen, one sophomore, two juniors, and two seniors; four are from New York City, one from New Jersey, one from Connecticut, and one from Massachusetts. Their newsletter says: "Since its inception in 1972, A Better Chance of Clinton & the Mohawk Valley has graduated more than ninety young men from Clinton High School. They have continued their education at colleges such as Clarkson University, Cornell University, Columbia, Fordham, Gettysburg, Hamilton, Ithaca, Macalester, MIT, Princeton, Rollins, Siena, St. Lawrence University, University of Rochester, and Union." The boys are welcomed into the community and assisted by students from Hamilton College. I had such a great time with them. Had one humorous exchange as a result of a generation gap: A young man introduced himself, "Hi, I'm O'Neal." Simultaneously we spoke...he said, "Like Shaquille" as I said, "Like Eugene." I know who Shaq is, but had to laugh when he said, of Eugene, "Who?" So a conversation ensued in which I explained about my love of O'Neill's plays.<br />
<br />
Then, over the weekend after I returned to North Carolina, I went to Banner Elk for a reunion with a senior high group I was adviser to at the Unitarian Universalist Congregation of Charlotte from 1977 to 1979. Those “kids” are now in their late 40s and early 50s...what a remarkable experience.</div>
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And yesterday I went to a senior honors English class, via Skype, at Charleston High School in Charleston, IL, with another fine teacher, Dawn Drake. I met her when she put a review of my book on youtube...another example of the internet bringing people together. The 40 minutes of Skype in her classroom sped by. The students had read the first four chapters of my book and their questions were great.<br />
<br />
Bottom line is this. After my experiences in Clinton, NY, Banner Elk, NC, and Charleston, IL, I want more time with high school students! And would love it if I could follow up with them 30 or 40 years later…of course, given my current age, that’s not going to happen. But I never again want to deprive myself of their curiosity, their vitality, their thoughts and ideas. They live in a world of the future that I can never inhabit, as Kahlil Gibran notes in the poem, “Children,” in THE PROPHET: </div>
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And a woman who held a babe against her bosom said, "Speak to us of Children."<br />
And he said:<br />
Your children are not your children.<br />
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.<br />
They come through you but not from you,<br />
And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.<br />
You may give them your love but not your thoughts.<br />
For they have their own thoughts.<br />
You may house their bodies but not their souls,<br />
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.<br />
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.<br />
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.<br />
You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.<br />
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.<br />
Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;<br />
For even as he loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.</div>
A.J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/17101750330318702321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-338883735729093209.post-11450644512608935272011-01-07T13:42:00.001-08:002023-06-26T11:22:24.961-07:00Bogue Inlet Beach Tree<p><br />
How lonely, how confusing it must be for one small cedar that now sits on a slight rise ten yards north of ocean’s edge at high tide, taller than anything on the vast beach for a thousand yards to the east, west, and south. Though it seems firmly seated, the certainty of rootlessness makes mockery of the green branches. How can something so young and sturdy in appearance be already dead, sap no longer flowing, without memory now of the forest or⎯for certainly this is why it appeared on a beach in early January⎯of ornaments that glittered on it just a week ago? By surmise and evidence its trunk was severed at least a month before its debut as a beach ornament.<br />
</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAcQlLu4qlUT0xgCxLSEMsdMnuW3pjsn3MDOqgUACRpSn7OLgqPcxObJAOzLIJtYbVMQYaOfRCjYr4pg2nlY2JDXb20VsqlqQZ6Jmn_Ke_EYKotgbWX0u9VFCw6TjI3wKSMelDCbnN1VLs/s1600/tree+beach+vertical.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" border="0" height="200" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5559535090796313746" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAcQlLu4qlUT0xgCxLSEMsdMnuW3pjsn3MDOqgUACRpSn7OLgqPcxObJAOzLIJtYbVMQYaOfRCjYr4pg2nlY2JDXb20VsqlqQZ6Jmn_Ke_EYKotgbWX0u9VFCw6TjI3wKSMelDCbnN1VLs/w150-h200/tree+beach+vertical.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 320px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 240px;" width="150" /></a></div><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p><br /> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>But how do I know whether it died when its roots were cut? Maybe it retains sensibility until all green goes brown and needles blow away, leaving only stick limbs and gray trunk.<br />
And why does it amuse me to anthropomorphize a tree?<br />
