Sometimes They Just Want "Jingle Bells"

"I wish I could figure out what I'm doing wrong! What do they want?" My friend, who takes business writing assignments from an online clearinghouse, had just been venting over a couple clients who (though they'd accepted and paid her) had rated her product as "poor" or merely "average." My friend, a well-published writer, as well as a former magazine editor, was understandably beside herself. She has never accepted anything less than excellence from herself--and, in fact, the website had given these same assignments their highest rating.

I tried to reassure her. It's always easier to see no problem when it isn't your own writing that seems to be under attack. "I don't think you're doing anything wrong," I told her. "They're your customers, and they have the prerogative of being unreasonable."

I pointed out she was working from a very short posting that offered only the barest of instructions, and she'd had no opportunity to ask questions for clarification. I also suggested her clients had possibly given scant attention to their evaluations. Some of what I was saying may have helped a bit, but as we left the restaurant after our weekly writing critique, my friend still seemed woebegone and frustrated.

It didn't occur to me at the time, but another obstacle she's up against is that her clients aren't "word people." They aren't other writers, editors, or agents. They are all simply "writing consumers," from other industries. Their ideas of what constitutes good writing may differ wildly from reality.

Nonetheless, the more I mulled this over as I drove home, the more I saw parallels with conventional writing submissions. Sometimes I don't even recognize my own submission, from comments I've gotten back from editors or agents, and I wonder what on earth they were actually reading.

It reminded me of Lucy in the Charlie Brown Christmas special. She is listening to Schroeder play the piano, and she asks him to play "Jingle Bells." Schroeder offers a beautiful rendition, and Lucy snaps, "That's not 'Jingle Bells.' Play 'Jingle Bells!'"

Schroeder plays another version, equally lovely, and then another. Lucy meanwhile gets more and more perturbed. "Play 'Jingle Bells!'" she orders.

Finally, Schroeder hunches over the keyboard and pecks out the melody with two fingers...plink, plink, plink. Lucy's face melts into a dreamy smile. "That's it--that's 'Jingle Bells.'"

Sometimes, it occurs to me, it doesn't matter that our writing is graceful, punchy, or gripping. If it doesn't meet whatever that editor's, agent's, or reader's expectations are, we're not going to get a contract--or even keep them with us past the first paragraph. It doesn't mean our writing is no good--it's just that sometimes, they just want "Jingle Bells."

Buckle Your Seatbelts

I collect vintage children’s series books—like Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys. I may have started there, anyway. But eventually, I moved on from Nancy, Frank and Joe, Trixie Belden and Judy Bolton. Back to the thirties, the twenties, and a hundred years back to 1914. Back to Ruth Fielding, the Motor Maids, and the Flying Machine Boys. The Outdoor Girls and the Moving Picture Chums.

It’s not exactly a popular hobby in the 21^st century.

I’d always been a bit reluctant to pick up the genuinely old series—afraid, I guess, they’d be as musty to read as they are to smell. What exactly did I expect? Stilted language, I suppose. Outdated gender roles and ethnic stereotyping. Heavy-handed moralizing.

Finally, other collectors recommended a few very old series, and I decided to give them a try. What I found was surprising. Certainly, an old-fashioned writing style. Some occasional stereotyping. Definite moral values, though not as preachy as I’d anticipated. But, far and beyond these expected qualities, I discovered a startling vitality on those yellowing pages—youthfulness as fresh today as when they were first written. There was real humor here, and heart-thumping action and suspense.

What I found, time and again, were stories that took off running from the very first page. The discovery of an old, hand-drawn map, stuck beneath the cover of an antique book. A sinister stranger, eavesdropping in a café. A sudden storm. Kidnapers. The dam breaks. An eerie figure looms in the mist.

Something happens right away—something startling, exciting, gripping. But the problems for our hero—or heroine—aren’t easily resolved. They get worse, as obstacles and dangers pile up with barely a moment to breathe, apart from a bit of comic relief.

At times, the sheer quantity of incredible disasters that befall these characters is mind-boggling. The Moving Picture Girls, for instance, tend to move from one crisis to the next with barely a breather. A violent storm comes up. Their ship begins to sink. One of the actors is washed overboard. They are rescued and resume their trip by train. The train is robbed. Someone is taken captive. A rival company sends a spy to steal the company’s film. They arrive at their destination and begin filming. Indians unhappy with the location of the filming threaten the company. A horse runs off with one of our characters. She is rescued, but a “controlled” blaze, set for purposes of the film, goes out of control, trapping our actors in the middle of a prairie fire. This may be a bit of an exaggeration—but not by much. And always our intrepid cameraman manages to keep on filming, so later the resulting footage can be used to create a popular and prize-winning movie.

