The Light I Love

Days are cold, and I'm not adverse to hiking later in the morning. Today, it was 3 in the afternoon before I quit the keyboard, laced up the trail shoes, and led Buddy up the ridge. It's good to look at things from a different angle, even if it's simply the angle of day light. Three in the afternoon doesn't sound so late, but on the shortest day of the year, it's evening. This is the light I love. All the shadows have moved around to the other side of things; what usually goes unnoticed in the background now takes center stage. Dry leaves that disappear among dusty detritus now pop off the trail's moist dark soil. Silvery lichen lights up the naked oaks in neon green. Mushrooms that demure in their dark dens kick up a chorus line of bleached ivory stems. The florest floor, filled with fallen leaves, shimmers like wet copper. What scarce light makes it through the canopy scatters like diamonds across the whole dank muddy mess. It's brisk. I need gloves for the first time this season. I think of the trees, having shed all those leaves. Trillions upon trillions composting under my feet. One single leaf, sure, it's light. But imagine the weight of them all at once. Imagine the relief of winter. The rest. This is the light I love.

What Goes Around Goes Around Without Belt Loops

One of the biggest mistakes my mother ever made was not letting me wear jeans in high school. (Perspective is a big deal in high school.) THE most important thing to a teenager is fitting in. Somewhere. Anywhere. Even if you don't want to fit in, you want to fit in with the kids who don't want to fit in. Am I right? God forbid you're the one left standing after the musical chairs of middle school is over. I ventured into the public school system in junior high school. My chances of being the last one standing were astronomically high. I already had three strikes against me. One: my mother was an English teacher in that school. They called her "the terror of the top floor." Two: six years in Catholic school not only arrests any development of a fashion sense that doesn't have to do with plaid skirts and girl bow ties, but it eliminates your chances of knowing anything about popular culture. And three: on the first day of seventh grade, I sat in my home-made sailor dress next to my best friend Kelly Shea, who was wearing white hot pants and white go-go boots. And maybe even a halter top, but I could be exaggerating. First thing I learned in public school? I needed some store-bought clothes. I went to my mother, whose beautiful hands sewed that dress and three others during the entire sticky month of August, to ask about store bought clothes. Normally, you didn't ask my mother for something unless you were bleeding from a major artery and needed a tourniquet to keep from dripping blood on the shag carpeting. There were five of us. And she was a single parent. But that first day of junior high, I knew I was going to die if I didn't have some store-bought clothes. Astoundingly, she agreed, and she took me to Marshall's, the new discount store in town, to buy me some pants. But not jeans. No jeans. That was her rule. And you didn't question her rules. We learned that when we were younger after a few encounters with the belt (Sometimes we were lucky when we encountered the belt and didn't have to remove our pants and, under them, every pair of underwear you could find in your drawer and in the hamper.)

At Marshall's, Mom found some wonderful (her description) Danskin stretch polyester bell-bottom pants. Who was I to argue? I came from Catholic school. There was a whole bin full of these Danskin pants, and I got two pair. One brown and one purple. They had elastic waist bands. But no pockets. Later I became aware of the fact that they also had no cool visible stitching and little grommets. No button flies. No belt loops. I suppose she meant well. She probably thought they'd let me move free and unencumbered. She probably thought I'd look graceful and refined. Like a dancer. But this was 1972. Dancers were dorkey. And after observing my fellow classmates and their clothing, I came to realize that elastic waistbands were dorkey. Umbrellas in a torrential rain were dorkey. Anything not denim was dorkey. Those pants were dorkey. They lasted through seventh and eighth grades and were still in pretty good shape the summer before high school. By then it was 1974. I was doomed. That summer though, my brothers and I managed to talk Mom into taking us to a groovy clothing store on Cape Cod called "Head and Foot." It sold only hip clothes and leather accessories like pocketbooks, pony tail holders and belts. It smelled of musk incense. I knew if I was allowed to buy anything in "Head and Foot," I would be safe. Thank God corduroy became popular that year. Mom was good with corduroy. I picked out a pair of burgundy hip hugger corduroys and a long sleeved, collared shirt, boy's style, white with a thin burgundy stripe. Mom even let me buy a leather belt to string through the loops on my new corduroy hip huggers. Oh joy, oh loops!

If you grew up back East, you know that the first week of school, everyone expects it to be cool and crisp. Great sweater weather. Perfect for corduroys too. But we always forget about Indian summer, which usually hits about that time of year. I didn't care. It was either corduroys or the Danskins. I had my dignity to recover. Then, over the course of the next few months, I managed to acquire a healthy set of hips and thighs, and along with them, a few new pairs of pants for school. The Danskins had run their course once Mom realized how they showed off my new curves. Still, there was the no-jeans code.

I realize what she was hoping to accomplish with the code. Jeans, for Mom, meant hippies. And hippies stood for who-knows-what. Mom didn't feel comfortable with who-knows-what as an outcome for her children. There was only one outcome for our high school years, and that was a smoke-free, drug-free, heterosexually-oriented, abstinence-only, athletically-successful experience. In fact, there were a few girls in the grade above me who managed to project just this wholesome high school happiness, and Mom did all she could to encourage me to watch and learn. How many times did I hear "Robin So-and-So doesn't wear jeans, and she's captain of the cheerleading squad?" and "Be bubbly. Robin So-and- So is bubbly." Indeed, I enjoyed the cheerleading thing in junior high, but in high school, I was finding my darker, dramatic artist self and had no interest in cheer leading, cheer following, or cheery anything. But Robin So-and-So haunted me with her Tinkerbell nose and her bouncy walk and her perky no-jeans outfits until she graduated and I ballooned to something like 155 pounds my senior year.