</p><p></p><p class="p2"><span class="s1">Anna Jean (A. J.) Mayhew’s first novel, <i>The Dry Grass of August</i>—now
in its twelfth printing—won the Sir Walter Raleigh Award for Fiction,
and was a finalist for the Book Award from the Southern Independent
Booksellers Alliance. A Blackstone Audio book was followed by French,
Italian, Turkish, Polish, Norwegian, and Flemish translations. <i>The Dry Grass of August</i>
was read in the libraries of Richland County, SC, in One Book, One
Columbia, and in Wilkes Reads, a county-wide event. The book has been a
Kindle Daily Deal, and is featured in a promotion with Southwest Air and
Kobo e-books.</span></p>
<p class="p2"><span class="s1">In the fall of 2014, A. J. was in residence for a month </span><span class="s2">at Moulin à Nef Studio Center in Auvillar, France. Her second novel,</span><span class="s1"> <i>Tomorrow’s Bread, </i>will be published in Spring, 2019.<i> </i>An excerpt is in <i>27 Views of Charlotte</i>: <i>The Queen City in Prose and Poetry</i></span></p><p><br />
Three days after Christmas I saw a car on the causeway with a tree tied to its roof, heading onto the island instead of to some landfill on the mainland. I thought the tree was destined for the dunes, where it would serve as part of a groin⎯I read somewhere that beach authorities devised that fine idea for the disposal of Christmas trees. Maybe that was the car that brought this small cedar onto the island for one last upright fling⎯certainly it cannot long withstand the wind at ocean’s edge, and it will die of loneliness, if not of a gale, lacking as it does the companionship and shelter of its fellows.<br />
<br />
Was thought given to where the tree would be left? It is planted naturally enough, trunk in the sand, but was that a conscious decision? Did the prankster who left it there by the water consider that it might be even funnier⎯odder⎯if the tree were put into the sand top down, with its trunk exposed as my butt would be if I were planted on the beach head-first? No, I think the intended joke was just a lone Christmas tree (for surely that’s what it was, for one glorious month of its several years of life) on an isolated beach. And whatever its orientation is to the sun, that, too, had to be random, for I can’t imagine any thought was given to what exposure would be most comfortable for the tree. Does something so perfectly round have a side? And if so, is its east side now facing north? Are branches that used to greet the dawn now astonished by sunsets?<br />
<br />
Is it at all comforted by parasites remaining within it, bugs or worms who’ve clung to it steadfastly through uprooting and decorating and bells and music and oohing-ahing over gifts and squabbling at dinner about who will do the dishes or why Grandma doesn’t like Uncle Joe? Do sandpipers occasionally sit on it and remind it of the robins and wrens and crows and cardinals that flew in and out of its branches, or the occasional nest that housed a feathered family for a brief season?<br />
<br />
If a tree falls at the edge of the sea and no one is there, does it cry out? Does it yet retain enough life that it can hear the incessant moan of the offshore buoy, a forlorn mourning every minute or so, always the same monotonic call, day in and year out?<br />
<br />
The circle drawn in the sand around the little tree seems to say “keep your distance”⎯did whoever abandoned it intend that it should have its own DMZ, a delineated territory five feet in diameter, on a beach that is itself a demilitarized zone fifteen miles from the daily mortar practice at nearby Camp LeJeune? The constant booming, at a safe distance, almost comforts me in its thunder-like rumblings. Does the tree feel the trembling of the shore that follows every detonation? Does it fear a misjudgment by rookie marines with the power to blow up an offshore island just for practice?<br />
<br />
Or is my supposition totally wrong? Did someone bring a sapling, complete with root ball, and plant it as a solitary sentry at ocean’s edge, just to see what would happen?<br />
<br />
Well, little cedar, while you stand you have solitude and a great view. Maybe seagulls love your berries. Who am I to know?</p>A.J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/17101750330318702321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-338883735729093209.post-18302303952710868162010-01-16T07:35:00.000-08:002010-01-16T08:03:34.424-08:00A Month at the Beach to Write...A promise from On Writer’s Block by Victoria Nelson, made in the context of giving oneself permission not to create, to take a planned break from writing: “The rewards of such deliberate procrastination, of complete and trusting surrender to the needs of that other side of the self, have been summed up by Eugene Delacroix: ‘When one yields oneself completely to one’s soul, it opens itself completely to one.’”