Sharp as a Knife

*****

Last night, as I stood at the counter chopping veggies for stuffed shells, I lamented how dull my knives are. I have a couple decent knives, but I'm not easy on them. I do make the occasional effort to sharpen them. But I use them naughtily, cutting apples on paper plates, using those plastic cutting boards that can go in the dishwasher. Even the knives go in the dishwasher. As I struggled with cutting a carrot into decent matchsticks, I knew I had no right to complain. It’s my own fault my knives are so dull.

It reminded me of a conversation I had with an artist friend awhile back. One morning, as our children played together, we got talking about how upsetting it is when we don’t have time to follow our respective muses. I told her that, not only does not writing give me an unsettled, cranky feeling, but I know my skills grow dull if I don’t write daily.

She surprised me by being surprised.

Maybe painting is different that way. You can clean the house and garden for a few months, then come back and pick up where you left off. But I can testify that writing requires regular practice. Otherwise my writing muscles grow lax and stiff, which is destined to show up in my writing. So I write. Every day. Even if it’s only a few lines.

Lately, things have been going well. I have several stories nearly ready to send out into the cosmos. Folly still molders, but I’m working on it. Chapter Three needs a complete revamp. I’m reshaping it on the back burner. I’m pleased with my progress. The ideas come fast and hard. I just need more time to execute.

Now back to the stuffed shells. They came out terrific, in spite of lousy knife edges. That’s encouraging, because it means we can get satisfying results, even when things aren’t perfectly sharp. But I have to admit, I noticed the clunky carrot strips. Time to sharpen the knives and make them even better.

Veggie Stuffed Shells

2 Tbsp extra virgin olive oil
1 onion, chopped
1/2 cup shredded or diced carrots
1 cup mushrooms, chopped
1 medium zucchini, chopped
1 cup chopped broccoli
6 ozs. spinach
2 lg cloves garlic, minced
2 - 3 Tbsp minced fresh basil
sea salt and fresh cracked black pepper, to taste
1 egg
1 cup cottage or ricotta cheese (Drain in colander if using cottage)
1 - 1/2 cups shredded mozzarella cheese
24 jumbo pasta shells, cooked and drained
1 - 26 oz jar marinara sauce (I use Prego Traditional)
1/3 cup fresh grated parmesan

Heat oil in large sauté pan over med-low heat. Add onion; sauté over low heat until onions begin to caramelize, about 10 minutes. Add carrots; sauté 2 – 3 minutes longer. Add mushrooms, zucchini and broccoli; sauté 3 minutes. Add spinach and garlic and sauté until garlic is tender and spinach wilts, about 2 minutes. Stir in fresh basil. Add salt and pepper to taste. Remove pan from heat and place vegetables on a plate lined with several layers of paper towel to drain excess moisture.

When drained and cooled, place vegetables in a large bowl with egg, cottage or ricotta cheese, and mozzarella cheese. Stir until combined.

Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Spray a 9 x 13” pan with non stick spray.

Pour 1 cup marinara sauce in bottom of pan. Stuff shells with veggie and cheese mixture. Lay in pan over sauce. Pour remaining sauce over shells. Cover pan with foil. Bake 45 minutes, or until sauce is bubbling and shells are heated through. Remove foil. Sprinkle parmesan over shells. Return to oven 5 minutes longer. Remove from oven. Let stand 5 minutes before serving.

5 – 6 servings

All Around Us

*****

Good news: the Best of Boston Literary Market Chapbook came out yesterday and my drabble, “Twenty Years Later” is in there. Also included is the work of writing friend, Linda Simoni-Wastila. I’ve seen the proofs, but not the finished product. I submitted my order immediately. I can’t wait to see how it feels in my hands.

Linda and I exchanged excited emails. A comment she made got me thinking. She said something to the effect that the further she gets into it, the smaller and more intimate the writing world feels. And she’s right. Two years ago, the writing world seemed like a massive fortress I just couldn’t breach. I had no contacts. I had no publishing credits. Two years ago, I was an outsider. I didn’t like that, so I committed to changing my circumstance. Today, I’m far from the inner circle, but I’m blessed to find myself in the company of friends.

In many ways, the writing world is with us everywhere we go. An example: the other night, I went to my bimonthly Stitch and Bitch group. I’m the only writer in the group. That night, I had knitting on my mind. But friend Debbie shared a story that got my writerly wheels turning. She was recounting a story about an acquaintance of ours, a man whose mental health we often debated. And I reacted to it with a glowing rainbow of emotions. Horror, pity, fear, disgust. Most interesting: at the heart of the story was love. What writer could leave such treasure untouched? I started drafting first thing the next morning.