Corny? Yes, some of these scenes are hysterically, though undoubtedly unintentionally, funny. But often, the characters also display genuine laugh-out-loud wit. I’ve been surprised by how well the humor translates for a modern reader.

It’s easy for me to see why young readers from decades long past gobbled these stories up. Many of the books I find have been read nearly to death. It makes me smile to think about some kid reading in bed when he’s supposed to be getting a good night’s sleep before school the next morning.

How many kids still do this? I’m afraid not as many as there used to be, before TV, the internet, and cell phones. But an action-packed story—whether for kids or adults—still has that ability to grab readers by the collar and drag them along on a wild ride. Consider Harry Potter and Lemony Snicket—both, not coincidentally, having been translated into successful movies.

I tend to forget how important a compelling plot is—one in which things actually happen (and keep happening).  But unrelenting action and unanswered questions can energize a story like nothing else. Both Steven Spielberg and George Lucas took inspiration from the old-time movie serials with their cliffhanger endings, in creating blockbuster movie franchises.

I love to develop characters and setting. But my musty old books connect me with the real power of story.

Standing in the River

Once in awhile, you can miss something—or someone—for so long you almost forget, until one day you walk right into a reminder.

I’d forgotten how great it was to have book stores to hang out in. Pittsburgh isn’t a big city, but even in my little orbit, I had more than one “favorite”—Pinocchio in Shadyside and Tall Tales in Mount Lebanon, for children’s books; Mystery Lovers in Oakmont, for the obvious; and Borders in the South Hills, for its wonderful and knowledgeable staff, as well as a big selection and welcoming atmosphere. Sure, Borders was a chain store, but its staff knew and was passionate about books.

One by one, they folded, until only Mystery Lovers, under new ownership, survived. Yes, we do still have others, including a couple chains, a few used book shops, and college book stores. But it’s not the same. 

A recent long weekend took us to Manhattan for a family birthday, but it was book stores I was hungry for. There are so many to choose from, but our schedule only allowed time for two: The Strand and Argosy. Very different experiences, but in both cases, the moment as I walked through the door, explosions of quiet happiness were going off in my head.

Both are legacy book stores, still in business after generations. The Strand opened in 1927 on New York’s legendary Book Row, which makes it 86 years old in 2013, and still in the original family. Auspiciously named after London’s famous publisher’s row, the Strand was once just one of 48 bookstores on Book Row—I wish I could’ve been there! According to The Strand’s website, Book Row started in the 1890’s and once ran from Union Square to Astor Place, though today, the Strand is all that remains. 

Famed for its “18 miles of books,” The Strand sprawls over three floors, with a rare book room at the top, millions of new and used books and literary-themed items from the bottom up, and dollar carts outside. When you step inside, much of the joy comes from feeling how alive it is—the bustle of book-loving people all around you, the shelves and tables crowded with books and other delicious items.

Argosy is even older, dating back 88 years to 1925, and is also still family owned. It’s smaller, and cozier, and feels preserved in time. The first thing that struck me as I crossed the threshold—after tearing myself away from the dollar used books outside, with two in hand—was the aroma. Argosy smells wonderful. It smells of old paper and real leather bindings. 

The lighting is more muted than at The Strand, and it gleams back softly from old wood paneling and a pressed-tin ceiling. In the center aisle, library tables with green-glass-shaded lamps invite you to sit and read. I spent a long time here, and climbed the ladders in the basement, where everything was fifty percent off, to make sure I didn’t miss a treasure.

Argosy's main room (Argosy website)

Between The Strand and Argosy, I filled two heavy bags with books. But the best part of my day was just being there—surrounded for a few hours by books and book people. As a writer, being there in that world of books again—of words and ideas—connected me to what Madeleine L’Engle referred to as “the river.” It reminded me, in a way I hadn’t felt for a while, that I needed to be writing. 

I need to keep adding my small trickle of words to the river, in the same way the smallest creek along the way feeds the great Mississippi. It occurs to me I might also be feeding the “Amazon.” But as much as I love buying books online, it will never provide that sense of community I feel in a real bookstore.  It’s a unique community that includes toddlers and mommies sitting at the tiny tables with their colorful picture books, as well as the long-dead—but still-living—giants of the written word, like Dostoevsky and Dickens. For a little while, it was good to stand knee deep in the river again—a reader and a writer—and let it rush over me.

