both sides now
one of my favorite songs is joni mitchell's 'both sides now', her artful description of all those feathered canyons just waiting to be explored. on a lot of days lately, i spend my drive home from work, my head in the middle of cloud canyons.
i was always one of those kids, immersed in the moment of something so that i often forgot i was in the middle of class when i should have been paying attention — the snow falling outside was much more beautiful — or sitting in a chair reading a book, when my sister told me where she was going before she walked out the door. (in my memory, the fact that i couldn't remember where she was earned me admonishment and punishment by my father, who rarely yelled at all.)
as an adult, so caught i was in a room full of readers of my own work — or in the presence of other writers — that i admit to (almost) forgetting that back home, i had a couple of kids, a husband, a dog and loads of laundry waiting for me to come back. that can be a bad thing, but for writers, it is almost a necessity, the ability to escape your own kitchen table and into the clouds from time to time.
as an adult, so caught i was in a room full of readers of my own work — or in the presence of other writers — that i admit to (almost) forgetting that back home, i had a couple of kids, a husband, a dog and loads of laundry waiting for me to come back. that can be a bad thing, but for writers, it is almost a necessity, the ability to escape your own kitchen table and into the clouds from time to time.
i used to be better at it, the whole immersion thing, but in the past few years i've found myself way too distracted, by technology — and that fact that every day, it seems, i have to learn something new about it to do my job. by facebook — though how i love connecting with folks. by the weather. by food network and yesterday's to do list. by reading. by failure. and by all that napping i so like to do.
but somehow, in the last month or two i have found that old ability again and have put my head right back into the clouds.
years ago, before i even had children, my sister had her first. my sweet little niece, who looked a little bit like Tweety Bird, found herself looking at clouds one day and said: mama, where do clouds sleep? back then my sister and i talked every day, and she called me to tell me what cute thing little susan hooks had said. cute indeed, enough to nudge this dreamy-headed girl out there under the vast blue georgia sky and see for myself what the clouds were doing.
through the years my 'cloud book' as I came to call it, took on as many shapes as clouds themselves, amoebic in rhythm and rhyme to the point that no matter how much i loved the verses individually, they never seemed to work together. so eventually it hit the drawer.
a few weeks ago, though, i dug it out again. inspired by reverb11's prompts of what's blossoming in you?, i spent what seemed like hours looking at just what it is clouds do. and i revised. i asked my dear poetic mentor, sally buckner, if she would take a shrewd pen to it, and with her help, the problems with the rhythm and rhyme so stuck in my brain shifted like a stormy sky clearing itself to blue. i wrote new verses, felt the lullaby take root in my head where it stayed, gently rocking my days.
And magically — after changing a word here, a line there, it is done.
And magically — after changing a word here, a line there, it is done.
it's been a long time since i could say 'done' to any of my creative work. years. i have a lot of 'almosts' and a few false starts, but to have something complete and wholly its own feels good.
and this time, i am hopeful that when i ever have grandchildren of my own, i won't have to give them to construction paper cutout version made from leftover cardboard — i can give them the book.
so hopeful i am, that over the past weeks, in addition to finishing, i reached this crazy head of mine higher in the clouds. and today i sent my manuscript to an agent.
only once have i queried an agent, and it didn't turn out well. turns out i wasn't ready, hadn't done my homework — about the agent or her clients — and i am pretty sure there was a typo in the letter. (why do i always do that?)
but this time, i studied what to do, printing my manuscript as if it might be a book (these days, though it doesn't involve actual scissors and glue, it does require an understanding of how to print on both sides of the paper on a desktop printer, so each page is right side up... no easy task, let me tell you.) i looked at the pacing, the placing of the words on the page, studying other picture books i love for understanding of just how that works.
and in the end, i liked what i created. a lot. (is this bragging? i hope not.)
i haven't always been so intentional. when i was just out of college, i sent my resume to the Atlanta Journal and the Washington Post — having never read either paper or been to Atlanta (i'd only driven around DC), not even bothering to check that my clips — and probably my resume — were riddled with typos. thank heaven, literally, that my next resume went to a much smaller paper and to someone who could see beyond my errors and my naivete.
i've sent essays i've written to magazines but never told anyone. didn't want to have to admit that i failed. but today it feels less like a failure than a leap of faith. somebody gets published, and those who do don't keep their manuscripts in the drawer. (Some of the worst books i've read i've actually bought in book stores, so what is that about?)
it's a long shot, to be sure. and if i don't hear by the end of July, I am supposed to submit elsewhere. which i will do. right now, as summer begins, i'll move on to the novel i've been writing for too many years to count, knowing now that recent history proves i can finish something. after that, there are others in the drawer, so there is still much yet to do.
in the time being, i'll keep my head in those clouds. somehow i still keep looking up.
and if you feel like it, poke your head up there with me, into the feathered canyons and above them, where the sky is always the most brilliant blue.