My point, and there is one: the writing world surrounds us in many ways. But only when we commit to immersion. Connecting with other writers, seeking the seeds of stories, carving out time to create. It’s not easy. There are sacrifices. Sometimes big ones. But the experience of immersion is worth it.

Just Because I Can, Doesn’t Mean I Should

*****

I have a recurring problem with my writing. I fall into these long passages of glorious description, when I should be moving on with my story.

Take, for example, this paragraph from an early draft of my short story, “The Getaway”:

The day of the outing dawned too beautiful for Mark’s liking. Blue sky, a fresh dusting of snow on the branches, but the roads clear and wet as they drove along the shore of Lake Michigan. The beach was a gallery of contorted ice sculptures, crystalline white blocks tumbled against one another by the waves, spires and hollows where the water had carved and dripped. Beyond the ice field, the water gleamed frozen green, the color of old Coke bottles capped with choppy white frost. It was beautiful in a way that hurt his eyes, unblemished, too pristine, too perfect.

Ugh. Too much, clearly. In the revised version, after much prompting by writing friends, I pared this back considerably and also fixed the glaring structural errors. But it was a bear to let even one image go, although I knew the story cried for it.

I think this disease comes from an honest place: my longstanding adoration of F. Scott Fitzgerald. There are passages in Gatsby that make me weep, even after a dozen or more readings. I’ve never been able to read about the billowing curtains at Daisy Buchanan’s house without floating away with them. On a recent reread of “The Curious Case of Benjamin Button,” I was astonished at the lightness of his prose, of how masterfully he used it to make the inevitable emotional crash at the end of the story more devastating. When it comes to wringing potential from language, Fitzgerald was a master.

I need to master restraint.

This issue loomed hugely on my recent reread of Folly. I suspected there was far too much artful clutter, but I was loathe to clip a single word. In retrospect, I see I need to surgically excise at least a third of the description slogging down the pace.

It brings to mind a favorite analogy, from Gary Provost’s Beyond Style: Mastering the Finer Points of Writing. In it, Provost compares a story to a race car and excess words to penny nails. One or two nails won’t slow down a story, but sacks and sacks loaded in the backseat will. The message is clear: jettison the junk.

I think all writers stand at the edge of this trap. We’re so in love (and hate, but that’s another post) with what we write, we can’t imagine our stories being trimmed. It’s hard to step aside, to let the story stand alone, rather than prop it up with authorial help. We describe things to death, say the same thing over and over. We beat our readers over the heads with our intrusive presence. Sure they get it, but do they really want or need to? Just because we can doesn’t mean we should.

And yes, I should take a hacksaw to this post, too.

Toes, Fabulous; Writing, Crap

*****

I’m in a funk lately. None of my writing projects seems to be going quite right. The last scene of Folly’s chapter one needs work. The flash piece I started in Rhinelander over the summer is…not quite right. I’ve shared it with writing buddy Jane and she says she likes it. But something about it just…isn’t right.

It has me wondering: why can’t there be some universal rule about writing that, when things aren’t right, we know to check a certain thing and—VOILA!—we arrive at the answer. Or why can’t someone invent the Revise-O-Matic? We plop in the rough draft, press a button, and –WHAMMO!— out spits a polished manuscript. But I guess that’s the thorniest bitch about writing: it’s never easy. If it is, I know better than to trust it.

Personally, I think it’s the pressure that’s getting to me. I’m a one-track thinker and having two projects really messes with me. And deadlines are doing me in. I need to get both these pieces done before I go to Vegas next week. But I sit down and don’t know where to begin. I’m on overload.

I have no answers. Vegas is looming and I’m excited. In the meanwhile, I need to clear the decks. After the two projects, my top priority should be spending this week thinking of what I want to research while I’m in Vegas. Instead, I spent the morning giving myself a pedicure. My toes look great, but my writing is in shambles. It makes no sense, but the whole writing process rarely does. The biggest mystery: why we do it at all.

What I’ve Learned About Writing…So Far.