I never got to wear jeans in high school. But I wore them every single day throughout college. Then I got a job and started wearing panty-hose. Then I started freelancing, and sweats became as popular in my wardrobe as jeans. I think of this story now, at age 47, because I know two things about jeans that I didn't know in high school. One: they are not always comfortable. Especially if I'm battling a few extra pounds or a little bloating. And two: Robin So-and-So was a dork. (I have no trouble with that connection, do you?) Also, as a working mother, I'm back in uniform. It includes Nylon-spandex blend, boot-cut yoga pants. Danskins. I have two pair. One in black and one in brown.

Dying of Thirst Answer

A few people got it. A few did not. Malcolm had to explain it to me (see previous post, Reflect on This.) What he meant by "we'd all die of thirst" is that water is a reflective surface.










Photos by Malcolm
Yosemite, September 2007

Reflect On This

From time to time, the stress of raising an ADHD child caves in on me. Pity. I pity him. I pity me. Grief. For what should have been. What could have been. I don't believe in fairness. It doesn't exist and never was part of the intelligent design. In fact, the opposite of fairness (unfairness?) likely was the main idea in the big plan. That's a post for another day. But, I can't help but wonder what part of the "intelligence" justifies "giftedness" that fills the sails of one childhood with a strong, steady wind but offers another only a restless wind inside a letter box? That's alright. I know the answer. But from time to time, it just caves.

And sometimes, it soars. This week, I was driving Malcolm to school and I threw out a topic, as I manage to do on a good morning. "What if there were no mirrors? Wouldn't that change our whole concept of beauty in the world? What if there were no reflective surfaces?" Malcolm's instant response was: "We'd all die of thirst."

Let me know how long it takes you.

Bugs and Other Beauties

An artist found my blog recently so I visited hers. That's what it's all about, right? The serendipity about this unexpected encounter is that she loves bugs too! Bugs and bees and plants and trees! Her eye is spiritual, and if you want a few nature hallelujahs, enjoy The Nature Art and Photography of Carolyn Hietala from Richmond, Virginia. That's the name of her website. Whew! Be patient. Scroll down. Don't miss the salamander on the fall leaves. Or the moth pupa paintings. She has a few other blogs I haven't looked at yet. I'll be taking my time with this one for a while.

Speaking of art, I had a joyful lunch at Mary's house last week and finally had the pleasure of eying her water paintings in person. These works are beautifully depicted on her blog, a testament to the wonders of digital photography and backlit computer monitors. But I have to say, seeing them up close and personal surpassed my expectations. Who doesn't relate to water? It's what we are. And there's an immediate connection to these works, a drawing in, a pull to touch. Mary's also done some beautiful charcoal sketches of the tides which I thought were ancient Japanese prints. And an early attempt at a surf painting in the bathroom illustrates the trick-the-eye effect that painting requires to represent the real thing. Mary's works always strike me with awe in that way: up close suggesting the subtle techniques that miraculously a step back appear as exact as nature itself. It is a privileged experience to feel that intimate with her work. Pay close attention to her recent post (Oct. 26) and the way two separate pieces on the top form a continuous vision in different shades. The dichotomy of the respect for natural beauty in its simulation.

Look at me. All this aht (as my people pronounce it). Speaking of aht and the Boston accent, I'd like to say that I've seen Lisa Strout's latest mosaics, but she's in Portland now. I haven't seen her in more than a year. She's updated her website (tilefishart.com) and it's obvious she's been hahd at werk, right Lisa? Do NOT miss the no calorie chocolates and the mosaic pillows. Lisa is a natural artist, someone who can't contain her creativity, has to act on most of her artistic impulses, and definitely does things her own way. She's a rolling stone, who in school was probably the kind of kid your mothers told you to avoid. Lucky the ones who didn't listen to their moms. All that self expression, and believe me, Lisa never lets convention get in the way of self expression. Or a good time. You'll see it. I haven't caught up with Lisa in a while. We're supposed to talk a little more about the four chapters I sent her, but we're so singularly sucked in, we artists. Aren't we?

It's ok, too. I'm working through them as though just knowing she read them inspired improvements.

Not on Strike

I didn't instigate the writer's strike, honest. It doesn't look like I'm writing, but blogging takes time away from the real deal, and my deadline is looming. Feb. 1st. More than a month past my return from Italy, and I'm just getting back my stride. That's stride, not strike. Not that I want to work for Hollywood, but it would be a dream to have the kind of steady in a writing career for which a strike validates it as a real job. I'm working on borrowed time, as you know, so I'll keep this brief. I'm on chapter 8, though it's still slow. Italy set me back weeks before I left, and I was a slug afterwards. Couldn't get back into my rhythm. Lots of household and family management details to attend to. (I'm still a mom.) I couldn't find the groove, plus, I'm not the kind of gal that can sit still for very long. Thoughts don't come flooding out of my head; they drip. Yep, I'm more like a leaky faucet kind of writer. I sit down. I get up. I go to the fridge. Sit back down. Get up. Check for the mail. Put in a load of laundry. Fix a few sentences. Check email. Think. Think. Think. Write and then find a drawer full of empty change that needs to be collected. See? Today, it's the blog. Crap. Back to the bucket.