Washed Up on the Far Shore of Nanowrimo

Around 1 AM November 27th, I won my fourth Nanowrimo--National Novel Writing Month. Midnight November 1st found me with a jumble of sketchy notes, a pot of tea, and a bag of emergency snacks. With Boris Karloff's eyes smoldering out of the TV screen as The Mummy on the late-night Halloween movie, and the sound on low, I began typing.

It was my hardest Nano yet. I had a title--BAD MOON, a vague idea, and a few cardboard cutout characters. That was it. For the next 26 days, my family individually and collectively created more drama than any competing telenovela, and my previously well-behaved dogs and cats started leaving surprises around the house. An annual writing conference came around and I was away from home overnight and most of two days, but Nano doesn't wait--1,667 words a day do not write themselves.

But this year, my goal had to be something closer to 2,000 words a day. Due to the only convergence--in all of human history--of Thanksgiving, the first day of Chanukah, and the 80th birthday of my husband's cousin, I had to be D-O-N-E by dawn on the 27th. We were leaving for a long family weekend celebration in New York City, and I didn't want to schlepp a heavy, old-school laptop.

Somehow, I made it. For the first time ever, I discovered that it is possible to write in my sleep. Literally. On two separate occasions, I dozed off while writing, and startled awake a few moments later, only to discover I had completed one or more actual sentences. Neither of them bore any connection to the story at that point, though, which I found interesting. Since it was Nano, and every word counts, of course I left them in anyway.

At 8 PM November 26th, I was only partially packed. In fact, I still had laundry to do before I could finish packing. I had not written all day, and I still had 4,000 words between me and victory. It looked very much as though I was going to be trying to find space in that bag for a very heavy computer.

I had never written more than two or three thousand words in a day. Many of my 1,667-word days had been excruciating. But I decided I was just going to do it. And so I sat down and wrote. My characters went nuts. They had rambling conversations and I tagged all their dialog. Every verb got its very own adverb. Florid descriptions flew from my fingertips. It was the fastest and easiest 4,000 words of my life. Bam!

And so...I hit my 50,000 words with four days to spare, even though the book isn't finished, and it certainly isn't great. But the amazing thing--which I have experienced every Nano--is that there are so many good things in there, all the same. What I have is the bones of a pretty good story, and one that I would never otherwise have written.

Now, after a long weekend in New York, I'm looking ahead to the New Year, and ten months that are not Nanowrimo. I have four Nano novels that all need work, and a few more written conventionally. What I've been lacking in the past is dedicated follow-through. So for 2014, my goal is to revise a book a month--and start getting them out there.

Writing is important, and God bless Nano--every year it reminds me of that.

Have Fun!

Every day, I drive into Bridgeville for one reason or another, and I pass a series of bus shelters. These have endlessly annoyed me, because (A) the buses no longer run this far out, and the shelters are a kind of cruel joke on the unwary; and (B) they were erected by an advertising company, and NOT to serve bus patrons (they were always on the wrong side of the road).

But lately, I've gotten a little lift each time I pass a certain shelter. The inside poster, stuck there by the advertising company, is slipping down due to inattention. But the outside poster (also a bit wrinkly and a tad askew) is just a sheet of white butcher paper, which some kindhearted vandal has tagged with a permanent marker. "Follow Your Dreams!" it says in purple ink, surrounded by red asterisks & swirlys.

"Don't Give Up!" it says. And, at the bottom, almost as an afterthought: "Have fun!"

Well, I can always use these particular reminders and affirmations. (Actually, I can't imagine many people who couldn't...and can think of several who should probably consider taking them several times a day in capsule form.) Whoever put them there for me, Thank you! (Oh! And have fun!)

Adventures in Queryland

Querying has never been easy—at least, not for me, or for anyone else I know. You spend six months or a year—or in some sad cases, ten—and now you have a novel. You write it, you revise it, you polish it, you agonize over it. It’s the very best work you are capable of producing—at least, at this point in your life. If you’re lucky, it sings. But now can you just send your baby off into the publishing world, hoping its song will cast a spell over some lucky agent or editor?

In a word, No. With rare exceptions, nobody today will so much as cast a hairy eyeball in the direction of an unsolicited manuscript. These keepers of the gates seem indifferent at best, and at worst, hostile. (Think of the old Snoopy cartoon where his novel is returned along with a dire warning to the effect that any future submissions will force them to come throw rocks at his dog house.)

I don’t know about you, but I’d sure like to publish this book. I’m afraid, though. What if rogue gangs, comprised of Atheneum, Knopf, and Harper Collins editors, were to shanghai a Megabus and drive by my house, just to hurl rocks at the windows?

Or what if they just don’t like it? What if they don’t like me? Will I get the “this does not meet our needs at this time” brush-off? Will they say something snarky and cruel? Or will they just ignore me till the aluminum siding on my house expires, and I actually wish somebody would throw rocks at it, so I could report it to my insurance company?

The only way ever to publish anything is to swallow down the fear and ask. At least, these days many agencies and publishing houses will accept queries by email. In the old days of snail mail and SASEs, you could go broke on postage and literally wait a year to hear something from the overwhelmed recipient, because of course nobody wanted simultaneous submissions, either.

It’s hard to write a novel—full of pungent dialog, throat-clenching action, exquisite characterization, and snort-milk-out-your-nose humor—and then try to distill that into a one-page query. Whine all you like about the unfairness, but nobody cares. In fact, many will tell you they only need to read a couple lines to know if they’re interested in more.

Commenters on the Query Tracker website sometimes make a game of “how fast can the agent reject me.” I thought overnight turnarounds were insulting, before I read others who’d gotten the boot after only minutes. One writer, laughing through the tears, asked if one minute was a record!

The good news here is that I’ve also gotten requests for a partial or full manuscript submission after just three hours or overnight. I’ve learned you just have to keep enough queries out there that no solitary rejection will ever seem like the end of the road.

As I’ve gone through the query process lately, with both FLOATING and a much older manuscript I recently pulled from the drawer and revised, I’ve found a few helpful blogs and websites, as well as an entire community of my fellow suffering souls. I’ve learned (at least a bit) not to take rejection so personally. I’ve taken a moment to consider the fact that we have an economy on life support here, and more specifically, the thermonuclear fireball that’s gone through our industry with the crash of Borders, leaving their creditors (the publishers I and my peers are trying to woo) millions of dollars in the hole.

I’ve learned to continue to tweak and rewrite as I go, trying to make a better, stronger query—and novel. I’ve learned to personalize my queries. I try not to put all my eggs in one basket. I have five novels in various stages of construction and I no longer send queries out one at a time. I’ve discovered writing itself is my joy and purpose, and that desperation is pointless.

Writing is what I do; it’s who I am. Whether or not someone ever buys it, my job is to write it, and to write with all I’ve got. Some theologians think the Red Sea didn’t part until the Israelites set foot in the water. So I’m starting to wade.

No Longer Floating

I started this blog awhile back, bemoaning the novel that would not die--and yet, perversely refused to live. Floating Against the Current took years to write, and then years to revise. Still, a satisfactory ending hovered just out of reach.

Unspeakably grateful now it's finished. The result isn't spectacularly, "angels-singing" thrilling. But done. I realize after all these years that I've just been living in this novel for way too long (which might could explain, as my friend from NC would say, why the thrill is gone).

How did this miracle come to pass? How did I come to finish the heretofore unfinishable?

Thanks to Julia Cameron, The Artist's Way, for getting me into morning pages, which got me writing every day.

Thanks to Flylady, for teaching me the power of those 15-minute chinks of time I'd been devoting to snacks and cruising the Internet. Redirecting as little as one of those, on a daily basis, moved Floating forward once again.

Thanks to my writing buddy, Sue Swan, for keeping me on task.

Thanks to the Lord for reminding me that my past is not necessarily my future: "Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus." Phil. 3:13

Undoubtedly more revisions yet to come--that's the nature of noveling! But the feeling of free flight, having reached this stage, is exhilarating. Finishing Floating gave me November clear for Nanowrimo, and the joyous prospect of getting back to my novel in progress, Stones in My Passway.

As I have always told my kids, we can do hard things!

And We're Off to Nanowrimo--Back in a Month!

So for the first time ever, I actually took the leap and registered for National Novel Writing Month (Nanowrimo). I have told everyone who would listen to me, too--so no turning back at this point!