******

My friend Jane asked for some writing advice the other day and, in my usual style, I thought why use a spade when I can dish it with a shovel? So here are a few things I’ve learned thus far on my journey as a writer. Most of these were learned the hard way. And this list is by no means exhaustive. But this is what came to mind as I tried to answer Jane’s questions. I offer them from my humble perch, one rung up from rock bottom on the ladder. Enjoy.


1) Don’t give up.

Persistence plays a large role in reaching your goals. Keep moving forward, even when things look glum. The people who make it are the ones who keep trying. You learn something when you try, even when you fail. Wear your lessons like a cloak and just keep going.

2) Writing is both a process and an end product.

Trust the process, that you’ll get there if you jump on board. Sit down and write every day. Trust your imagination to take you somewhere. Everyone has something unique and interesting to say.

3) Writing is 10% talent and 90% commitment.

Potential without action equals a big fat zero. Give up TV. Enlist the help of friends and family. Write when it’s easy and when it’s hard. Just write.

4) Sit your butt down and write.

You can’t be a writer if you don’t actually write. Stop talking about it and do the work. Don’t wait around for inspiration, that lazy ne’er-do-well. Inspiration only shows up when you reach for it.

5) Be open to new ideas.

Try writing a poem if you usually write fiction. Write a play. Talk to other writers and listen to their experiences. Go to the mall or the airport and watch the crazy people around you. Everyone has a story. Watch someone and find it. Then, write it down.

6) You can learn from anyone.

Even non-writers can help us get better. Emulate your spouse’s professionalism, your grandmother’s patience. Being a successful writer takes more than just writing talent. It’s a package of affirming attitudes and qualities.

7) Sift through all feedback carefully, looking for hidden gems.

Even the stuff that seems way off base may make sense on closer examination. Try to understand where your critics are coming from. Mull it over a few days. Reread and try to see their point of view. Then use what works for you and forget the rest. Don’t change your style to please a critic.

8) Understand the rules before you break them.

Learn what conventions are, then break them with purpose. Only break a rule when it adds to your work, never when it detracts.

9) Humility goes a long way.

Don’t fall in love with your own voice. Authorial self-indulgence makes readers feel unnecessary. Step out of the way and let your writing be about your characters. If you must write about yourself, get a blog or do something interesting enough to sustain an autobiography.

10) Read everything you can get your hands on.

Learn what’s been done already, dream of ways to do it better. Learn from other people’s triumphs and mistakes. Read authors who inspire you to write. Avoid those who make you feel inadequate.

11) Write the stories only you can tell.

Write from your life experience, your unique point of view. Don’t be like anyone else. Above all, do your stories justice. Be honest, unapologetic and unflinching.

12) Revision is your friend.

The best writers are re-writers. Sharpen your sentences, tighten your dialogue. Remove as many adjectives and adverbs as possible.

13) When the going gets tough, get tougher.

The world is full of nay-sayers who want to see you fail. Prove them wrong. Keep at it no matter what. Believe you can learn. Steamroll through the tough stuff.

14) Develop a thick skin.

When you get hurtful feedback or a painful rejection, bitch about it to a friend you trust, then forget about it and keep moving forward. Don’t get hung up on what other people say, good or bad. Just keep your eyes on your writing and keep working.

15) Put yourself out there. Don’t be afraid.

Pass your work around to friends. Take a writing class. Join a workshop or online writing group. Enter contests. Submit your work. If you only want to write for yourself, then keep your writing hidden. But if you want to improve, solicit feedback.

16) Take yourself seriously and others will, too.

Tell people proudly that you’re a writer. Then write. Let them see how hard you work at it. Show everyone that you don’t give up. Make them respect your dedication.

17) Adopt only the best people for your writing friends.

A network of supportive friends and fellow writers is worth its weight in gold. Treat others like you want to be treated. Respect others’ voices. Be encouraging, kind, and honest. Set aside small-mindedness and petty jealousies. Be part of the solution, not part of the problem. Most importantly, do no harm.

And don’t be afraid to cast negative writing relationships adrift. As you move forward, let these slackers drift, bobbing in your wake. Don’t drag them along and let them drain your energy. Anyone who weighs you down doesn’t want you to succeed.

18) Learn to give quality feedback.

Analyzing writing makes us better writers. Frame your thoughts in concise language. Offer suggestions and opinions designed to help. Respect an author’s voice and his or her authority over her story. Don’t issue mandates or edicts.

19) Know when to step away.

Be honest with yourself. Walk away when a project doesn’t work. Think it over, then fix the fixable. Let the fundamentally flawed rest in peace on your hard drive. Don’t let undeserving stories drain your creative energy.