Miss Otus Regrets

I'm heading off to Italy with my mom on Monday. We start in Milan, head to Lago di Garda, fitting in a few day trips to Venice and Padova. Then we'll take a train to Ravenna for a few days, then to Sienna -- with a day trip to Florence from there -- and finally to Cinque Terre. Mom has decided to start her diet in Milan. I'm ending mine there. So, while I regret she'll be sitting across the table, unable to lunch on anything other than Balance Bars, that won't stop me from smacking my lips over Ligurian seafood, Tuscan meat dishes, pizza in Sienna, sauces from Emilia-Romania, and succulent wines from everywhere. (The photo is from Maggie's stop in Cinque Terre last summer with Carla and Laurel.)

I'm taking a few writing tools: a pad of graph paper (I love those tiny boxes!), some mechanical pencils, refills on lead and erasers, my writing journals and an old travel journal that I used when I went on a bike tour of Alaska with Mama Mia in 2000. Whatfor all these writing utensils? I'm afraid I'm forced to finally outline the novel. Yep, I admit it. Up until now, it's been seat-of-the-pants all the way. That's what writing on a laptop does to me: I can't resist the random, chaotic, organic-ness of composing on a computer. I LOVE it, and I'll miss it. But, I guess If I'm going to have to lollygag on trains from Lombardy to Liguria for two weeks, I might as well use the time semi-wisely.

Ciao!

Crisping Towards the Shadowlands

On the way up to the cabin this last weekend of summer, Brian and I had a chance to drive alone in "the living room" (the Tundra), while all five kids accompanying us squeezed into the 4-Runner, which happens to have no air conditioning. Five teenagers. 91 degrees. No air conditioning.

On the way up, Brian waxed nostalgic about the fact that Maggie and her Cal friends are performing the same ritual we practiced with our UCLA pals twenty some odd years ago. And there it was. The geezer factor. In that one careless, wistful observation, the older generation zeroed in, locked on, plucked us out of our delusions of youth, and enfolded us into its ranks. All those years stealthily ducking it since the kids made us parents, admittance came sooner and more nimbly into our partnership than I planned. Sighing heavily, I stared out the window as we passed over John Day's Hill leading into the Coastal Range. Within moments, I began to notice the flora and fauna passing by fading ever so slightly into soft sepia shades of light and shadow. A faint crisping sounded in my ear, as though pine needles, oak leaves, manzanita, mountain thistle, fennel, grasses and weeds lining that road, in one united sigh of their own, surrendered to autumn sooner than they expected.

We did a lot of water skiing Saturday. I had a brief run, but it was the run of my life. I leaned back, weightless, and sailed intrepidly back and forth across the wake. In the end, though, I paid dearly for that fearless flight. Oh, did I pay! That night, vertigo packed a punch that kept me wrestling with a spinning tent and sleeplessness. For some reason, I remained uncharacteristically calm in my solitude through that Gravelly night. Through the fine tent mesh overhead, I watched the gun-metal gray sky darken to black as the waxing gibbous moon dropped out of sight. Stars popped brilliantly against the infinite blackness. A barn owl screeched in a nearby tree. A great-horned neighbor's hollowed answers echoed back. Drying leaves rustled overhead. No creek sounds this late in a drought year. I dropped in and out of sleep until one last waking, I witnessed with relief the steel blue light of dawn. I dropped into two delicious hours of still sleep. After rising, I sat in one of the worn wicker chairs out in the field, drinking coffee with Brian. The mid morning sun warmed our backs as we stared out at over the grasses, crusty and pale.

A few hours later, the kids awoke, one by one, zipped open tents, and lumbered towards the cabin, shedding their slumber over the dusty footpaths. A dozen scrambled eggs, a dart game, and some slapdash packing, and off they set for the three-hour drive home. Five teenagers. No air conditioning. But a mere 78 degrees at that point. Carla from Milan, in the U.S. scoping out grad schools, had to catch her flight to New York that night. Malcolm planned to meet a friend at the ferry building in the city. Maggie, Kay, and Andre still had to buy their books for classes the next day. Brian and I found ourselves in a refreshingly bizarre situation: no plans ahead.

Without words to mark this alien occasion, we set about breaking camp. In silence, I disassembled tents, collected the kerosene lanterns, carried chairs back into the cabin, stuffed sleeping bags, repacked food bags and cooler, and secured the wool blankets back into their mothball-filled metal lockbox. After that, while Brian neatened the fencing over the grapevines, checked the water pipes, and cleaned the cabin, I sat on the tailgate munching granola. Buddy's ears perked, alerting me to the sight of a goldfinch fidgeting on a lantern hook. The blue jay's nest sagged out of the bat box, its fledglings long decamped from its twiggy womb. At the far edge of the field, from out of the creek alders, two grazing deer signaled a tentative moment of harmony with the wilds of nature beyond.

Fresh from the shower, Brian shuttered the cabin, packed the trash in the truck bed, closed up the tailgate, shut the truck's back doors, and settled into the seat beside me. He popped a breath mint, kissed me on the lips, and started up the engine for the drive home. As we pulled out of the gravelly driveway, I tuned the iPod to John Mellancamp, leaned back and looked out across the valley. It had been a great summer.

Baby, won't you buy my car? (And other questions)

A very nice couple from San Rafael bought my Volvo yesterday. (I now drive the darling pictured at left.) Besides the required DMV forms, we discussed some mutual interests like garden pots, beer making, and writing. When the gentleman asked me the purpose of my blog, the thing that had been nagging at writing nerve most recently assaulted me like a chubby middle-schooler screaming "duh" into my face. (Not that the buyer was any of those things.) What is the purpose of this blog? It doesn't have one, really. It's a bit of a navel gazing exercise to narrate my writing life. But, who the hell cares about that. I'm off to find new purpose for this screaming lady. Stay tuned.