<br /><br />I'm writing about this promise because of what I’ve experienced here during my month on Emerald Isle, in the context of being both a writer and a compulsive overeater in recovery. My food has been highly imperfect, bordering on bingeing from time to time; I have gone to bed and waked without an alarm clock (for a month!); I have spent most of a month alone (except for 3 days with two of my sons, and 3 days with a good friend). I've been swimming at the local gym 26 of my 28 days here, but am a stranger at the gym, hardly ever have interaction with anyone else as all of us there are so intent on working out. During this four weeks of solitary time (not isolation, such a huge difference) I’ve learned that I am a social animal. I crave contact with others. This past Thursday night I went to a 12-step meeting in a nearby town where I knew I’d be just one of two or three (there were three of us), but went because I so craved contact with others. Many days it’s been just me and the ocean, the birds, occasional beach walkers and their dogs, and the bulldozer that's been dredging the beach (for ten days now, though it's blessedly quiet this morning...sitting out there on the strand, sleeping, and I find that I no longer dread it roaring to life...I can work or not as I choose, regardless of the dozer...MUCH progress). If I hadn’t left home to come here, I wouldn’t have read the three books on writing: The Faith of a Writer by Joyce Carol Oates, For Writers Only by Sophy Burnham, and On Writer’s Block by Victoria Nelson. I’ve learned something important from these books, ie, that all writers go through what I’ve been going through (even Stephen King, who writes 363 days a year, and who is fast becoming the most widely published and—one assumes—most widely read writer in history). All writers go through the dark night of the soul when the words simply won’t come. And in spite of the block, the dozers, the loneliness, I’ve written 50 pages in the past month here...mostly one or two at a time.<br /><br />Last night as I lay in bed contemplating today—my last full day here—I found that in spite of yesterday’s tearful homesickness, I have mixed feelings about going back home. Yes, I want to see my husband and our cat, Stilla (my husband reports that Stilla is not herself, that she wanders the house in what seems discontent, demands much more of him than she usually does. I’m not surprised, she’s not getting her nightly scratching, isn’t falling asleep curled up next to me—and I’ve missed that more than I can say...wish I could communicate that to her). So I'll wrap up this messy post by saying I've survived and thrived here at the beach, and I go back home with about 105 pages of my new book. I'll wait a month or so (hope I can do that) before I read over the 50+ new pages. I can judge my work so harshly, and I think that letting the new stuff cool down will soften the way I regard what I've done here.<br /><br />Was the month here worth it, and was it worth the $2000 or so it cost me? Beyond doubt, yes. Even with the bulldozers grating away at my peace of mind, the erratic helicopters flying by, rattling my little house in their wake, the distant thunder of bombs from the nearby military base, I've had more peace of mind here in a month than I get in a year at home. So the trick is going to be to take some of the peace with me as I wend my way across Eastern North Carolina tomorrow.<br /><br />I'm not going to edit this...seems important to just let it flow and let it be as it came through my fingers.A.J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/17101750330318702321noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-338883735729093209.post-27252821077246086722009-09-02T12:52:00.001-07:002009-09-02T13:00:08.069-07:00My Book Will be Published--Now What?<meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 10"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 10"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CANNAJE%7E1%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.0in 1.0in 1.0in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.5in; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman";} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal">Now that I know my book will be published—a two-book deal is on the table—what my writing teacher promised (see my 1019/07 post) has come true...I've started writing again and it's good. I’m well into the second novel, the one I couldn't write for almost two years. Told a friend yesterday that as long as I was in labor with the first one (before it was accepted for publication), I was unable to get pregnant with the second one. Conception, pregnancy, labor, delivery, these threads are in my writing; I've stopped trying to escape them...so it's no wonder that my metaphor about writing follows this theme.</p><p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I have the perfect place to write, the BEST computer—built for me by my supportive and mostly quiet husband, a decent cat who makes few demands, and a life filled with other writers. But for two years the words wouldn't come...not true...I started half a dozen things, but what wouldn't come was going into depth, getting to the point where I could do what I love most, which is revise. The characters were one-dimensional, the settings under-developed, the plot invisible. What I've come to accept about my writing is that I start—ALWAYS—with character. If I will just keep plugging away, regularly, those people I've created will share their stories. (On the paradox of creating characters who then take off on their own, doing things differently from what the writer planned, heading in unimagined directions, saying surprising things in unique voices, Anne Lamott commented: “What’s a god to do?”)</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">During a writing retreat in a friend’s two-room cabin—so remote I could skinny dip al fresco—I spent two weeks with no TV, no phone, no internet/email, rolling in words. Various sections of my novel covered the dining table, the couch, the floor. It came to life and I began to see that it was good. Above the kitchen sink in the main room was a wooden plaque: “Trust the Process.” In that two weeks I came to grok the full meaning of that statement (so common it’s become psychobabble). Now, three years later, I know that my job is to trust the process of writing. That an outline would kill my creativity. (I once knew a writer who mapped out her plots, putting them on pages she taped to a nine-foot wall, floor to ceiling; she wrote by that map, seldom deviating from the outline. The product was wooden, event-driven, almost indigestible. When she gave up the outline, her writing soared.)</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">
<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">So I’m into my second novel, pregnant again, with a mandatory gestation period of no more than two years (yikes! the first one took eighteen). But what I’ve learned in all that time has my fingers flying on the keyboard; I’m a mature, confident writer, filled with joy that my life has become what I’ve longed for it to be: I make my living writing and teaching writing. Amazing!</p> A.J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/17101750330318702321noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-338883735729093209.post-80337889301584273142007-11-08T17:14:00.002-08:002007-11-08T17:46:29.885-08:00A Hunger for RevisionsThis morning in my writing group I heard a chapter read aloud from a novel-in-progress. I've heard the chapter at least twice before, maybe 3-4 times in all, and am familiar enough with it that I noticed whole new sections. In earlier iterations, the entire chapter was 23-25 pages, and the group had advised the author that her last 10-12 pages needed the most work. This morning, before she read, she apologized for ignoring our advice and said that she'd gotten enmeshed in the first 10 or so pages instead of working on the latter half. Those pages had grown to 20 during this frantic revision, which took place over the past week and ended when she went to bed last night. The writing was confident, passionate, rich in detail with gripping dialogue. The things she'd chosen to expand did need expanding, which somewhat startled all of us. Characters that were shadowy before are fully fleshed. Scenes she'd teased us with are deepened and broadened, enriched with details of setting, character, plot. Now the 20 pages are a stand-alone chapter. The writer is already planning her next step, which is to work on what had been the second half of the chapter and expand it into a separate piece.<br /><br />I found myself feeling envious of the writer. Not the sort of envy that comes from a feeling of less-than. I know I'm a talented and accomplished writer. But I felt heartsick that I didn't have anything to return home to...this time I made a note: "I wish I had something written so I could work on a revision--go into it with my whole hands, like kneading dough." That feeling stayed with me all afternoon, and I'm hoping it's the prelude to a return to true, real writing, not the scattered pages I've produced over the past year: meandering story lines, interesting but not compelling characters, an ambivalence about the 'when' of things, a lack of enthusiasm about research (which I usually love), and no direction whatsoever. Still, the few pages linger and whisper to me at the oddest times, so something richer and deeper is in them than I'm seeing right now. Can hardly believe that after all these years I'm still freaked-out by the blank screen, am still hearing the whispered "that's shit" from the demon on my shoulder. [Wonder if the s-word will make it by the blog police. I gave up heavy cursing many years ago, feeling challenged as a writer to find better words than the George Carlin famous seven. But the s-word still makes its conniving way into my speech and thoughts from time to time. As well it should.]<br /><br />I learned something today that I most likely already knew, buried deep in my unconscious...I cherish the phase of writing that produces such chapters as I heard today. I've done such revisions myself, many times. The way I write is like Ray Bradbury once described: "I throw up in the morning and clean up in the afternoon." My first writing generally suffers from too-much-ness. My first edits cut away to the truth. Then comes that delicious time when I wallow in what my characters have to say, taking my hands from the keyboard to ramble through my thesaurus and "The Synonym Finder," a favorite tool. I recline in my desk chair and think about what the character's thinking about, then snap back to the keyboard. I long for that.<br /><br />I do feel better having written this.A.J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/17101750330318702321noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-338883735729093209.post-67179018714231023912007-11-07T09:29:00.000-08:002007-11-07T09:58:05.359-08:00The wider darknessFrom my office window I'm watching winter come in. The onset of daylight savings time has widened the dark hours in my day (I'm a late riser, so I don't get the benefit of more morning daylight, and dusk creeps in an hour earlier). My window now stays uncovered most of the day so that I can get as much light as possible.<br /><br />A section of woodland--44 acres--has been denuded for a housing development a quarter of a mile from the back corner of our lot. I've found myself living in fear about new traffic patterns that would turn our quiet street into a thoroughfare...I stand at my kitchen sink and watch joggers, mothers pushing baby carriages and strollers, neighborhood cats crossing. The mailman. UPS & Fedex delivery people who know they can leave a package on our porch if our neighbors aren't home. Folks standing in the middle of the street chatting. Children clattering by on skateboards. Around the corner a basketball hoop overhangs the street and locals know to watch for kids gathered beneath the hoop. The denizens of these quiet streets are rich in neighborhood. If the access to the development is anywhere but the highway, the increase in traffic by our house will be huge.<br /><br />Even more disturbing is the animal life that's been driven from the 44 acres of forest that were destroyed. I saw 8 deer in our backyard last evening. Possums. Woodchucks, squirrels, the occasional chipmunk, even beavers (there's a wetland directly behind us, adjacent to the new development).<br /><br />I've been rationalizing...people need places to live, but housing doesn't seem as driving a force behind this new development as money. And I question whether expansion of our small town is a good thing.<br /><br />What I know for certain, no matter the outcome, is that worry/fear keeps me from writing, and that any time I'm worried, I'm not living in the moment and am, in fact, messing up the present with concerns about the future.<br /><br />Still not writing much, and am not even thinking much about writing. Often when I'm not actually creating, I'm thinking along the liines of plot, characters, human behavior, settings. But right now all my voices are quiet, and that feels ominous. I don't think this is connected to the onset of winter and shorter daylight hours. Some of my best writing has been in the dead of winter. But because these posts have dwelled on the theme of darkness, maybe it's something I need to ponder.<br /><br />Saturday a great line (or so I thought at the time) occurred to me as I was getting out of the car in our driveway. I thought, "I'll write that down as soon as I get inside." Then my husband and I got into a conversation, I went out to get the mail, the phone rang...the line was lost. In THE YEAR OF MAGICAL THINKING, Joan Didion tells us how she always carries notepads for any stray thoughts that might bear fruit later. I know many writers claim to do that, but I wonder how many actually do. The times I've tried that, I wind up with scraps of paper and odd thoughts that I feel I should transfer from the scraps to a file on my computer, but somehow never do. I've thought of creating a "stuff" file with a shortcut on the desktop of my computer for easy access, but haven't done it. Such mental meanderings about this conundrum always leave me thinking that I don't take myself seriously as a writer.<br /><br />Would love feedback from others, those who take notes and those who don't.A.J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/17101750330318702321noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-338883735729093209.post-34493961720378246072007-10-23T21:23:00.000-07:002007-10-23T21:27:52.585-07:00Writing into a black hole...Hmmm...I guess it's okay to create another post on my own post. And since there are no comments, I reckon I'm writing into a black hole rather than from one.<br /><br />The comments and post have loosened the writing muscles, and I want to keep exercising them. So I'll just have at it...if anyone comments, that's good.<br /><br />Went to swim this afternoon, and reconnected with a casual friend who sometimes works the front desk at the gym. Her 74-year-old mother died a couple of weeks ago, and I didn't know because I've been out of town so much in the past 10 weeks, since my daughter was diagnosed with breast cancer. Talking with my friend about her mother made me realize how out-of-it I've been. Three gorgeous fall days have passed with me hardly leaving the house...not depression so much as a burst of a need to reorganize my office--maybe on the heels of having written a guest column in southernauthors.blogspot.com in which I talked a lot about my office. But the reorganizing also included our bedroom and living room, and after several days of hectic activity, I realized I was going through what I almost always do when there's been a crisis: try to straighten up what parts of my life I can, because I have no control over the enormous other things, eg, breast cancer. When I finally did go out this afternoon, I was hit with joy for the fall that is exploding all around me, in spite of the hideous drought and dire predictions of a colorless autumn.