20) Writing is tough. Be tougher.

Don’t give up on a good concept. Recharge, then come back to it. Send it off to a different agent or publisher. Fight your way through sluggish middles. Learn to be ruthless in revision.

21) Trust your creative subconscious.

Push yourself harder. Trust your creativity to rise to the challenge. Step out of your creative comfort zone. Commit to NaNoWriMo. Don’t hold ideas in your ruthless control; let the best ideas assume their own unique shape.

22) Harvest stories at the proper time.

Let ideas ripen in the depths of your subconscious. Don’t force ideas like potted hyacinth bulbs. If something isn’t working, go weed the garden or read a book, then come back to try again later and even later again, if you have to. Keep a story ideas file. Pick through it when you’re looking for new projects. Realize half-finished projects aren’t failures, but are stories waiting for their season to bloom.

23) Always keep paper nearby.

Keep a notebook in your purse, in your nightstand, on the table next to your favorite chair. Write down every crazy idea, every stroke of creative genius, then add them to your story ideas file. Write down snippets of dialogue while they’re fresh and beguiling. You won’t remember them after you dry off from the shower.

24) No matter how much you know, it’s never enough.

Be a lifelong learner. Take a class. Attend a conference. Read a book on writing. Don’t become complacent. Don’t slip into the trap of thinking you know it all. Always strive to be better.

25) Don’t ever give up.

It bears saying again. Quitters don’t make it. Don’t be a quitter. A life of striving is more interesting than a life wallowing in regret. Plodding steps in a consistent direction eventually reach their destination.

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.

Way Out Water Towers!

*****

My daughter is obsessed with water towers. There’s a big one at the top of the hill on our regular walking route. Ever since The Miss discovered it, she’s been fascinated by every water tower we encounter. Plain ones. Fancy ones. Doesn’t matter. On our recent camping trip, she pointed out every water tower between home and Two Rivers, Wisconsin. And there are a lot more than you’d imagine. We’ve become so accustomed to looking for water towers that I find myself calling out, “Water tower!” when she isn’t even in the car. (I recently took a photo of the water tower in Arena because Julia wasn’t there to see it with me.) So it seemed natural to suggest we go to the library and check out some books on water towers. She jumped around the kitchen, yelling “Wat-oo tow-oos! Wat-oo tow-oos!” arms flapping like a baby condor. She was excited; I was excited for coming up with an idea that made her so unabashedly ecstatic. I could hardly drive there fast enough.

Then we hit a bump in the road. Who’d have thunk it, but water tower books are a rare breed.

I won’t bore you with everything I went through, from dealing with a really disappointed little kid to trying to find another source for a water tower book. Let’s just say my efforts were both exhaustive and exhausting. Finally, it occurred to me, after all hope seemed extinguished. Why not write one myself?

Now, let me clarify something before I go a single step further: I have no desire to write for children. Sorry. My work can’t stand up to an audience that sharp. But I can write for the most important kid in my life. I’d written a book for her earlier this year—Little Girl in the Woods, a board book about my sweetie’s passion for camping. So I figured slapping this puppy together this should be a snap, right?

Not necessarily. I’ve learned a few interesting things thus far and thought I’d share them here.

1) MAKING TECHNICAL STUFF EASY ENOUGH FOR KIDS IS A BITCH. Yep, kids are smart little stinkers, but sentence length and vocabulary are an issue. Plus, kids have a limited set of experiences you can refer to in analogies. How to explain hydrostatic pressure to a little kid? Hell, I don’t get it myself! The best thing I can liken it to that she (and I) might understand is the feeling you get when you have to pee. Classy, I know. But I’m at a loss here.

2) YOU CAN BE LAZY AND LARCENOUS WHEN YOU’RE WRITING FOR YOUR OWN KID. I’m talking about pesky little legal landmines like cross-checking information, listing source credits, and obtaining publishing rights to photos. As far as I’m concerned, an initial search on Wikipedia and a cross check with howstuffworks.com is verification enough for me. But I doubt a publisher would think so. And what about all those photos I helped myself to on various websites? Let’s face it, getting rights to all that stuff would be a bear. Not to mention prohibitively expensive.