Dammed Waters

Got pre-workshop feedback on chapter four from my writing instructor. He suggested a major edit that I liked, and so, instead of my wild ride on the waters of creativity towards chapter five, I'm revising right now. It's Tuesday and I think I'll be done by this afternoon. In the meantime, to keep myself from getting impatient, instead of my wild ride imagery, I chose the serenity of the little fountain in our zen-ified garden.

Racing with Minnows

This is me a few weeks ago, the ride that likely caused the vertigo. This is also me in the week ahead. Only instead of water, picture creative genius. Instead of a tow rope, picture my words. And instead of the ceiling spinning overhead as a result, picture the outcome of my next wild ride the spinning out of another chapter. Note look of imperturbable concentration. Off I go.

Chapter Four

It's taken me all summer, so far, but chapter four is finally finished. Rough rough draft, of course. (She said, hording excuses.) I have five chapters written now. (A later chapter, not yet numbered, I drafted for a writing class last winter.) A whole summer practically, but if anyone's kept up with this blog, the excuses are innumerable. Also, to get this chapter in shape, I read three books -- one a girl's diary of growing up in the 70s and two on abortion history. I also watched two documentaries on women's achievements in history. Four parts narrated by Donna Mills, that icon of women's intellectual, political and social progress. Inspiring. I've got a boat-load of people coming next weekend. My goal is to write chapter five this week. I will not be blogging, for sure.

Vertigo

After a wild ride of a weekend water skiing at Lake Pillsbury, I opened my eyes last Monday morning at 5:45 to the ceiling spinning. This was not some blurry aftermath of a vacation bender. I don't drink all that much anymore. Besides, the room spun when my eyes were OPEN! Long story short, I had Vertigo. I wobbled and swayed my way to the doctor's, got some blood tests and other nuisances, and never found out a cause. For a week, a thick, oozy, dark cloud settled over my brain, keeping me from connecting all the wires to the right places. I was able to write a little, not much, and for the most part, it's gone. Back to the well for some creativity. Now, where's my bucket?

Gone Bonding

Off to the cabana for three days with my boys. I've had a week to myself to accomplish lots of words, and I've taken full advantage. My research stuffs my Book Passage shoulder bag to capacity, lots of pens and pencils and a notebook. Writing class last night launched a weekly routine of workshops through til spring. I'm giddy. Mary said she looks for my blog updates; I'm so flattered. Sheepish, though, about not keeping it up as frequently as I hoped. I told her if I'm not posting, it's because the book has me captivated. Hope that helps. Thanks for reading!!!

Convinced?

The boys are off to the cabin til Monday. By the time they got out the door and I got Sarah back to the city, I was left, for the first time this summer, with time - and nothing to slot into it - ahead of me. I grabbed my notebook, laced my hiking shoes, and headed to the hills. The notes flew onto the page as soon as I was out the front gate. Yesterday I felt almost hopeless about the significance of the story I was weaving with the loose threads of my embryonic talent. Today, the threads began to plait up almost by themselves. Need more convincing evidence that character A feels powerless? By golly, she needs to wretch at the distaste of that powerlessness. Her daughters have to sock it to her with their heedless decisions, the way they talk over her opinions, accentuate her inabilities. Worse, they decide to ignore her. Okay, now we have something! Need convincing evidence that things aren't what they seem with our protagonist? Time the mysterious snow to occur just as the others discover she's been holding out on them. Shock 'em. No time to explain.

Plot tension

I'm off for a hike. I am a tad stuck. I've finished four chapters, and I'm afraid that between 1 and 3, there's not much plot tension. Just one of the things that haunts me day to day. Do I go back and revise now? Or wait til I've produced more? Off to the trails . . .

How long before you leave again?

Brian needs to get a job. Really, enough sharing already! I haven't had a good long stretch of writing unbroken by his enthusiasm since he ended his career with EETimes and entered a month-long hiatus. It's not that he keeps interrupting me, although he does. It's that annoying jolly step, as he tramps through the house from one busy project to the next. It's 15 years of deferred to-dos unleashed. But even when he's not moving around, from behind my office door, his silence is probably most distracting. It's his prolonged presence in the kitchen, for example; I ache to know what he's getting into. No, FEAR what he's getting into! He also keeps asking me how the writing is going. More than once a day. I think we need some ground rules.

Scream, Already!

Thanks, Lisa, for that kick in the butt. To the screaming:

You were somewhat correct in that when I took the time to write in the past few weeks, it was to catch up on the book at the easy expense of the blog. You gave me too much credit, however, in assuming I was producing much at all. If I were one of those writers who figures out how to put writing above nutrition and hygene on my daily to-do list, I'd be up every morning at 4:00 or 5:00, produce two to three hours of great literature before the rest of the house begins to wipe the crust from their eyes and stretch their rigid limbs across the crumpled sheets. I haven't figured that out yet. It's on my to-do list.

I'm sitting at Martha & Bros. on the corner of Divisidero and California, 8:35 a.m., Thursday July 5. Coffee shop with FREE high-speed internet access. I've spent the last five days in Heidi-land. You might have been there once yourself: expecting overnight guests, you attack all the little chores that nobody ever gets to until guests are about to come around. A two-day frenzy of shopping, cleaning, patching, deconstructing and reconstructing. Like, putting the door knob back on the pantry door after 2 years; framing and/or hanging pictures on the bare walls they've been resting against since the walls were painted; changing the moldy shower curtain. Then, stashing the unaccomplished ugliest in closets and under beds 15 minutes before guests arrive.

