When one line drops from the sky…

November 16, 2011

The truth about the truth

I know I tend mostly to be upbeat. I tend mostly to be a cheerleader for writing and the writing life. Still, my life is far from perfect. I don’t even know what the perfect life would look like. I have chosen to be candid here, because I have been inspired by a fellow writer, a fabulous blogger, and a friend–Linda Cassidy Lewis. She writes about her successes as well as her frustrations. I write about writing, the good stuff, and then have long periods where I fail to post. I give the excuse that I have been busy, but what I really mean is that I have been struggling.

I sat in a hospital waiting room today. I sat there and waited for X-rays with my daughter. It’s part of our routine. It’s been part of our routine since she was only weeks old. Every six months we visit the orthopedic. Still, we are fortunate. We live near one of the best pediatric hospitals in the world. Today, it was made clear how fortunate we were as we watched two young boys from somewhere in Asia (I didn’t ask where) who were flown here for surgery. I know I am lucky on so many levels. I know this. I know.

Still, there is only so much pulling up of bootstraps one can do before, ya know, the arms start wearing out. I don’t know where to begin really. I have been putting on a good face for a long time. I put the face on to hide the shame I felt about being a single mother. I put the face on to show I can handle my daughter’s disability or the horrors of my own cancer. I put the face on to get me through college, yet again, because I blew it the first time. I can feel the throbbing muscles in my cheeks. They throb because my real face can’t hold those facades up much longer. This is not a pity party. This is the real me, the real tired me. Part of carrying all those faces, part of looking like it’s all going perfectly is the act of doing way too much and forgetting to be in the moment. So, in this moment I am going through a decompression. It happens when I pile it all on, and I work and work and work, but things go in reverse instead of going forward. Bills pile up, disasters happen, and the crap just keeps coming. My whole adult life has felt like a race to nowhere. I don’t know what the game is or how to play it or what to do anyway. I write. That’s the only game I know, whether I am good at it or not. I just write, except for today. I didn’t write today because I was dowsing fires all day. Perhaps I’ll get into that in a future post, but today I’m tired and have accomplished nothing except to say in this post that I am tired and that’s the the truth.

NaNoWriMo word count for the day: 0

NaNoWriMo word count to date: somewhere over 18,000 (the site was down)

4 comments

November 9, 2011

It’s all coming together

On Thursday, it all came together. No, I am not talking about the 50,000 words I am supposed have done by the end of November. No, I am talking about the idea that I am a writer and where it all began. I never really admitted to myself that I even wanted to write until after I graduated college with a degree that now seems hilariously ill-suited.

Until yesterday, though, I didn’t believe wholeheartedly that I was any good at it. Or, I believed that because I came later to writing that I somehow wasn’t really a writer because I wasn’t one of those people who talks about having been born with a pencil in her hand. Yesterday, I saw it all so clearly. I was always a writer. I just grew up with this notion that anything I wanted was out of reach, so I should just settle for what’s in front of me. I have lived by this for a long, long time–too long. Mostly, I believe the notion was based in fear.

I clearly recall sitting in one of my favorite professor’s office. This was when I dared to go back to school after my first misguided effort and finally began doing what I wanted to do. Still, I wouldn’t admit back then that I could be a writer. I was going to be a teacher. That too was somewhat misguided at the time. At one point, I dropped out of the education program. That’s when I found myself in Professor Richard Sax’s office. He asked me what I wanted to do if I wasn’t going to be a teacher. I wanted to tell him that I wanted to be a writer, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. I still lived with that fear, that notion that because I wanted to be a writer so bad that there was no way I would be allowed to be a writer. I didn’t believe in my ability back then. I never told my professor that was what I wanted. I thought he would tell me I couldn’t, that I didn’t have the ability to make it.

Yesterday, I looked a lot of those old papers. I looked at the notes from professors. I don’t know why I didn’t see it really until yesterday, but I could write back then and I don’t think my professor would have told me I couldn’t. Tucked in with the college papers were little stories I wrote in fourth grade that had hints of imagination and imagery. In high school, I was one of those kids who did well enough, but I wouldn’t say any one of my teachers would remember me. There were two times, however, that teachers called me out on my writing after I put a lot of effort into creative assignments. One of the assignments was a story I had written in French. My teacher suggested I translate it back to English and send it somewhere. I never listened. I brushed it off. I thought successful writing happens to other people, not me. But, I see now that those were all clear signs.

In all those moments, what I failed to see was that the universe was throwing my destiny at my feet. I was walking over it, failing to recognize it as mine, most likely fearing the act of claiming it, know if I did I might be seen as presumptuous. I was trying to do something else, anything else that wasn’t so frightening. The thing is, and my family can attest to this, I am not good at lying. I could be practical for a while, but I wasn’t going to be successful at being practical for very long. And, it just made for a miserable me.

Yesterday, it all came together like when you are tuning a guitar string and suddenly the vibrations disappear and the note rings clear and smooth. This is my life. This is what I am supposed to be doing. As crazy and uncertain as it may be, I am a writer.

NaNoWriMo word count: 12,083

4 comments

November 4, 2011

So, it’s the third day

I met my challenge. Admittedly, it was a bit tougher than the first two days. Still, I love the direction the novel is going in. I feel productive. I am enjoying the community around NaNoWriMo. I probably won’t post in the next couple days. It will be enough to try meeting my quota and teach two classes. My house is already feeling neglected. Still, I know I’ve seen quotes by writers like Annie Dillard and Toni Morrison that talk about writing as a priority over say, the constant run of dirty dishes. Ah, well I have to set my clothes out for tomorrow.

Words to date: 5,100

November 2, 2011

At the page

Things are progressing. I have never felt quite as free as I write. It must be all that positive energy I am harnessing from NaNoWriMo. I went to my first write-in Tuesday night. What fun. It’s all about going back to the beginning for me. I feel the same excitement about writing that I felt when I first started years ago. I have been good about staying on track with word count. Of course, I haven’t gotten to the days where I teach. Things might be a little more difficult then, but at least I am writing.

All of this makes me think of Louise Erdrich’s book “Blue Jay’s Dance.” In it, Erdrich talks about literally having to tie herself to her chair with belt from her bathrobe to keep her from being distracted from her writing. I get it. I know what that is like. Somehow, having a word count goal is like having a virtual bathrobe tie.

Cumulative count on day two: 3,404

November 1, 2011

The first day of NaNoWriMo

This is my first attempt at NaNoWriMo. The day began with me getting up an hour before everyone to see what I could get on the page. I had one hour and by no means met my goal in that time, though I have been working on the novel in snippets throughout the day. After getting the kids off to school, I helped my husband set up the food cart and get through lunch. My days of food carting as a full-time gig are long gone. I am teaching now, so I help out when I can and use the rest of the time to write and plan my classes.

Already, I feel NaNoWriMo working its magic. This book is finally in my head. These characters are becoming real. I had been thinking about it for a while and had some fits and starts. I took one of the fits and starts to a writing group but learned that it really was not ready for that. That experience nearly killed the project, but I can be stubborn and not let things go that easily. Thankfully I held on, and even if I don’t meet the daily goals, which I am guessing could be difficult, I feel like I am getting somewhere. I am moving forward.

Day 1 word count = 1,712

October 31, 2011

This eve

It is the eve where characters come out of all sorts–ghosts, goblins, vampires, love struck protagonists, evil antagonists. Yup, it is the eve before National Novel Writing Month. Who knew this mostly solitary activity of writing a novel could be such a party? I am diving in tomorrow. This will be my first crack at NaNoWriMo. I spent so many years working on the first novel that I didn’t feel ready to kick off something else, and my Novembers of past were always pretty crazy. This time things feel a little more manageable, and I have a wonderful group for encouragement. I also have my Momwriters for encouragement.

Perhaps nothing will come of it, but it will get me focused on a new project and hold me accountable in a way. It’s a no pressure party. At the kick-off party, there definitely was a buzz of excitement. Well, I’ll be checking in regularly throughout the month. Really, I will.

7 comments

October 15, 2011

Words as food

I eat words, not in the sense that we all know, not the “eat your words” sense. No, words to me are like the very sustenance I get from sitting at a table filled with the warm delights of a hearty meal. Recently, I had forgotten how wonderful words tasted. I had forgotten how nourishing they were.

I suppose, like anything, too much of a good thing can make you sick. I had too much. I went from writing for work to writing for work and school to writing to make a few bucks. In essence, all I did was write, and I wasn’t writing what nourished me as much as writing what needed to be written. I’d made myself sick in a sense. I was tired. Dark circles appeared under my eyes. Then there was the crossroads. At some point not so long ago, I wondered if I’d ever again write anything new or anything that might get me excited. I had moments when I thought I’d gotten inspiration, but then I stopped. I couldn’t get a single new spark to flash in my creative core. There was no energy to keep a spark going anyway. I thought being in a critique group was the answer. I thought going to fancy literary events would be the answer. None of it worked like it used to. I’d definitely hit a low point in my writing, a low point I never imagined I would ever hit.

Recently, though, I heard parts of the speech Steve Jobs gave to Stanford University graduates. This is not a reflection of anything I think about Apple or Jobs himself. No, I just heard his words at a time when I needed them. In his speech, he talked about being at a low point in his career and life. He talked about how he went back to the beginning, returned to where everything had started, to where everything was exciting and new again, to where he felt hungry again. As I heard that, I knew I knew what I needed to do. I needed the hunger again. I needed it from the beginning, from before the MFA, from before the 12 years of newspaper writing, from before the handful of awards and publications. I needed to savor the flavors of words again.

That wasn’t going to happen in a critique group or in a career focused solely on mass producing copy. No, what I found was that I had to go back to a group much like the one where it all began, a group that inspired me to keep my hand moving across the page, that nurtured those first sparks of inspiration and saw them for what they are–food and nourishment meant to keep the light of inspiration burning.

I found just such a group, finally. They are a talented and exciting bunch, but most of all they are a hungry bunch. They are as hungry as I am to taste those words, to try them in various flavors. I remember now how words taste–savory and sweet in all the best ways possible. Mostly, I remember why I started writing words. I realize now that I’d starve without them.

10 comments

September 11, 2011

Capturing a sunrise, a 9-11 meditation

Love this miraculous world that we did not make, that is a gift to us. –Wendell Berry

This is a photo of a sun rise I took a few weeks ago. It’s not a fantastic photo by any means, but it represents a rare moment of peace in my life, a moment of watching something I have not really stopped to see in many years. After all, there are deadlines to meet, bills to pay, and all that jazz. Even now, I often wake up in a panic thinking about it all. But, today is a day of remembering, remembering that we are still here, remembering that day 10 years ago when we got the wind knocked out of us. We watched a door slam hard, shutting behind it our innocence and perhaps our naive “that could never happen here” thoughts out forever.

It’s a different world, now. There is no going back. We hear talk of threat levels and wonder what that means for us. We see crazy ebbs and very few flows in the economy and wonder what that means for us. We hear chatterboxes on television trying to tell us to beware of this or beware of that and wonder what that means for us. In all of it, it can be hard to find a moment like the one above, a moment that brings clarity and makes me really see what truly matters.

We have all heard the stories of 9-11 survivors who were headed off to work, were on autopilot in their morning routines, as we all are so apt to be, when something, a sick child perhaps, made them stop and take a few minutes longer. In essence, we are all like those survivors. If nothing, the tragedy should not make us always fear the fact that this could happen again, but it should remind us of our fortunes, should make us stop more often and take in a breathtaking sunrise or take in, as I saw yesterday from the window of my food cart, a tender moment when two young parents are enraptured by the beauty of their sleeping infant. With the victims of 9-11 and their families in my heart, I choose to see more of these moments from here on out. I choose to capture more sunrises, to capture more smiles from my teenage children (yes, I am aware that means I have my work cut out for me), choose to worry less, to love more, to sing more, even if I can’t carry a tune. Yes, our world has changed, but it can change again. Peace.

2 comments

August 14, 2011

I want to be in there! A meditation on persistance and solitude

This is Rita. I snapped a photo of Rita a couple of days ago. She and her owners and sister visited the food courtyard where my food cart business is located. Her sister was too shy to be photographed, but Rita desperately wanted to be inside the courtyard and didn’t seem to care who was taking a picture of her.

The photo, one, makes me laugh, and, two, makes me think of my own “outside looking in” scenario. That scenario being that post MFA I feel more on the perimeter of the writing world than I did before I had the MFA. I’m sure that’s mostly my own doing. I’m mostly just trying to figure out where that MFA thing fits into my life now that I am no longer on campus. I don’t have the community I had readily available during my MFA, and as I’ve searched to build a new community it has been somewhat difficult to fit in.

I realized recently that perhaps I don’t have to fit in, that perhaps I just need to accept that writing is a solitary thing and that I need to be doing it in solitude and not in a community. I also realized that I have been trying, somewhat like Rita, too hard to get past the gate that allows me to fit into that community. It all is a waste of precious time and precious energy. Writing does not mean talking about writing or being with writers. It doesn’t even mean having your book published or having an agent. It means actually sitting down with a pen and paper or a computer and diving deep into the lives of characters or the snapshot of a moment captured in a poem. I am ever so grateful to have people in my life who know nothing about writing but somehow seem to get what I am doing. In my quest to get inside the gate, I have probably lost sight of this the most.