3) THERE’S NO SLAPPING TOGETHER ANY KIND OF PROJECT FOR CHILDREN. I spent two hours on the introduction yesterday. Yep, two hours to write 93 words. And that’s after the three hours I spent researching and outlining the day before. Had I operated that slowly in college, I’d still be sitting in College Comp. The discouraging part is I still have many sections to write and I haven’t even begun to think about page design. The way this thing is going, I figure she’ll either have lost interest in the entire topic or graduated high school by the time I’m halfway though.

4) I MUST BE INSANE. I add this as the only logical conclusion, considering I’m moving forward on this in spite of the aforementioned points. And I won’t even get into the lack-of-time rant again. My only defense is I love my kid. I guess that’s reason enough.

So Way Out Water Towers moves forward, God help me. It won’t be at a store near you, so don’t look for it. And don’t look for anything else I write, either. I’ll be so busy inventing non-bodily function analogies for hydrostatic pressure that I doubt I’ll have time to work on anything else.

The Flood

*****

Things aren’t great here in Southeastern Wisconsin. We’ve been inundated with torrential rains. Our rivers are swollen beyond capacity and have overflowed their banks. In Racine, Waukesha, and South Milwaukee, cars float in the streets and people have been evacuated from their homes. West of us in Lake Delton (a popular tourist area), the lake swelled over its earthen dam to come home to the Wisconsin River. I saw the video and it scared the heck out of me, how fast our world can slip away. In moments, the lake drained and roads and homes (whole homes!) were suddenly, irrevocably lost.

Here at home, we’ve had our own weather disasters, but nothing on the same scale. We were away for the worst of the storms here, enjoying a quiet weekend camping on Lake Michigan. It poured the last night and morning of our trip. My daughter and I sat in the car while I watched my poor husband take down the sopping wet camper. Halfway home, I called our house and my friend Pam told me the sewer had backed up in our basement. My heart sank at the news. My husband had spent three years remodeling down there. The carpet, installed in January, was the capstone on a beautifully executed project. I still remember how proud and pleased he was as he showed off his handiwork at Easter. Now everything was saturated with yucky black sewer sludge. We rode home quiet, lost in our own sense of helplessness.

Since I got home, I’ve longed for the sense of normalcy, the routine that keeps my days sane. We live and die by routine around here. Husband to work, then breakfast. Walk, play/errand/library/park time, lunch, TV, read, then down for a nap. Most days, I’m ready for a nap myself by then, but I can’t bear to give up my precious Mommy time. The afternoons are when I write.

With all the chaos, we’re completely off-kilter. My husband stayed home from work to mop up the sludge. I’ve been wringing out the dripping camping gear. It needs to be done, but it’s created a hole in my life and it happened in it’s own kind of flood. A few changes led to a shift in the sense of balance. A camping trip, a husband home from work. Before I knew it, order was swept away.

For me, not writing creates its own flood. A day or two off and I start to get antsy. As the days slip away, a backlog of thoughts clogs my brain. Before long, I start to turn, sniping at my daughter, bitchily ragging at my husband. But mainly, I turn on myself. I’m a waste of space. I need to get my act together. How do I ever expect to make it if I don’t write? Pretty soon everything feels off, like my body chemistry’s out of whack or my planets have spun out of alignment. My sense of self and purpose crumbles and washes away. I lose myself, one facet at a time.

I’m on day six here. Last Thursday morning before we hooked up the camper, I did a little scribbling as ideas for a revised start to Nick’s story came. I meant to get to them while we were gone, but the days slid away over the bump in our routine. Then the mess at home consumed my energy. At this point, I just hope I can find my crumpled page of scribbles. I’m fidgety and nervous. My list is too long. Without the routine to structure and the writing to provide an outlet, I’m caught up in a weird kind of flood. The chaos without mirrors the chaos within. I need a dam and I need it damn quick.

Over-tweakers Anonymous

*****

I had something discouraging happen twice in the last week. Just when I thought I’d finished something, I reread and discovered I was far from done. One was the beginning to the Nick short story, “The Great Divide.” The other was a somewhat unimportant scene in Somewhere on The Road to Me. Both had been cooling for a week or so while I stepped away for a dose of perspective.

I can’t tell you how disheartened I was when I came back and saw my own drivel. In the case of “The Great Divide,” I’d been sure I was ready to submit. But really, I’d created a mess. I’d crafted paragraphs of weighty, poetic description, had fully developed themes before my story even started. I’d written one entire page of a guy looking at telephone lines while sitting in a hot spring. What the hell was I thinking? I’d clearly overwritten.