We entertained our long-lost Rhode Island buddies, Deb and John, and their happy band of offspring, Pete, Evan, and Juliana. It wasn't the typical visit where the adults go to one end of the house and the kids to another and meet back at the end of the visit. The children's companionship satisfied as much as the adults', moreso, even, by the sheer surprise of it. Performing on our musical instruments partly because they couldn't help themselves, and partly to entertain, not show off. Conversing like ambassadors of nations. And being kids like you just don't see kids anymore these days: authentically excited about the newness of a place; playing hand-slap and dance games in public; posing for goofy touristy photos because IT'S FUN. Three days. Not nearly long enough to reclaim all the time and events lost to the 3000 miles and years that have separated us.

In the hour I've been writing, sipping coffeee, moving my seat, here at Martha & Bros., I've wiped from the corners of my brain a few of the cobwebs that quickly formed while away from writing. My vocabulary is flabby and my attention is weak. I'm fighting to return to the writer within. I feel so distant from her, spoiled by the undisciplined flow of an active social life. The sights outside the window in front of me delight and easily distract me; the wonderful diversity of city people. Earnest, freshly showered morning people dashing to the bus. Weary, red-eyed July-4th revelers shuffling into the cafe, desperate and repentant. Oh, here's a woman in black capris pants, black heeled pumps, a pretty white blouse under a shapely tan and black striped fitted jacket, black hair pulled back in a stylist pony tail, one hand steadying the distressed brown leather bag hanging off her shoulder, other hand suspending her cuppa away from her outfit. This is the SF look. We've mastered the art of making casual attire still mean business. There's a dad taking his son to day-care (I'm assuming, at this early hour). He must be six-nine and weigh 145 pounds. Stylishly short dreadlocks and thick-rimmed glasses, gray t-shirt and black jeans. His son barely tops at at Dad's mid-calf. But their arms are long enough to reach each other. Bike riders, seriously on their way to work, jeans and a jacket; not weekend show-offs in neon colored spandex. A mom in flip flops and workout pants pushing well-used stroller, walking dog. Lady in jeans and navy blazer, long red hair, no make-up. That one across the street must be a good lawyer; I can tell by her gray-and-black streaked page-boy cut, ill-fitting, no-nonsense black suit and beige, over-stuffed canvas carry-all. Waiting for the bus. Public defender. You, there. Are you a yoga teacher with all your gear stuffed into that Whole-foods sack? And you, nice powder blue and black Timbuk2 bag. Gotta class? Guy in crisp ironed shirt and khakis coolly defying the 3 seconds left on the walk signal. No worries. Chinese couple just now sit at cafe tables outside my window perch. Coffee? No thanks, just resting. Whoa, girl, a little too much gut squishing up over your belt. Believe me, that's eye-catching in the worst way. God, I'm way too distracted. Off to my library office.

P.S. Working at the library for an hour is not working. Can't. . . focus. . . my. . . thoughts.

A New Office, A New Day

Welcome to my new office: the Presidio Branch of the San Francisco Public Library. Aware that my location impresses no one in the blog-o-sphere, I am nonetheless giddy at the idea that I will be writing my novel in a library. It's a funky old building on Clay and Baker streets, yellow-bricked with long, slow stone steps and concrete columns flanking its massive oak doors. The main room, high-ceilinged, arched-windowed, oak-paneled, has that delicious mysterious scent of aged paper, opened to the damp air then closed to mold and then dry who knows how many times. Ah, the smell of book worship. This place, it's classic. Still, something sort of retrofit in feel makes me less a believer. Maybe it's the fluorescent lights set into the ornate ceiling mouldings or the 70s-era arm chairs, low slung and angular with brown Naugahyde upholstery. Maybe it's the pressed plywood bookshelves pretending to blend in with the old stacks. There's a sure sense of posing about this place. Like a town whose industry has shipped overseas but whose residents keep showing up at the factory punch-clock every morning. It has high-speed wireless Internet, though. This is where I will be most days writing the novel, now that Malcolm has started at Drew High School, beginning with a freshman transition program this summer. I'm having a little difficulty concentrating today, distracted by a startlingly diverse array of personalities among the library patrons and the way some said patrons keep looking over their shoulders at other said personalities who enter their personal space. Often. There's also the diminutive white-haired and -mustacheoed librarian who smiles too often and wrings his hands when he talks ("Be sure we get a copy of the book; children's is it?") He talks on the phone a lot, sweetly and with service in his heart, but casually too loud for a librarian's sensibilities. I wonder if I should be more wary than I am, so eager to establish familiarity in my new surroundings, talking so soon to this stranger. I had the same feeling this morning when I entered into two, count 'em two!, conversations with strangers at the Starbucks on Sutter and Broderick. You can take the girl outta New England. . . I thought it would be nice simply to enjoy the encounters, but something in the back of my Salem-haunted brain said "they're never what they seem." I may need to take my work downstairs to the Russian and Chinese literature room. I'm thinking distractions in another language might be less distracting.

So, here I am. Writing again. Working on the video was a rewarding creative experience, with a finished product in short time. But it was like a relative who comes for a week and stays three. I just couldn't seem to find a polite way of saying "enough!" After it was over, I had to attend to all of the minutia of life and family that I'd put aside to work on the project, and soon, I was a month behind in my writing. I think to myself, what would Mary Wagstaff do after drifting away from her painting for a month? Is it the same creature she left when she headed off to that surfing retreat in Costa Rica? How could it be? She's not the same person who left it. Every day makes a person new. Thirty days, a new life, it seems, in the world of creativity. Does Mary alter old brush strokes? Does Mary mix new shades? Does Mary make drastic changes to all that work already on the canvas?

