Time Lapse

Wait.

What?

My last blog post was in April?

How can that be?

Where did the last seven months go???

Lots of places!

Switzerland in May and June and October.

Maine (hellooooo Elvez)

Ohio (bye, bye beautiful brother)

In Georgia and Kansas and Maine, launching MOO

And everywhere, in the next story

Molto loverino,

xxxx

Transitions

So one day it was like this

(above)

all dozy mesmerizing autumn

and

two days later 

giant nor'easter

blows into town

lashing power lines

and blasting trees

and yet

amid the

no heat

no water

no power

these candles

allowed me to 

write

straight through

to the

ending

of a first draft

oh yeah

that felt soooo good.

You writers out there

will know the feeling,

mm?

xx

Refilling the Well: or Why I'm Not Getting Any Writing Done

I give up.

The next/new story

is just not going to get written

until

it turns ugly

outside.

xx

Nesting: Birds and Writers

Every year the robins scope out our porch

seeking shelter for their nest

and every year 

they slop twigs and straw and leaves

every which way

and usually the mess-nest 

falls

three or four or five times

but they pick all the mess back up

and slop it up against the pillar

which isn't nearly wide enough

for a secure nest

but they are stubborn

and keep at it

and slop some mud in it

to cement it to the

white pillar

and you know I'm going to

compare

this to writing a book, right?

. . .the way I toss this and that 

onto the page

hoping it sticks

and sometimes it doesn't

and it makes a mess

but I am stubborn

and I keep at it

cementing those words

to the

white page.

ciao, bellas . . .

xx

Beaches and Writing

Maybe you love beaches

especially deserted ones

where the only sounds you hear 

are the waves and the seagulls. 

Maybe you come here to walk

and to empty the mind

so it can absorb the rhythm

of the water.

Maybe you stand in shallow water

and see the sun reflected

at your feet

and then look up

at the blue blue sky

and that astounding

sun.

And maybe then

when you are realigned

you go home

to write.

Mm?

How to Write a Book in Four Easy Steps

1. First, choose appealing ingredients, including intriguing characters - I mean apples:

2. Next, peel away the skins and throw them all together and simmer for 15 drafts - I mean minutes:

3. Then, puree (edit in a blender), drain off the excess and reserve for another story - I mean drinking:

4. And there you have it - a book!  I mean - applesauce!

Oh well, I tried.  The analogy isn't perfect.  But what corresponds best, I think, is that if you begin with good ingredients, and have the patience to combine them and simmer them and drain off the excess, you are more likely to end with something good.  

Yes? No? Maybe?

Layers and Water

I am addicted to walks

slow, meandering walks

drawn to layers

Everything relates to story

the frozen water

 cupping frozen leaves

is a mind

holding an untold story

it waits

and waits

until

the thaw

::

I am drawn to water

water

water

and what lies beneath:

layers

of stone and silt and shell

Writing a story

is uncovering

the layers

sifting the silt

hoping there is more

than sludge

down there.

Back to Work

Since it's officially too cold outside to be lolling around in the hammock or the kayak or on the swing, it's a good day to return to the work-in-progress.

The book that I finished this spring (THE GREAT UNEXPECTED - out next fall) has a wider canvas than the one I'm working on now.  It seems to go like that: a longer book with many scenes is often followed by a book that is more spare and condensed.

I'm looking at these ducks on the lake, the simplicity of that image.  That's the sort of thing that is appealing right now.

Back to it . . .

The Observer

Sometimes when I am writing, I'll pause to allow the next part of a scene to unroll in my mind. I look out the window, gaze at the lake.  Yesterday, I saw a groundhog sitting tranquilly in the yard, gazing at the lake. Was he, too, pausing in his work to let his thoughts realign? Or simply to contemplate the serene lake?

I thought about layers: I was watching the groundhog watching, much like I, the writer, observe my character, who is observing/thinking/acting.

Later in the day, I noticed the groundhog had turned around and seemed to be watching me.

Odd feeling, that.  Sometimes when I am well into a book, I get the eerie feeling that the main character has turned to me, as if to say, "Well, now what?"

Catching Bats and Ideas

I took this photo last night at sunset, trying to capture the bats flying just below the branches, black flashes silhouetted against the lake. There were about a dozen of them zinging back and forth.  I took six or seven photos in quick succession, sure that I had caught them, but I don't see them now.

When I am in book-writing mode, I often try to capture quick flashes that flit through my mind–a scene, an image, a snip of dialogue–but sometimes they elude me, like the bats. I know they were there, but where have they gone?

Writing Day

We've had a week of rain after a dry spell, and the roses in the garden are loving it.

In the shower this morning, the next two chapters of current work-in-progress revealed themselves to me.

Just like that.