Giving Sooze a piece of my mind
Future self. Imagine yourself five years from now. What advice would you give your current self for the year ahead? (Bonus: Write a note to yourself 10 years ago. What would you tell your younger self?)
My rolls are in the oven, the dogs have settled, and for a short while, the house has quieted of the pre-Christmas rush. James Galway's soft flute and the voices of the Chapel Choir of King's School Canterbury drift over the aroma of yeast as it fills the kitchen.
SCRATZZZZH!!
That was somebody else's life I was describing, because though Galways' flute does dance across the air of my kitchen, now the dogs' shrill barks wake me from my holiday stupor. Their nails click across the floor as they pace, back and forth from window to door, jarred, it seems, by the simple rustling of the leaves outside, the washing machine humming, the oven timer going off.
Despite their ruckus, I do have 10 minutes between as each batch cooks, to think about yesterday's prompt, which I had meant to get to, but well, did the folks at reverb realize that Christmas is TWO DAYS away? Something tells me no, that when they were thinking up this wonderful project it was July, and the sidewalks were sizzling and there was absolutely no thought given to the holiday rush because Christmas was five months away. A lifetime. Five years.
In five years from now I will be 58. Fifty-EIGHT! The same age my husband is now, and he will be a little bit closer to retirement. I hope I'll have a couple of grandchildren, and instead of the dogs interrupting my nap with their barks, I'll snuggle down with little people who will call me Sooze, and we will warm our toes under the covers for an afternoon story. I'll pull out the soft ornaments I used to hang on the bottom of the tree, so they can feel free to touch. I'll save the roll scraps for them, and I'll show them how to carefully tie the dough into knots. And we will read the Christmas story from the Advent calendar of little books their mother used to read from — since my son doesn't even have a girlfriend at the moment I will assume he won't be a dad just yet — and we will read it straight, with none of the joking that came when my own children were teenagers, when Old King Herod became Old King Harold, a favorite neighbor down the street.
If I could sit down with Sooze and give her a little piece of my mind that she could take with her as she navigates the years between this one and the one I imagine, I would say these things:
• Listen to your dreams
• Get some fresh air
• Stop what you're doing when a child is whispering
• Put your mind to it (see previous post on that one)
• Nap with the dogs
• You have already worried enough
• Meet your children half way
• Sing more often
• Plant more seeds
• Bring flowers into the house
• Hug your parents closer
• You will eventually figure it out
• Call your sister
• Use every color in the crayon box
• Remember what happened when you (insert mistake here). It's over. It's forgiven. Now go.
• Let your husband see into your soul
• Giggle at every opportunity
• Write every day
• Show God you are paying attention
sbr
(stay tuned, because I am thinking of that bonus letter.:)
My rolls are in the oven, the dogs have settled, and for a short while, the house has quieted of the pre-Christmas rush. James Galway's soft flute and the voices of the Chapel Choir of King's School Canterbury drift over the aroma of yeast as it fills the kitchen.
SCRATZZZZH!!
That was somebody else's life I was describing, because though Galways' flute does dance across the air of my kitchen, now the dogs' shrill barks wake me from my holiday stupor. Their nails click across the floor as they pace, back and forth from window to door, jarred, it seems, by the simple rustling of the leaves outside, the washing machine humming, the oven timer going off.
Despite their ruckus, I do have 10 minutes between as each batch cooks, to think about yesterday's prompt, which I had meant to get to, but well, did the folks at reverb realize that Christmas is TWO DAYS away? Something tells me no, that when they were thinking up this wonderful project it was July, and the sidewalks were sizzling and there was absolutely no thought given to the holiday rush because Christmas was five months away. A lifetime. Five years.