My work this week, I've planned, will consist of rereading the finished chapters to orient myself. Next, I'll type up notes. My notes are more ephemeral in nature than the chapter work and therefore easier to forget. There's a lot of direction and decision in those notes, though, and this is a good time to tap it; see what ideas last stormed my brain.

Back to work, now. . .

Hello, Ladies

So much has happened since I last posted. We produced a 30 minute movie for Malcolm's 8th grade graduation, refined it ad nauseum and then edited it to 20 minutes. I discovered my passion for editing isn't restricted to words. I loved the work. Brian suggests we enter it into some indy video awards programs. I think he's serious. Landscaping started on the side yard. I did not yet sell my Volvo. Maggie returned home, having completed her final exams at Cal. Her presence quickly reminded us why we had hired a cleaning lady. Malcolm acquired his first suit and looks 17 years old in it. Maggie and I cried while watching him get fittted in the "funhouse" mirrors. Maggie postponed her trip back east to attend his graduation. So I get another 10 days of a messy house and her sweet, spirited companionship. Totally worth it. On Friday, she moved into a house in Berkeley with five of her 8th floor dorm-mates from this year; two girls and three guys. We hosted them and a few other friends for steak and risotto last night; it was grand. Their energy was nothing short of what you'd expect from kids living the fully-funded, unsupervised, independent lifestyle (from the Zits cartoon).

The ladies in my novel have been, well, ladylike in their patience to have me return to their stories. I've missed them and continued to let them evolve in my notes. We meet up again tomorrow, and I promised them no more detours til we get the thing done.

Creative Diversion

I'm producing a video project for Malcolm's school's graduation this week. Back to work next week. I miss my ladies.

Language and Architecture

Started last Friday, an hour's architecture this morning, a work in progress: Language and Architecture.

Sneak Peek

Usually when the front door opens at this time of year, the cold sneaks through the entry and lingers at the kitchen entrance like a vagrant outside a downtown shop. This time, the bum carried a sullen mood, and Nonna braced for Gabby to follow. On cue, a long fushia wool coat with its brown mink collar and matching mink pillbox hat turned the corner. The mood didn’t have a chance. Gabby jumped back and shrieked in an unearthly pitch and volume otherwise unthinkable for her slight form in dressmaker clothes. Her expression, contorted, and the scream, more biological than emotional, rooted down through Nonna’s being and located a fright so primal it erupted through her intestines. She screamed back, and in an instant Gabby’s expression turned to recognition, which just caused her to yelled out again. This one sounded more familiar, more fear than terror. Instantly, Nonna regretted her decision to surprise the girls.

I had the choice to create for my blog or create for the novel. If Brian comes looking for a blog entry, he'll get it, but this definitely cheats. A paragraph that needs more time in the cooker, but I like its potential.

Back on Track

If you read his comment on my "Bad Day" post, you caught the gentle ass-kicking my employer gave me after he came out of the mountains and had a chance to check in on my work. "Stop it with the Stegner whining". . . or something like that. "The guy didn't his his stride until he was in his 50s." (That puts me on track, as a sidenote.) He's right. I did manage to get Stegner's prose out of my head; it was just after I watched "Bull Durham" the other night: "Annie? Who's this Annie? Get her out of your head, meat. Don't think, meat." You know what I mean if you've seen it. So, I got him out of my head and had a pretty compositional afternoon. It was one of those writing sessions that feels like I have swum miles out into the ocean, and I'm bobbing in the middle of purple green swells that promise doom in their depths, nothing around me but their glassy mountains and an open sky above. Nothing changes but the rhythm in my body. To keep afloat, I have to swim a little, float a little, tred water some, then swim some more. I get into a character's head, then back out, move to the setting, describe an object, get bored, swim around it, and start writing from the other side. Never leaving the open sea. It wasn't but a few hours, but I could have stayed out there til my skin got so pruney, I'd require a day on intravenous fluids for anyone to recognize me.

I'm happy in my hermitage, to answer the few inquirers about my social needs. I'm suited to it; the signs have always been there.

A Bad Day

Oh, I hope I don't have many more days like today. Maybe it was the heat. Maybe it was the inkling of brilliant summer days full of possibilities. Maybe I just wanted to go to the beach. My writing today bored me. I caught myself yawning several times. Honestly. I think I need to stop reading Wallace Stegner. My work isn't nearly so literary, although I hoped it would be. He simply awes me, the way he originates, makes the ordinary extraordinary, collects the ingredients of a remarkable moment and then articulates it in the fewest possible words. I'd be like blah blah blahbbing on and on, insisting on a description so intensely, I end up overwriting it. A few hours on the books today. Lousy. Blah!

I'd like to say some other things: about a long-overdue phone call with Deb, my bon(ne) vivant(e) girlfriend from Rhode Island, falling in love with her all over again, with her exuberance and lusty spirit; about Winnie coming home from New Mexico with shrunken and/or missing tumors, praying for some cooperation from American doctors and higher red and white blood cell counts (bubbles, bubbles, bubbles swarming all around her); about the utterly delicious feeling of holding a watering can over potted plants. But I'm too afraid to let today's clutsy wordsmithing ruin the moment. Maybe another day, huh?

Everyone in the Pool

Concept for chapter three finalized on the hike. Nice long hike. I started the journey thinking I was going to write about one thing and ended up with another that became an interim chapter, which will be chapter three and chapter three now will be chapter four. One thing I've learned about this process is that it never stops being a process. When I first jumped into the pool and committed to the novel this time around, I literally went into a pool. A warm soaking pool in Sonoma. I was sent there by Brian to write for four days. I made a ritual of inviting my characters into the pool with me, one at a time, to get to know them better. Over the four days, I talked to them, asked them questions, learned about their lives. They spoke back. One character, for example, is 80 years old, and I had this grandmotherly persona all set for her. Easy. Then, in the pool one day, she told me she had been raped when she was 17. It shocked me, but you know, it worked. The plot tensed up, which is what it needed. The story instantly became richer, deeper, more textured. Today, on my hike, she told me she assisted girls who needed abortions before they were legal. Suddenly, she was another person altogether, and did that ever thicken the plot! I'm much more open to things changing like this now, whereas before the chaos of their organic nature terrified me. The basic plot remains the same, but I'm relieved that the creative process can be continuously creative, not just creative at the beginning and mechanical upon implementation.

Mom, my journal's open on the kitchen table, and I'm going out

I was thinking this morning how journals used to be private places. Does anyone keep a private journal anymore? I think my kids believe their Facebook's are private. Well, maybe on the one hand: they are just private to "us." On the other hand, they are electronic billboards broadcasting reflections of themselves into outer space. A writer I know found a researcher who decribes teen electronic activity as a means of self-validation. They spend too much time observing their own thoughts. Used to be, they just mumbled and moved on. Did I just imply I miss the mumbling? Blogs have changed though. They might be better described as blobs. . . boundless, shapeless, transparent ooze of thoughts and ideas. Social networks, text messaging, I-Ming, blogs, wikis. Sharing. So much sharing.

I have to admit, I like knowing people are reading this blog. At least two, apparently. This morning I thought it would be nice if my mother read it once in a while. I thought, when I was a kid, she might have wanted to read my journal to learn why I was acting so strangely. And now, maybe she'd want to read my blog to find out why I'm acting so strangely. Maybe at this point she doesn't want to know.

Morning Terrors

Do other writers wake up experiencing a flash panic that their novel is stupid? Going nowhere? Fast? I'm not even far enough into it yet to warrant that kind of wake-up call, but there it was, exploding in my chest the minute I opened my eyes. Most mornings these days, I wake up thinking about the current happening in the book. Does that phrase make sense for that character? Is that action appropriate for the time period? Is there enough plot tension coming through? I spend about five minutes musing, welcome a word-boosting cuppa from my beloved, and sit up for 10 minutes directing my thoughts to the next page or two that I want to produce that day. Except today. Here's where one turns to Annie Lamott or Natalie Goldberg. Erma Bombeck even, the 70s and 80s female version of Dr. Phil, who basically told writers to stop their cry-babying and write. Write whatever, just write the damned words. Times like these, I begin to notice all the clutter in the house, little tasks piling up in my to-do basket, appointments I should make for the family. Must resist the urge.

Mirror, Mirror on The Monitor

Last week was one of the most delicious weeks of my life. I wrote every day for at least four hours a day, a few five, and one six. On Sunday, Brian reviewed my Chapter One rewrite and agreed I could move on. But this week, I'm finding more obstacles in my writing brain. I can't sink my teeth into Chapter Two; it's meat that hasn't yet formed on the bones of the Angus. So, yesterday, Monday, I read Wallace Stegner, my literary hero, for inspiration, and reviewed notes in my hiking journal. When I hike, I keep a small notebook, slightly larger than my palm, in a fanny pack. Moving unlocks my mind, so an hour's hike can produce a load of material. The ideas just ooze out of my head, and if I stick the journal under my chin, I can capture them all on its pages before they fall under my trail-ripping treads. I used to unzip the fanny pack and pull out the journal, jot a few words down, then tuck it back in my pouch. Nowadays, I keep it in my hand. I got tired of all that zipping and unzipping. Part of my problem this week is that I hurt my back. I can't move.

I'm still trying to figure out what I'm supposed to do with all this blogging. I feel like I just spent 30 minutes looking at myself in the mirror. I'm not comfortable with that. Are you?

Toast and Coffee

Again, see Language and Architecture over there to the right. My chores are done; now to the good stuff.

Godspeed, Mr. Librescu

I was going to post about the logistical quicksand of kids' schedules sucking all my time and energy yesterday, leaving me without a word written. But then I read the front page stories. Memo to self: count your blessings. I intended to remain informed but avoid the excessive news coverage, the TV and Internet voyernalism. I tried to look away when greedy, gold-digging newscasters mined for the raw, fragile emotions of petrified Virgina Tech students. I picked out one each of the thousands of stories on the countless angles they could come up with to cover this story, read the article, and collected my thoughts. I refused to buy into the same old manipulative excess dished out by voyernalism. Asking question after question until the student could no longer hold back his tears (and hold onto his dignity). Presenting more and more shocking cell-phone video so unreal it becomes macabre in its similarity to current Hollywood releases. But, unlike other unspeakable tragedies of the past, the voyernalists couldn't keep up with this pyschopath. It seems every hour, yet another one of his premeditations breaks news.

I worry that the gunman is getting too much attention from the press, encouraging other would-be psychotic attention seekers. I worry that young college students will never sleep soundly in their dorm beds again. I want my daughter to come home from Cal so that I can hold her in my lap and stroke her sweet-smelling hair.

There are stories of heroism and compassion that help redeem humanity from the far-reaching effects of one man's inhumanity. I make sure to read every one of those. One story in particular brings unexpected joy in the midst of unimaginable grief. Out of this obscenely evil act, beauty rose and his name is Liviu Librescu. An authentic humanitarian, Liviu Librescu faced evil before, faced his death at the hands of another grotesque beast during the Holocaust. Yet he managed to hold it off for a time when it would give life back to others. I can't imagine his family's wretching pain, yet I find comfort in New York City councilman (and, according to Newsday, a frequent spokesman for the Orthodox Jewish community in Brooklyn) Dov Hikind's words: "We all know in our community that to save one life is to save the world. Look at the final act of Professor Librescu."