All that pausing for paws (last blog) and flowers and what-not, watered by the shower, must have nurtured the story.

Writing Pause for Paws

I'm working on a story.

I'm sitting dutifully at my desk and my fingers are tapping out words.

Out of the corner of my eye, I sense something waving at me.

Squirrel.

Having a picnic on the deck.

Making a bigga mess.

What was I doing
What was I thinking
Where was I . . .?

Why It Takes So Long to Write a Book

Sure, there are the normal things like cooking, cleaning, laundry, errands, doctors, dentists, children, spouses, friends, family that need attention.

But then, also: there is the pale moon framed by branches

and

the flowers waving

and 

beckoning

and so

you have to stop

and pay attention

right?

On the Desk

Back in the writing mode.  Here are a few things on the desk.  Above:  Rotring T 0.7 automatic pencil; Sharpie ultra fine point marker; Pilot Precise V5 RT pen; and Magic Rub eraser.

Above:  small index cards and colored pieces of paper for jotting notes as I go - reminders of things to fix or include in current pages.

Above:  hot tea and cold fizzy water (usually with lime).

Above: what I call a 'fingerling' - a smooth piece of wood in a pleasing shape and pattern (gift from an artist/craftsman friend.)  Helps me think in between scenes.

More 'things on the desk' in days ahead.

Do you have a favorite pen/pencil and/or beverage that aid your work?

Swamped

Like many parts of the States, we've had an awful lot of rain. For this part of western New York, it is the wettest May in 119 years.  But we are nowhere near as bad off as the people in the midwest who are suffering devastating losses.

Our dock (above) is not supposed to be under the water. Ahem. We are hoping it will not break apart and float away.  Meanwhile, naturally that pic reminds me of writing--about 40 pages into a new draft, feeling suddenly swamped, sinking, hoping the whole story does not break apart and float away.

Fortunately, there are a couple life preservers attached to the dock :)

Is the weather (real or metaphorical) challenging you these days?

More Spring

When spring springs, it surely springs--boing! Was all that bounty really hiding beneath the brown and gray and snow all these months? What a show.

Does it make you want to clean the windows? The house? The nest? Stay outside all day?  It makes me want to do all those things, but the new story is also springing to life. Let me out! it demands. Listen to me! Okay, okay, okay.

While the bushes and trees sprout hundreds of leaves and blossoms each day, I'm only sprouting five pages a day. That's a good pace for me, though.  I used to be able to do twenty pages a day, but stories emerge more slowly and carefully now, and they are more fully formed when they do emerge.

And after I write, I'm outside. Are you?

A North Carolina Day

It's one of those North Carolina blue sky spring days and the wind is blowing and the birds are winging and singing and the pollen is making it all a fuzzy sort of day.

Those new buds on the tree opened up overnight, and that's how a new story is arriving, too: with each morning a new revelation, like something opening up in a burst. I tried to stop it–I'm not ready–wait–but it won't be stopped.

Outside, the dogs are losing their hair (and horses, too, I've learned from Lori Skoog), and even the trees seem to be shedding. Don't you love birch trees?

The tall pines are whipping their heads around, shaking pollen from their hair . . .

And me, I am outside, looking around . . .are you?

Reflections on Reflections

Is the person in the mirror you or a reflection of you? Is the character in the book a reflection of the author? And which is more 'real': the person/character or the reflection?

Well. I've been thinking about reflections lately.

Maybe those musings will be reflected in the upcoming book (in 2012.)

You are real . . .aren't you?

Thinking Time

Every writer's office needs a comfy sofa, don't you think? Sometimes you just have to lie back and read or close your eyes and think or maybe . . .nap.

I'm a big believer in the nap as precursor-to-great-ideas.  The first page of Walk Two Moons surfaced from a nap; most other books of mine have leaped into life following a nap or a good night's sleep.

Sometimes the mind is most creative when you leave it alone.

As productive as naps, ordinary rhythmic pursuits like walking,  running, kayaking, skiing, cycling, ironing, and knitting also free the mind of clutter, allowing new insights and new connections to reveal themselves.

You do need to sit down and write in order to get a story down, and many ideas come while you are writing, but much also surfaces when you're not writing.

Take a walk. Take a nap. Leave the mind alone for a while.

Revision Done (Maybe)

This is the latest revision (post editorial comments), ready to go back to my editor. Many pages have small changes; the yellow pages are new scenes.  Most of the changes came in the second half of the book, tweaking characters and plot points, uncovering new connections. Revisions could go on endlessly--no matter how many times you read something, you can always find something to tweak, but at some point you have to let go of it.

On Sunday, I loved it. On Monday, I hated it. On Tuesday, I kissed it.

And now, a reward--off to empty my brain: