The End is Near

*****

Just when I got used to 2008, 2009 decided to close in fast. In the spirit of reflection and the hope for continued growth, I’d like to reexamine 2008’s goals and see how well I met them.

#1 ~ Design and implement an effective blog.

Done.

#2 ~ Get 4 more publishing credits.

Done.

Not only did I meet this one, I did way better, publishing 10 stories in 2008.

#3 ~ Get paid for a piece of writing.

Done.

I didn’t make millions, but I was offered a few honorariums for my work. It felt good and I'm pleased it happened.

#4 ~ 1 publishing credit in a semi-prestigious market.

Done.

Between The Burning Black being selected for EDF’s 2008 Best of Anthology and my author interview with EDF in early December, this was a great year for having my work acknowledged.

#5 ~ Finish a novel. Any novel.

Not done. But, I’m working on Folly and have finally selected a novel to commit to. What’s more, I’m extremely pleased with what I’ve accomplished thus far in the second draft. Folly’s a winner and I’m very proud of it.

I’m starting a new novel workshop in January. That should move Folly forward. I expect by this time 2009. I’ll tick this one off my list.

#6 ~ Successful 2008 NaNoWriMo.

Also not done.

This one was intentionally left undone. With the first drafts of two novels wrapping themselves around my ankles, drafting a third was risking breaking my authorial neck. November was hard. I yearned to write a crappy novel. But I’m committed to Folly, so I watched the days tick by and dreamed of writing recklessly next year.

Now for a few unexpected successes from 2008.

1) The great week at Rhinelander School of the Arts.

By far, this was the best thing I ever did for my writing. I’ve never been so energized, inspired, excited and exhausted by my own work. I’ll go back, as soon as family fortunes permit it.

2) Being reunited with some old online writing buddies.

I swore I wouldn’t get involved in another online critique group. I was wrong and this is one time I’m happy to admit it.

3) New writing buddy Jane.

Jane’s been a great source of support. I’ve loved sharing what little I know with her. She’s a tremendous talent and I’m so happy to have her as a writing pal. I look forward to our learning more from each other.

And finally, a few setbacks:

1) While I’m pleased with Folly, I wish I was moving faster on revisions. I seem to get bogged down with the tweaking and honing. Clearly, this is something I need to get better at.

2) I had to walk away from Somewhere on the Road to Me, at least for now. I love that story. I love those girls. But until I earn my revision chops, I need to let it rest in peace.

Looking back, the successes far outweighed the setbacks. It's been an amazing year for me as a writer, full of growth, opportunity, inspiration, friendship and joy. As we march forward, I wish all of you these same blessings and the satisfaction that invariably comes with them.

This Present Moment

*****

Last week, I was sitting in the sunshine at the picnic table outside our cottage. The lake sparked diamonds, sharp to the eyes, the bright sun catching the tips of the ripples. Out in the middle of the lake, a wave runner buzzed across the surface of the water, then disappeared around the green, densely forested bend into the next bay. For whatever reason, no one else was around other than a few ducks looking for a handout. I had the lake to myself. And I needed its peace. It had been a busy week, my classes and homework more demanding than I’d anticipated. Every morning and evening were spent glued to the laptop, in between making meals and trying to be an entertaining wife/mother/travel companion. By Thursday, fatigue oozed from my pores. It was nice to sit in the sun and watch the water, to set aside my writing and just enjoy the moment.

After awhile, I pulled out The Senator’s Wife by Sue Miller, a book I’d been reading before we left home, but had barely touched since we’d arrived in Rhinelander. The book felt good and right in my hands, full of that pleasurable feeling I get when I’m about to step into a compelling narrative. As much as I enjoy staring at lakes, I also enjoy reading by them. In moments, I was re-immersed in the story.

I was perhaps five or six pages in when something astonishing happened. From overhead, I heard the loud rush of air being displaced, a whoosh-whoosh that dragged me from the story. And there he was, before my eyes, a bald eagle, massive and majestic, taking flight from the top of the pine tree no more than fifteen feet from where I sat.