When having to work with unpleasant people in my former PR days, my boss (and now dear friend) Winnie Shows taught me "if you find you can't love someone, learn from them." A gunman introduced us to Mr. Librescu; we could consider that a learning opportunity. In this case, however, I choose to learn from the man in whom I find the love. Godspeed, Mr. Librescu.

A Good Day

See Languages and Architecture link over there in the I Digress list. Have a good day!

Blogging Towards Fitness

This blog posting is beginning to feel a little like getting back into an exercise routine after a long haitus. The first few days are exhilarating and fun, but then the muscles begin to stiffen and ache from the new workout. I read that writing is all about fitness; the well practiced writing mind. I wrote five hours yesterday and slept like I'd been drugged. Back to the workout. No wonder Jane Fonda produced so many books.

Panties vs. Thongs

Sometimes, all you need is a catchy headline. I really want to get into this issue at the risk of typecasting my intentions out of the starting gate. I have my opinions and some really funny stories. But, posting takes a lot of time, and I have to start my new job today, and I'm already late. If you got to the Oprah archive page recommended on the previous post, you might have seen the little window shade panty ad. It shows a small pair of white panties (is it panties or panty?), and each side of the backside of the panty has a little window shade pull attached to it. The flash player sends the shades up and down to demonstrate what happens to ill-fitting panties. What is it about underwear humor? I feel like I'm in middle school, but that ad's humor really sticks with me, unlike some of the best engineered panties at prices that rival designer sunglasses. But rather that than a thong that intends to go places most women try to keep their panties from going. Nuff said on this topic. Off to work. It's my first day; I hope they don't make me make the coffee.

Origami Bras and Oprahs Jeans

By virture of the fact that I'm not supposed to be procrastinating, I bring you one of the most brilliant forms of procrastination: Internet advertising. Next to shopping for e-cards, it's hella distracting. The Barely There bra ad is the new tops on my list. First of all, I love it when the advertising world takes its collective heads out of you-know-where and clues into what's really going on in the world rather than what they and their clients fantacize is going on in the world. Like Cover Girl choosing Drew Barrymore as the next "it" girl. Yes! Hero is the woman who doesn't need the mirror or the media to tell her she's beautiful. She just knows it. No regrets, man. And no stinkin' critics with their stinkin' Hollywood formulas for success. Victoria Secret, on the other hand: it ain't bras they're selling and it ain't women they're selling to.

Well, The Martin Agency nailed it with the Barely There Bra ads. You can see for yourself on the Barely There website (I tried to make a link out of the photo to the left, but it didn't work. Just as well. We'd be an altogether different kind of website, having you point your cursor to the pepper stems and such.) My favorite implementation of the ad is on an archive page of Oprah's website (Finger on the pulse, baby. Finger on the pulse.)

According to Reveries Magazine (which believes in parentheses, apparently) "The campaign sends its message using a “before-and-after” construct, “with two bras side-by-side that illustrate the result of an ill-chosen bra. On the left is a bra that is bumpy or misshapen (labeled ‘There’). On the right, a bra with a monochromatic background (”Barely There.”) The ‘There’ bras are adorned with objects that signify bumps, ridges and other bra-related problems. (The objects the Martin Agency … dreamed up include headlights, Jiffy Pop, pine cones and pointy pink-drink umbrellas).”

Anyway, on the Oprah site, you get to see some of the better iterations of the bra that aren't on the company's website. Like snow falling on pinecone cups. Or my favorite, the origami bra. (You might have to click the refresh button on Oprah's site a few times, but eventually the origami bra pops up, if you will.) The origami bra's cups are made of kootie catchers -those little paper puzzles we made as kids. You know, the ones where you stick your fingers in the points of the puzzle, open and close it to a rhyme that reveals a color, then a number, then eventually some folk wisdom, a fortune, or juvenile namecalling on the inner folds? The ad uses a flash player to manipulate the puzzle, but again, different website genre. Let's continue.

Jeans, Jeans, They're Good for Your Arse

Speaking of Oprah's website (Really, finger on the pulse): if you seriously need more excuses to procrastinate, you'll feel almost productive (if you are a girl) when you check this link out. Oprah found someone who expertly helps you pick out the best jean for your body type. It's on my bookmark list. Confession: I care and I shop. As you probably have guessed, being a screaming lady means show, don't tell. Bookmark This! is a feature on my blog where I show (and in cases like this, confess) my bookmarks, a collection of the many ways I've found to procrastinate all these years. Join me, won't you? You have to promise not to judge, but if you do, at least have the decency to comment on my blog. I'll want to bookmark it.

Meet My Scream

"Do not put off until tomorrow what can be put off til day-after-tomorrow just as well." Mark Twain

Dear Mr. Twain,

Tomorrow is my 47th birthday. The day after tomorrow, we'll be parting ways. When I turned 30, I got this brainstorm idea for a novel. Excuse me, but I'm in the middle of the American Dream here! Budding a corporate career. Pioneering my way in California. Starting an adorable family. So I had another kid instead. One thing led to another and after 17 years, four houses, several construction projects, a consulting business, boot camp and other fitness pursuits, a kajillion school volunteer hours, and a helluva lot of laughs, I made a deal with the devil (Brian), and signed a contract to produce my novel in seven months. I asked for a year, but he knows me better. I've taken your advice too long. See you in seven months.