Going for It

There's been a sudden shift in the wind direction around here. Somewhere along the line, I'd decided to settle, and that's never good--in fact, I'm sure that's the exact cause of old age. But after sitting in the doldrums for a few days (which turned into years, actually...), for some reason I'm once again seized with the old carpe diem (Latin for "grab the carp," as I believe I learned from Dave Barry).

Pretty much everybody I've ever known started out with dreams. Little kids all have them. They come so easy when you have that great, fresh, untainted imagination; and all you have to do is picture yourself doing something cool and wonderful. Time is your friend then--everything great is going to happen when you grow up. You don't have to worry about what anything costs, or whether you have any talent or connections. You don't have to worry about running out of time or having other responsibilities. Basically, when you're a little kid, dreaming is your whole job, and you're still good at it.

But suddenly, hey--you're grown up! People start expecting you to pay your own way. The stuff you want costs a lot, and so does the stuff you just plain need, like health insurance. The student loans come due. Maybe you get married. Your spouse has a job right here--moving around is no longer an option. And once you have kids, the dreams are theirs...and usually whatever dreams you can still dredge up turn into dreams for them and their future.

The days go by so fast, and every day seems to have its own challenges--today it's the computer crashing; yesterday was Grandpa's operation; tomorrow I'm too tired from not sleeping. Everything becomes "after the credit card bill is paid off," "after we finish adding the new bedroom," "after the first of the year," "after I retire," "after I'm feeling better." And one day you're getting ready for bed, and you stop and think, I can't remember one single thing I did today toward my goals. Or the days before. Unless I do something drastic right this minute, this is exactly how I'm going to live out the rest of my days.

Am I the only one who finds this screamingly terrifying? I'd rather live out my days flinging my battered body against the gates of my dreams--trying to tunnel under, climb over, or hike all the way around; trying to get inside. Even if I don't make it, at least I'll be headed somewhere. At least, my days will have a purpose.

It's like the poem about the pioneers says: "The cowards never started and the weak died along the way." I sure enough started this journey years ago. I even made it a goodly distance down the road. I wrote those books. I sent them out. I got the rejections and I still kept sending them out. I got the heartbreakingly-close calls and the outright door-slams in the face. Eventually, I got the publications. I got the book-signings. But what I found out is that you never really "make it." At least, I didn't.

I used to think if I could just publish a novel, I'd die happy. But my reality was that I published a book and --after all that struggle-- I was still just getting started. The fighting ahead--through the brush, and the tigers, and the wild and icy rivers; the bloody-fingered climb up the rock face, to the place where my dreams live--that wasn't over.

I wanted more books, better books. I wanted to be a better writer. I wanted to feel that I'd said what I was put here to say. And, though I was now published, I still hadn't found my way out of the wilderness to the main road.

For a lot of years, I'd slipped into writing articles and personal essays. I was still "writing", and I was still publishing. But it wasn't where I belong, and my heart knew it, no matter what my head kept saying.

I encouraged my children to chase down their dreams. But I was no longer taking my own advice, and my words rang hollow in my ears.

And so I'm writing again. I'm revising clunky endings and pondering half-constructed plots; I'm scribbling down crazy ideas that pop into my head seemingly from the air; I'm sending things out and daring people to reject me. In short, I'm alive again--like Snow White pushing aside the lid of the glass coffin, and the years of kudzu and spiderwebs.

A rejection is just a sign along the road to destiny--you won't see any of these if you aren't writing, and if you aren't putting your stuff out there in the big wide world. But neither will you ever see your name in print. Ultimately, to me it's worth it. As the Latin Americans say, "Vale la pena"--it's worth the pain. I think, deep down, the heart knows what it wants and why it's here. Why would I trade my days on earth for anything less?
Why would I trade the hardships of a brave charge toward my dreams, for what Thoreau called a life "of quiet desperation?"

Am I on the right road? I've wondered. Recently, I let an agent see the first chapter of my novel under revision, but also told her about my nonfiction ideas, partly, I'm sure, because nonfiction always feels safe, compared to those notoriously hard-to-sell novels--like lingering on base and not making the perilous dash for home. It felt like the Almighty winked at me when she said, "Concentrate on your fiction." Hey, Lord, You don't have to tell me twice (I hope)!

As long as I am questing, I am young, no matter what my body tries to tell me. George Eliot said, "It is never too late to be what you might have been." We shall see about that--yes, most definitely! I'm on the road again.