Starting at midnight tomorrow night (death of Halloween & birth of November 1st), and continuing through the last seconds of November 30th--perhaps with allowances for Thanksgiving, church, food intake, and perhaps the (occasional) shower--I am going to fling my laptop in the direction of a 50,000-word "zombie cozy. (A zombie cozy is a fun, rather than horrifying, zombie romp. It is not, in the tradition the tea cozy, a fuzzy sweater designed to keep your zombie warm.)

I will be accompanied on this adventure by thousands of like-minded writerly types, and provisioned with Hot & Spicy Cheezits, Fun-Size Snickers, baggies of Craisins, & gallons of coffee & tea. As is the case with all adventures worth having, new experiences await & dangers will abound.

I have prepared myself mercilessly for the past month or so--did a smidge of research, crafted a zombie army out of colorful felt as inspiration, wrote down a few notes, purchased my Cheezits & other rewards and incentives. I have warned my family, stockpiled some food and cleaned a bit, just by way of clearing the decks.

"What makes you think you can do this?" my husband Dave asked.

Well, one has to think one can do it, or beginning is pointless. I feel as qualified as anybody--I have no realistic sense of my own limitations, which is incredibly helpful. I am extremely used to not sleeping. I have already written twelve complete novels, without getting overly hung up on distressing concerns about quality or publication. I like the idea that I am doing this with legions of similarly deluded people worldwide. And best of all--I have not only permission, but outright direction, to throw my "inner editor" overboard for the duration.

For the next thirty days, it doesn't matter if something is spelled right, or I have a dangling modifier. Inconsistencies are fine, just fine! Too many characters? Not enough plot? Absolutely great! "All" I have to do is write 50,000 words of fiction, during the month of November, preferably without getting sick, divorced, or committed (whether voluntarily or otherwise).

A wonderful byproduct of this project is I've already gleaned so much information, which will be useful in saving myself and my loved ones, and possibly all of mankind, in the event of a zombie uprising. When Dave recently shared a tidbit about the potash industry, which he'd learned from a "potash historian", I had to be grateful there are people interested in the history of the potash industry. The Lord has blessed mankind with such diversity! And maybe the potash historian is also grateful that there are others like me out there, who are interested in writing about zombies. We don't each have to do it all, to know it all--because we live in a world populated by other knowledgeable people, each of whom is covering his or her own area of specialization.

But now I need to get going--I need to stock my zombie-fighting, Nano-writing travel kit. Let the adventure begin! I can totally do this.... Right?

Things That Make Me Happy, Parte Tres

Japanese wood-block prints
Monet
Van Gogh
"Fargo"
Cherry blossom time in DC
Bats flying against the sky
Clean, ordered shelves
Greenhouses full of flowers
Curled-over potato chips
Little white frame churches
Kicking my feet through fall leaves
Woodsmoke
Pussywillows
Worn grooves in old wood floors
Hickory PA Apple Festival
Hayrides
Swimming
Hippie clothes
Fried dough & cotton candy
Jelly beans
Queen Anne's lace
Riding on ferries
Staying on islands
Grape Popsicles
Climbing trees
Singing the old hymns
Vintage leather handbags
Wading in icy creeks

Things That Make Me Happy, Parte Dos

Daisee's sense of humor
Naked rats
Soda bread with currants & fennel
The way springtime smells
Hearing Kika's ringtone
My laptop
Having the quads crawl up onto me so trustingly
Dreaming about going to Greece
My Bible
Strawberry green tea
Anne Lamott
My Susans
Grandma's cookstove
Speaking Spanish
Raw almonds
3-mile workouts
Finding awesome stuff at the thrift store
Cuba
Seattle's Best vanilla-cinnamon rooibos lattes
Sticking my pictures in scrapbooks
Reading old letters
Finding letters in my mailbox
Indian head pennies
Old tablecloths with fruit & flowers on them
Porch sitting
Hanging out with my mom
Writing,writing, writing, writing
Easter bonnets
Apple blossoms
The sound of rain
Afternoon naps
Cary Grant comedies
Independent coffee shops
Diners
Used book stores
Finding morel mushrooms
Finding money
Glazed carrots
Root beer floats
TS Eliot
Thoreau
Dave Barry
Pizza...even pretty bad pizza
Old farmhouses
Black-&-white cows in tall grass
Black nail polish
Cilantro
Watching squirrels in the trees
Gathering hickory nuts
The smell of maple syrup cooking down
Fried cornmeal mush
Drinking tea with Tony

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.