<br /><br />Our cross-the-street neighbors have a sugar maple I can see from my kitchen window, and every October I'm surprised to see its glorious red-orange-yellow, having forgotten the starring roll it plays before it's naked for winter. I stood, stunned, beside my car, realizing how inwardly directed I've been in my flurry of moving furniture. Cleaning bookcases. Throwing away. Giving away. Borrowing my son's strong back to move the larger pieces. And occasionally returning to the keyboard.<br /><br />There's a story roaming my brain and I'm not quite ready to commit it to e-paper, though now I'm convinced it begins in the fall, during a storm, in the full moon, hospital labor and delivery swamped (more from the storm than the moon). One of the mothers is a character from an earlier book.<br /><br />I was about to write of character, plot, setting...then I realized I didn't want to do that for fear someone else would use my ideas...and here I am writing into a void. Funny! More later.A.J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/17101750330318702321noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-338883735729093209.post-79571020528105158312007-10-19T12:12:00.001-07:002007-10-19T13:01:28.864-07:00Writing from the Dark<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6q3eIdQjjb6DXbQqMBLRWb5W6UqkaRBY2aS8UvcyhJJXDcOlP3La0QgWcG745xKcDzcGFM7VXLPdTlM8AWdOjY2tAOXXqVB-isshL-xooo56puTqkukKqsFjTAAyeMIT281LeOuJ_BN8g/s1600-h/1aBlog1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6q3eIdQjjb6DXbQqMBLRWb5W6UqkaRBY2aS8UvcyhJJXDcOlP3La0QgWcG745xKcDzcGFM7VXLPdTlM8AWdOjY2tAOXXqVB-isshL-xooo56puTqkukKqsFjTAAyeMIT281LeOuJ_BN8g/s200/1aBlog1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5123140309313664290" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_kEeU_aVyICM/RxkBxb8gNOI/AAAAAAAAAC4/kehcHculUf4/s1600-h/Blog.jpg"><br /></a> <p class="MsoNormal">The dark maze between…</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">...completion of a novel and publication. I finished my novel in December, 2005. On January 13, 2006 (my grandson's thirteenth birthday), I began a shotgun approach to finding an agent. Got lucky (providence does play a role in such things), and signed with a great agency in June. My agent (I got such a thrill when I first said that), using the same shotgun technique, sent my manuscript to six publishers...the rejections began to accumulate, but each one was framed in language that titillated and sucked me into believing an acceptance was just around the corner: "…persuasively written and deeply feeling…this is simply too literary for our list…a talented, accomplished writer…if the author had published previously or had a platform…a wonderfully gracious and lyrical writer…even a few years ago, I would have taken it quite seriously…a touching and well-written novel…but in today’s climate of fiction publishing…." Ah, well.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">What happened next surprised and dismayed me--a total block. I haven't written much since the rejections began rolling in, and am hoping that blogging about this will get me over it. My mentor/teacher/friend--a fine novelist who’s been a midwife to the birth of over a dozen published books, and with whom I’ve been working for twenty years—said I wasn’t blocked but just going through a fallow period. So I looked up "fallow": dormant, quiescent, hibernating...a field waiting for seed. Whatever I call it, my natural story-telling voice has laryngitis, and I must quit straining it, wait out the quiet.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">When I titled this blog "the dark maze between..." I had to resist what I really wanted to call it: "Ruminations from a Black Hole," which is what I'm feeling these days. But talk about negative...</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">My mentor also said that she’d never seen it fail, that writers almost always go through a spell of slumbering when a novel is finished. There are exceptions. I’ll cite two extremes--Stephen King, who writes 363 days a year, taking off for Christmas and the opening day of the baseball season, and Herman Melville, who was inactive for almost twenty years after MOBY DICK and before BILLY BUDD, although he did publish poems during his fallow period.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">A few months after the first rejections of my novel rolled in (there’ve been about fifteen in all), I was so down emotionally that I sought counseling; a wise psychiatrist helped me see that I wasn’t so much depressed as I was in mourning over the completion of a project that had consumed me for eighteen years. Again, just changing the label of my mood from depression to mourning made all the difference. I took his advice and burned a copy of the manuscript in a ritualistic manner, breathing in some of the smoke to inspire me to write another, and wafting some of it northward, hoping a few molecules would make it to New York publishers.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="">Okay, that’s it for today…writing this has been therapeutic, and I’d love to hear from any other writers who’re in the doldrums or in the morass of waiting, waiting, waiting…</p>A.J.http://www.blogger.com/profile/17101750330318702321noreply@blogger.com1