With all the hoopla surrounding the book and movie “The Help,” which I have not read or seen, yet, I was reminded that the community I am in is the community I need to do what I am doing and persevere. Independently of each other, my dear husband, Jay, and my mother somehow caught wind of Kathryn Stockett’s many rejections through a couple of her recent interviews. Jay cornered me in the food cart, which isn’t hard to do since it is a six-foot by ten-foot stainless steel box. He asked me how many rejections my novel had received. I told him 20, so far. He said well you have about 40 more to go to get to that woman who wrote “The Help.” Not more than a day or so later my mom called and left a message on my phone telling me all about this article she read on Kathryn Stockett and how many rejections she had and that I just had to keep sending my book out.

Sure, in some sense I know all this stuff, but to me these are moments of clarity that help me see through the fog of insecurity and help me move through the fog of all the chatter about what a “writer” needs. I know deeply that I am supposed to be doing this writing thing, just as Rita knows deeply she should be inside the courtyard enjoying a little pork belly and scratch behind the ear. I realized in this moment of clarity that all this energy that I have spent sticking my nose through the gate has been mostly energy spent on fear, the fear of not making it in the one thing I know deeply I am supposed to be doing. I realized all the different ways I have attempted to get through that gate have been distractions. As much as I loved the newspaper, even that was a distraction, that was a crutch keeping me safe, keeping me from diving into this life that I don’t necessarily feel I have chosen. Perhaps getting the MFA was another safety route, as much as I wanted to do it.

So, I sit here at my desk. I sit here in my writing life of brief moments of peace and solitude to work on turning those metal bars of fear into dust.

5 comments

July 3, 2011

My life in a box

I’m thinking of changing the title of this blog to “My Life in a Box.” Why? It’s because I spend my most of my waking hours standing next to my Dear Partner J in a six-foot by ten-foot stainless steel box. Yes, this definitely, if nothing else, tests a marriage. Just yesterday, with the heat index hovering around 102 and no air conditioning in our box, the ingredients were ripe for us to have a few of our “moments.” It didn’t help that our paella took longer to cook than normal and our corn dog batter was falling apart (an issue with the fallback brand of baking powder we chose not because of cost but because we were exhausted and didn’t want to make one more stop at one more store.) All were lessons learned and thank goodness that our commissary kitchen has a giant walk-in cooler we can step into to cool off, literally and figuratively.

Still, as hellish as it sounds, I wouldn’t trade the experience for anything. Words and food, it doesn’t get any better than that. Jay and I definitely have a common interest in creating and eating great food. Despite our “moments,” we’ve had a great fun with our cart. We’ve met some wonderful people. I love watching people’s faces as they read our menu of paella with Catalan-style pulled pork, lamb burgers with Valdeon blue cheese and pear mustarda, chorizo corn dogs, duck fries with chorizo duck gravy and Valdeon blue cheese, and Mama Maria’s Almond Cookies. I am most often asked what duck fries are. Most people think they are fried duck, but they are hand-cut fried potatoes with chorizo duck gravy and blue cheese. Yum!! They were reviewed favorably in Current Magazine, as were my cookies, for which I have Ji Hye of the food cart San Street to thank. She’s the one who bought the cookies to share with the reviewers, Joe and Lisa. They may well have passed them over had Ji Hye not done that.

In my former life as a columnist, it was well-written that I didn’t think of myself as all that kitchen savvy. Mostly, I have been haunted by the few pizzas I have burned, perhaps because I was distracted by kids and such, and then there was a rice episode in college, before I knew that rice had to be turned down to simmer. My apologies to my then roommate Karin, whose pot I destroyed. While I would never admit to being able to handle full-on line cooking in a full-on restaurant I have managed to hold my own in the food cart, surprisingly. I can flip a burger, down some corn dogs and fries and dish out paella like nobody’s business. Honestly, though, I love the baking, the quiet of the kitchen mid-shift as most everyone is up at their carts selling food. Perhaps baking comes naturally because I did so much of it as a kid, and there were always great memories associated with it, memories of making cookies with my mom and memories of the many pineapple upside down cakes my best friend, Kim, and I made from scratch. So, it turns out that I’ve rounded out my Dear Partner J’s menu with a little sweet touch and that works for me.

After almost two months in business, I have finally built some stamina for what is an extremely physical job and add to that carting the food back and forth from the commissary kitchen to the food cart. I did, after all, spend the last 12 years sitting in an office. I would hardly call it a cubicle job. I worked for a newspaper, so I was on the go quite a bit.

Now that I’m getting used to the job, I finally made it known that it’s time for me to get back to writing. That will be helped by the fact that I started with a new writing group and am committed to making that a priority again. So, I guess I better get to work on my books, one done and one just beginning, then it’s off to Bacon Fest in Ann Arbor.

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