I don’t know about you, but I could tinker a sentence into complete oblivion. Tweak a little here, reword a bit there, maybe shorten, or re-punctuate, break it into two, jam two together with a conjunction or a comma splice, throw in another snazzy image. Maybe do all of the above until the revision bears no resemblance to the original. Unless you’re Hemingway and you write nothing but unalloyed gold, there’s always the option of mixing things up a bit. But with that possibility comes the chance of overwriting. Damn. I clung when I should have let go.

I think this is what’s killing me with Beth’s story. (okay, I know) I’m so doggedly determined to get every phrasing just right that I belabor even the shortest scenes. Why do I do that? I’m driving myself nuts. Not to mention I’m getting so damn sick of Beth, I’m starting to understand why her mother gets so pissed at her.

But the real shame is that I’m losing Beth’s freshness. Too many similes, too many artful phrasings. Too much writing when I should just shut up. My overly stylized sentences are taking attention away from the story and placing it smack dab on me. And this story isn’t about me. Or it shouldn’t be. I could kick myself for being a pompous ass.

So, once more back to the drawing board with another fine line I need to identify. And as usual, I have more questions than answers. How do I stop annoying my manuscripts with petty revisions? How do I take myself out of a process that’s so entirely personal? I want to just say no to annoying revision, but I’m addicted without a support group in sight.

Precious Time

*****

I woke this morning to the dreadful realization that I’d forgotten to write yesterday’s blog post.

It was Memorial Day’s fault, of course. While long holiday weekends are right up there with cookies in my book, I admit they wreak havoc on my sense of time. It’s only Wednesday and I’m already wondering how I’m going to fit my weekly household chores, library visits and play dates into the few remaining days left this week. While relaxation is good for the soul, it’s obvious slowing down comes at a price. I scramble to recover the lost ground.

This concept affects every area of life. It seems like only yesterday I brought Julia home from the hospital, but somehow she’s just a month from turning three. In the same vein, I realize my novel has been waiting patiently for me to finish revisions for six long years. Six years! How did time get away from me like that?

I understand the lesson: slow down for a moment and time rockets by. Yet, as writers, our truth is often found in those things that we see only when we slow down. As writers, we must look closely and then reflect. These carefully crafted details, the artful connections, are where writing transcends from mediocre to well-wrought. Skillful construction creates a work that readers connect with and remember. (I know I, for one, will always remember E.B. White’s outstanding essay, “Once More to the Lake.”) So how do we balance observation, reflection and productivity to create a work that lives in the hearts of readers?

I don’t know. Clearly. I’ve been plugging away at Somewhere for seven long years (a year to draft, six years of sluggishly picking it apart). More than anything, I want to finish this thing, answer the call of Jamieson’s Folly, my next novel project. But I get caught up in wanting to do Beth and Shel justice. I take breaks to write short fiction, to brush the cat, to bake a batch of cookies. So I fumble along in fits and starts, only making progress one lonely chapter at a time.

Some would argue this is still progress. But I’m not so sure. It takes a long time to get back into the groove after one of my short fiction/cat brushing/cookie baking hiatuses. I lose the feel for Beth. Her voice becomes an echo rather than a shout. I have to rummage through the junk in my brain to reconnect. All of that takes precious time.

Time. Slow down for a moment and time rockets by. It’s daunting, perhaps too daunting after this holiday weekend. Perhaps I’ll worry about catching up tomorrow. For today, perhaps I’ll just bake some desperation cookies.


Desperation Cookies*

1 cup butter
1 ½ cups white sugar
¾ cup brown sugar
2 tsp. vanilla extract
2 tsp. baking soda
1 tsp. salt
2 beaten eggs
2 ½ cups flour
1 ½ cups chips **
2 cups nuts ***

** use any combination of regular chocolate chips, butterscotch chips, white chocolate chips, milk chocolate chips, vanilla, cherry, or strawberry chips, or peanut butter chips—whatever you think will taste good. (I use semisweet chocolate.)

*** use any nuts you like, including walnuts, pecans, cashews, almonds, even peanuts. If you don’t have enough nuts, fill in with crushed cornflakes, rice krispies, coconut, raisins or other dried fruit. (I use 1 cup cranberries and 3/4 cup chopped pecans, plus a handful of rice krispies for crunch)

Melt the butter. Mix in sugars and stir. Add vanilla, baking soda, and salt; stir. Then add half the flour, the chips and the nuts. Stir well to incorporate, then add remaining flour and mix thoroughly.