He hovered a moment, then his wings flapped again, powerful strokes so wide and so deep, I couldn’t fathom his wingspan. His tail feathers spread white against the blue sky, his chocolate brown body and wings so rich and regal by contrast. Before I could commit every aspect of him to my memory, he’d flown away. With three strokes of those wings, he was halfway across the lake and I, at my table on the shore, book forgotten, was left behind, awed and heartbroken.

In the afterecho, all I could think was that I’d done the unthinkable. I'd committed the writer’s cardinal sin. Somehow in my fatigue and lake-induced lethargy, I’d missed being in the present moment.

I thought about him all day. I’d seen bald eagles before, but always in captivity or, in the wild, only from a distance. Several years ago, my buddy Randy and I saw an eagle atop a dead tree across the bay. Even from that distance, he dwarfed the tree. We’d tried, but couldn’t get closer before he’d flown off. This eagle, my eagle, had been so close. How I would have loved to watch him, to sense his keen intelligence. I’d looked in the eyes of a bald eagle before and been humbled, had been made aware of my minion status. And that had been an eagle in captivity. I could only imagine how lordly and majestic he must have appeared, his gold eyes peering down at his dominion on Lake George. At the tired lady reading the book at a picnic table, unaware she was in the presence of royalty.

I can’t stop thinking about him. About the present moment.

The best writing brings a present moment to us. We feel it, we smell it, we taste it on our tongues. Our skin prickles from the sense of being immersed in it, in this other place someone has created on the page. I’d had an opportunity. To see something unique and frame it in language, to bring it to life for another human being. And I missed it. I’ve fixed the lesson firmly in my heart. Be in the moment, taste and feel it, rub myself across its textures, because the moment may never come again.

The Play’s the Thing

*****

I feel like I need a creative shot in the ass, so I signed up for the Rhinelander School of the Arts this summer.

SOA is a week long program where people of all ages and backgrounds come together in the piney, lake bejewelled northwoods of Wisconsin to immerse themselves in the arts. Painting, sculpture, theatre, writing. You name it. It’s the arts lover's idea of orgasmic overload.

As I browsed the course catalogue, I came across an introductory playwriting class. I vacillated between playwriting and a course on writing a novel that seemed like a much better fit. But something about playwriting resonated and I couldn’t let the idea go. I’ve been a fan of the theatre for almost thirty years. When I was in high school, I worked in a professional theatre as a dresser. I still go to plays every chance I get—I have tickets to see five plays in the next four months. But I’d never thought of writing a play myself.

The more I thought about it, the more it made sense. What better creative challenge than to try to write a cohesive story with multi-dimensional characters than by doing it with a different set of tools. Forget my poetic imagery, my artfully described settings, my viewpoint character’s internal dialogue. I won’t even have much in the way of stage direction (That’s the director’s job, not the playwright’s) Plot, character and dialogue—that’s all I’ll have real control of. The rest is in the hands of set designers, directors, costumers and actors.

I spent this past weekend thinking. Early yesterday morning, I sat outside wrapped in a granny square afghan and drank coffee, my notebook open in front of me. I hadn’t slept well the night before, a refrain echoing in my head most of the night. Casualties and consequences. Casualties and consequences. Over and over, the words linked together, like a chain of events, dominoes falling, lock tumblers clicking into place. From the way it hung in there, claws dug into in my brain, I knew I was onto something. Yesterday morning, before I finished my coffee and the sun had burned the dew from the grass, I’d sketched out the barest of storylines. I closed my notebook, satisfied with what I’d done. I was ready to let my idea ripen.

Like a ghost in the attic, it’s still rattling around, trying to get my attention. So today, I hunted up my copy of Egri’s The Art of Dramatic Writing. (My writing teacher, Gail, recommended this to me as a must-read on motivation and character.) I have no doubt, as I read it, more components will fall into place. And two wonderful nights watching Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream and O’Neill’s Ah, Wilderness! under the stars at American Players Theatre in mid-June will no doubt inspire me more. I’ll be watching with the eye of a literary coroner—taking the pieces apart and examining how they work. Come July 20, I should be bursting with the need to write this thing.

The machinations of the creative brain never fail to amaze me. One thing links to another, spreading scope, drawing connections, weaving a web that catches art. It started with the desire to try something new. To invest one week in late July and see what I might come up with. Already I’m learning something and here it is just May. I’m inspired before I even go.