Stuff that Makes Me Happy

Where to begin? So many things just tickle the crap out of me!

Light & shadow amongst the trees
A purring cat wedged up against me
Clean sheets that smell of flapping on the clothesline
The first sip of black coffee in the morning
Reading on the porch in the summertime
Igor Stravinsky
The blues...Son House, Muddy Waters, Howlin Wolf, John Lee Hooker, Johnny Shines, Koko Taylor, Memphis Minnie, Skip James....
A dog's smile
Working up a good sweat from a hard walk
The smell of lilacs, locust blossom, mock oranges
Guinea pigs
Hot tea from my little blue-enameled hippie teapot
Fresh mango or watermelon
OJ sweet from the tree
The smell of the top of a baby's head
Going somewhere far away on a train
Lightning on the horizon
A good, daylong rain
Sweet corn dripping with butter
Thai or Indian food from the carts outside CMU
Pittsburgh
Lambertsville, Somerset County, PA
Tegucigalpa, Honduras
The sound of Spanish
Blue jeans, T-shirts, sweaters
Putting on my PJs & letting everything ease up
Old movies
Jimmy Stewart
The Beatles
Radiohead
Elvis Presley
"Mystery Train"
"Arrested Development"
Staying up too late
Getting up when it's quiet & dewy
Reading in bed...just reading anywhere
Woodsmoke
Morning walk from campsite to the bath house
Mist in the mountains
Road trips
Writing in my journal, working on my novels
Laughing!
Old people
Soul food
Black & old-time Country Gospel music
Horseback riding
Rolling down hills
County fairs--cotton candy, 4-H exhibits & animal barns
Coloring books
Stuffed animals--especially old teddy bears
Goats, by cracky
Old books
Mysteries
Bassoon music
Taking pictures
Drawing

Geez Louise--guess this is to be continued....

The Audacity of Joy

"Who has despised the day of small things?" Scripture asks. We should probably all answer, "I, Lord." Our blessings are never enough; our gifts and talents are too small; we never accomplish enough. We hang up on that head cold, the cat who persists in scratching the door frame or peeing in the corner, a rattle under our hood, our long and fruitless job search, even the despair and horror of the daily news.

We miss the joy. Again and again, we miss the joy. Like the Israelites who were led out of bitter bondage and given manna from heaven to eat, we complain and kvetch--"I want meat; I want onions!" Too often, it's only in retrospect we see what it was we had...and how sweet.

Partly, I think, there is some shamefacedness even in our grudging daily tablespoon of joy. We scoop it from the well and hold it to our lips and our eyes dart about, wondering if somewhere someone is judging us for it.

How can we warm ourselves around a cinnamon latte or inhale the fragrance of a perfect, porous slice of rustic bread, when all around us we hear the cries of the starving Third World, or our own American children, starved, beaten, imprisoned in closets by deranged parents? Shouldn't we eat the bread of sorrow and drink tears from our cup?

How can we delight in our loved ones, when others are weeping over hospital beds or coffins? How do we rejoice in our strong bodies--running, leaping, dancing--when others struggle with cancer, and catastrophic injuries?

How do we take pleasure in waxing our car, or arranging flowers in a bowl on a shiny table, when everywhere we see images of people losing their jobs and their homes? Can we pet our well-fed dogs and cats, knowing they lead far more comfortable lives than thousands of struggling human beings?

Sometimes, it isn't self-consciousness about our blessings so much as blindness to them. Sure, we have cable TV, but our set is old, and we don't get HD. We're driving a used car and are ashamed of the worn-out carpeting.

And partly, we judge ourselves, weigh ourselves in the balance and find ourselves wanting: We really aren't so talented. Once again, we didn't get done what we planned to do. What we did do was flawed. No matter what we do, it is never enough, and we beat ourselves up. Nobody ever has to disdain our efforts--we ourselves despise them. If we make a little progress today, we never even stop and see it.

Small things are all we really have here on earth. All we have is this moment. By focusing on what is not perfect, we sacrifice all that is good and sweet and right. Is it not a sin against God and all who suffer, if we have good things and don't rejoice and appreciate them? Yes, we should recognize those who suffer and seek to help them, but we should also recognize and be profoundly grateful for what we have--and use it well.

It is a common human experience to look back, after a loss, and think, Why didn't I realize what I had? Why didn't I hold it dearer? If only I could turn back time...if only. If we only open our eyes, which one of us would not see how blessed he is today, this very day? How sad only to see it in our rearview mirror, or pasted in a scrapbook. Today, we are free; we have a safe, warm place to be; we have someone who wants to be with us; leaves budding on the lilac; a warm, cinnamony rice pudding.

The same is true as we look at ourselves and our efforts. Why must we be so darned vigilant about dragging ourselves down? Why are we so blind to the small steps of progress we've made today, and not tell ourselves, "Good job there!", as we would if we were encouraging someone else. One percent progress is still progress! "That's the stuff! More of that will get the job done!"

Joy is all around us--let us embrace it and rebuke the darkness.

Books I Don't Like

For years I tried to plod through books I really didn't like, just because (A) I'd started them, (B) sometimes I'd actually paid for them, & (C) I wanted to give the writer a chance to grow on me. Meanwhile, for every one I forced myself to read--which always took inordinately long--there were books I might have loved, which were dropping off my life list of possibilities. There just isn't enough time here on earth to read them all--there isn't. And maybe some of those I despised are "great" books, "must-read" books, but I've learned the most I owe 'em is a try. After that, I just stop and release them into the universe, pass them on to someone who might actually like them and/or learn something from them. Then, I pick up something that will actually engage me.

For a week or so, though, I've been chipping away at a pretty bad book (no, I won't tell you what it is or who wrote it--as a writer, I don't like to trash another writer's hard work, even if I personally think it's dreadful). The things I hate about this book are legion:

1. clunky phrasing
2. misspellings/grammatical lapses
3. heaving bosom-style love scenes that are about as sexy as wax paper--and this isn't a romance novel!
4. stupid, stupid, stupid blind spots in the way the protagonist fails to pick up whatsoever on what should be obvious concerns to any person of low-average intelligence
5. a cutesy tendency to name some--but not all--characters "meaningfully", such as a dentist named Bob White-Molar or a stripper named Boobs Shaker, and again, the protagonist doesn't seem even to notice or mentally react
6. overwritten description
7. overly elaborate dialog tags
8. I could go on, but please stop me!

So why am I still reading? The same reason I first picked up this awful book in the half-price store--I loved the old-Florida, abandoned sugar plantation setting, and I still do. In fact, I want to be there...preferably not reading this book.... And the bottom line is still that this author has gotten books published--repeatedly. I need a stiff espresso.

The Year of Living Dangerously

Yes, I do tend to appropriate other people's titles-thanks for noticing. Titles have never been my forte, and it sure saves a lot of brain cells this way.

Not sure what it is about this stage of life, but I've suddenly found myself deciding to do way more crazy stuff than I have since I was teenager. Just in the past--oh, let's say--nine months, I've just started doing whatever pops into my head. Not sure whether this is a neurological thing or just the latest manifestation of my innate insanity. In August, I climbed the Double Arch in UT while horrified onlookers became tiny specks below me (candor requires I also mention I was being passed by 9-year-olds climbing with their grampies, & French tourists in flips-flops). But to me, an almost-60-year-old with osteopenia and a fear of heights, it felt huge.

I've started helping one evening a week with newborn quadruplets & a 2-year-old. Enough said.

Rode a camel at a rodeo in Colorado. Have to admit she was a nice smooth ride, and was being led around the ring by a handler, just like a birthday-party pony ride. Also, the 5-year-olds who were mutton busting on bucking sheep were a heck of a lot bolder.

Now, after a couple peaceful months, I've started walking pit bulls at the Humane Society. I've always defended the pitties, who are with few exceptions congenital sweethearts who are just crazy about friendly human contact. But shelters are too darn full of them. People get them without realizing what they're getting into, and then bail on them. And cooped-up pit bulls in small kennels start to go nuts after awhile.

When you walk in, pitties launch themselves at the doors, barking and jumping and basically shrieking, "Me, me, me! Pick me! Are you here for meeeee?!" They are so much fun--so goofy and energetic and lovable. But so far, I've learned: (1) they are a lot of dog to hold onto, (2) to give the other kennels a wide berth, (3) their big ol' smiling jaws could pretty much take an entire arm in one gulp, & (4) to let them run off some of that energy before trying to leash-walk very far. Just prayed the whole way up to the exercise pens that the nylon lead would hold, considering an excited pit bull was gnawing and tugging on it. Also learned to brace myself when playing keep-away with a rag chewie--one happy leap, and I was flat on my calcium-deficient kiester (the same kiester which I was laughing off at that particular point).

I seriously don't know what I might do next--especially if I ever see that classified ad again for circus folk....

The Brits Are Right!

I think we should be allowed--within civilized reason, of course--to choose how to spell and punctuate. Okay, as I sit back and look at that, I realize I don't think just anyone should have this privilege. Maybe there should be a test? And maybe a license?

Here's the thing--correct spelling and punctuation are there for a good reason: to help us communicate clearly. If one actually pretty much knows the rules, the occasional variance can be accommodated without throwing one's gentle reader for a loop. With that caveat, variances often can make a lot of sense, in context.

Examples:

1. I am a fan of the British quotation mark inside the period/question mark/exclamation point, in those cases where the entire sentence is not being quoted. Stubbornly, I fight, fight, fight to follow those sensible Brits, despite being repeatedly jerked up by my choke collar.

2. "Backseat" as a noun makes absolutely no sense, even if it is "correct". Let's refuse to sign on! All together now: "back seat". The same goes for "backyard" (shudder), unless used as a colorful adjective, e.g., "backyard dawg".

3. The late, much-beloved and revered Madeleine L'Engle once wrangled with a publisher for using both "gray" and "grey" in the same novel, depending on the noun being adjectivized, because of the significant difference in the way the spelling conveyed a certain feeling. The editor wouldn't listen to reason. To the barricades!

4. "I ran into James on the way to lit." OK--I know only academic classes labeled as proper nouns should be capitalized (e.g., English 101). But really, doesn't one stutter a bit when encountering "lit" as a noun? There is a momentary mental processing required here that might easily be minimized by the following, however "incorrect": "I ran into James on the way to Lit."

And that's enough about that.

"Sick of sitting 'round here trying to write this book"

Thanks for the title, Bruce Springsteen! I felt you years ago when I was sick of sitting 'round here, trying to write another book. I sat at the kitchen table and typed--on an actual typewriter, and swore, and "Dancing in the Dark" spooled on in the background. I felt as if I'd never finish that dang book--or, if I did, that it would be good enough for me, let alone an editor, or more importantly, my hoped-for readers.

Time ran on, just like "Dancing in the Dark". Days, weeks, months, years, gobbled up by the goblins of time, by tooth-brushing and head colds, by tax returns and Port Authority bus commutes, by teething babies and angry teenagers. I seriously don't remember if I published that book, but eventually a few of my novels did slip past the editorial gatekeepers, each released to my own great excitement before dropping soundlessly into the literary abyss.

But even then, this book was germinating somewhere far below consciousness, beneath the busy streets of commerce up there on the surface of my life. I have George Nicholson to thank--or blame--for planting the mustard seed that became this book. For telling me it was my gift--or curse--to write for teenagers, despite what was then a grudging market for that age group. For telling me I would write books lit with hope, in a landscape sorely lacking in that divine commodity.

I've needed hope, myself, as well as faith and love, over the past years. My publisher stopped publishing the type of thing I used to write; and another novel, sold to a different publishing house, returned to me unpublished, when they decided to close the line. Years went by. I wrote personal essays, newspaper articles and inspirational pieces for anthologies. I didn't write books. Maybe I was done writing books. They take too long and hurt too much.

Once in awhile, I thought of my little seedling novel and an idea would flash through my head like heat lightning during a long drought. I'd scribble a note on a scrap of paper and stick it in a file labeled "Floating Against the Current". It got a bit fatter as the years crept on, but never took shape.

Finally, in July of 2005, I began writing morning pages as recommended by Julia Cameron. Like a miracle fertilizer called Help, which has rescued many a moribund plant around here, the pages seemed to restore balance in my creative mind. Months later, new shoots suddenly sprang up, and the plant began to grow again.

What does "Floating Against the Current" mean? That's a topic for another time. This is about my relationship with this particular book and what on earth I'm going to do with the rest of my life. Will there ever be another book if I can't wrestle this one to the ground?

Actually, "Floating" is done now...and not. The spectre of necessary revisions is waving its arms in front of me, bellowing like Godzilla, keeping me from ever really reaching the end of this miserable process. I despair more than I write. I have another novel well underway, and still "Floating" keeps grabbing my ankles and dragging me backward.

Writing, I've learned, isn't really about publishing--though the drive to publish is as strong as hunger, love, sex, and fear. In the end, as in the beginning, it is about writing. Writers write because the words demand to come out of us, and they won't let us alone. They bug us and they taunt us, and sometimes they play music and dance in our heads.