Drop by teaspoons onto greased or parchment lined baking sheets, 12 cookies to a standard sheet. Bake in 350 degree preheated oven for 10 – 12 minutes, or until nicely browned.

Let cool 2 minutes, then remove cookies from sheet and transfer to a wire rack to cool completely. Makes 5 dozen.


* recipe originally from Joanne Fluke’s Peach Cobbler Murder, a Hannah Swensen mystery. (Note: this is a fantastic mystery series for those who like a good, old fashioned, cozy murder mystery. And these cookies are amazing.)

Confession of a Busy Mommy/Writer

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I have to confess, every Tuesday morning, sometime between the first cup of coffee and actually stepping into a productive day, I come to a horrible realization: I have to write a post for this blog.

I wish I could say I write the first draft of these things Tuesday night, just hours after the previous week’s entry was posted. That I polish it all week, then spit-shine it one last time. But I don’t. Usually, I get that oh shit feeling that comes with remembrance, shove my kid in front of the Disney Channel and glue my butt to the office chair. I crank out whatever comes into my brain during the last fifteen minutes of Bunny Town.

I do let my post age on the hard drive while I check to make Julia’s still conscious and hasn’t, say, fingerpainted the cats. But beyond the aging, all I really do is tinker a bit. My last thought after clicking the POST button is inevitably thank God THAT’S done for the week. It’s hard enough trying to juggle mommyhood, writing short fiction, editing two novels, researching markets and finding time to submit, and then following up on my submissions. Once I send a post to cyberspace, I don’t have time to give it another thought.

Any writing teacher worth his or her salt would caution against my slapdash method of posting. They'd remind me that this blog is a showcase and should contain my best work. And my training and instincts as a writer agree. But there’s something to be said for off-the-cuff posting. I like the immediacy, honesty and freshness of a work that hasn’t been edited to the nth degree. Maybe it’s like those confessions you get from drunk coworkers at the company picnic. Once the internal editor’s off, anything can creep out. And what you get is usually ripe and intriguing.

So this is where I ask myself: if I had more time, would I do it differently? My answer: probably not. The honesty is like a drug and I can’t get enough. Some people have nightmares about being caught naked in public. I’m more likely to dread being caught in a lie. So I write what comes out and hope you’ll forgive my mad-dash ramblings. I don’t have time to change anytime soon.

Stories in the Night

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I don’t know about you, but my best time to come up with story ideas is between 2 and 5 am.

I’ve often woken up in the middle of the night and, after a quick pee, realized I’d figured out an entire storyline while I was sleeping. I used to tell myself I’d remember it when I woke up, so I’d lay back down and fall back to sleep.

Somehow, I always forgot.

For awhile, I’d lay awake long enough to work out more details, try a few mnemonic devices. Then I’d go back to sleep. And immediately forget everything.

Eventually, I got smarter. I put a notepad and pen in my nightstand drawer and, as soon as the ideas came to me, I’d scribble away in the dark. I’m sure my husband dreamed we had mice in the house, with all my scritch-scritch-scritching. A lot of times what I write is illegible to even me, but there are always enough clues for me to piece together what I was thinking and turn it into something worth writing.

All this nocturnal creativity begs the question: why? This writing in the night is so inconvenient. I’ve woken up too many mornings after a particularly productive night of brainstorming with a splitting headache and bleary eyes, feeling completely unfit to do anything other than crawl back in bed. Parenting? Forget it! I long for the days of my office job, where I could sit in my cubicle and stare at my monitor, occasionally pecking out words of wisdom like Press ENTER to add the record.

I believe therein lies the answer: my days are so busy that those silent hours between 2 and 5 am are the only times quiet enough for my imagination to fly free.

I woke up last night with a solution to a writing problem. I’ve been working on something for an upcoming contest. Yesterday, I came up with a character and a setting, but I had no hint of a storyline, even after scratching out a scene. I’d tried to think my way through the story, during my walk with Julia, while cooking supper, between commercials during Dancing With the Stars. Zip. But in the middle of the night, I remembered something I’d written the day before, a line of dialogue offered tongue in cheek: All God’s creatures just want to be free.

Free.

At 3:30 this morning, it suddenly came to me. The idea of being free was the key to my story. Now I need to figure out how to show that through scenes, but that’s cakewalk once I have the key. I drifted back to sleep, pleased and content. Problem solved by my nighttime muse.