In five years from now I will be 58. Fifty-EIGHT! The same age my husband is now, and he will be a little bit closer to retirement. I hope I'll have a couple of grandchildren, and instead of the dogs interrupting my nap with their barks, I'll snuggle down with little people who will call me Sooze, and we will warm our toes under the covers for an afternoon story. I'll pull out the soft ornaments I used to hang on the bottom of the tree, so they can feel free to touch. I'll save the roll scraps for them, and I'll show them how to carefully tie the dough into knots. And we will read the Christmas story from the Advent calendar of little books their mother used to read from — since my son doesn't even have a girlfriend at the moment I will assume he won't be a dad just yet — and we will read it straight, with none of the joking that came when my own children were teenagers, when Old King Herod became Old King Harold, a favorite neighbor down the street.
If I could sit down with Sooze and give her a little piece of my mind that she could take with her as she navigates the years between this one and the one I imagine, I would say these things:
• Listen to your dreams
• Get some fresh air
• Stop what you're doing when a child is whispering
• Put your mind to it (see previous post on that one)
• Nap with the dogs
• You have already worried enough
• Meet your children half way
• Sing more often
• Plant more seeds
• Bring flowers into the house
• Hug your parents closer
• You will eventually figure it out
• Call your sister
• Use every color in the crayon box
• Remember what happened when you (insert mistake here). It's over. It's forgiven. Now go.
• Let your husband see into your soul
• Giggle at every opportunity
• Write every day
• Show God you are paying attention
sbr
(stay tuned, because I am thinking of that bonus letter.:)
Community
Reverb10: Where have you discovered community, online or otherwise, in 2010? What community would you like to join, create or more deeply connect with in 2011?
Work — My office walls are a pale lavender — a color my office-mate and I chose a couple of years ago thinking it soothing, particularly in summer. Though we weren't thinking of it as a liturgical color (purple is Advent and Lent,) it seemed the pale hint of purple seemed to fit with our liturgical jobs. With this soft hue surrounding us, we have shared our stories, our ideas and our work space. Parishioners stop in to visit — and occasionally to share a pastoral need — and if it's their first visit, they look around at the walls and say, are these walls purple? Yes, we say, and we invite them in to experience what purple can do for the soul.
Lee and I, and my other friend who inhabit the office wing of our parish, usually share lunch on Tuesdays. In the last year, this ritual has become much more important to me than just food for the body. Those who tag along each week might be different, but as we commune over soup or burgers or the special of the day, as trite as it sounds, we fill ourselves with soul food. Over lunch we've solved creative quandaries, built each other up, laughed and cried, encouraged and consoled, returning to our purple room quenched and ready to start again.
I worship where I work, and when I come into the church on Sundays, kneeling as I come into the pew, I look up, then around at those entering the church. The first time I came to my church, I honestly prayed: God, is this the right one? So hungry I was, new in what had been my college town, seeking community somewhere. (I have written about this before.) When I rose from the pew that day 21 years ago, the first person I saw was a woman I had known from my childhood, the older sister of my brother's best friend. My past community, reaching out to this new one, and I stayed. I raised my family here.
Writing — Nothing fuels my work more than sitting down with other writers to gnaw a little while on words and ideas. Dawn and Jane and Elaine, Candy and Diane, Miriam and Lynne and Melanie are just a few of the folks that spark my writing energy. Years ago, I had no sense of community in my writing, simply toiled away alone at my bedroom table, hoping one day somebody would know me. I first met Dawn after answering a notice in the NC Writer's Network Newsletter for people who wanted to join a writer's group. (Who knew there was an entire COMMUNITY, just for writer's in our state?)
Dawn and I have been critique partners for about 15 years now, both of us working as professional communicators during our days, our nights and weekends spent noveling, when we can. Though that original group no longer exists, writers come and go, depending upon their place in the writer's journey. We met Jane at an NC State workshop. She writes wonderful stories, and in a lot of them people are driving places. It seems to be a metaphor for Jane, who is going places as a craftsman of words. Elaine is new to our group, young and committed to this thing that for all of us has pulled since we were small. My other writing friends, CDM&L, meet semi-regularly for supper and support, and when we met last week, we laughed at the fact that when we first began these suppers, we spend all of our synergy talking about our craft. Now, some 10 years later, we talk about our hearing loss, our cancer, our grandchildren and those we hope for. But we always leave our discussions filled with a new power.
Melanie has not yet owned the fact that she is a writer, not yet. But she will. The mother of three young girls, she is a keen observer of what living a life of faith and raising children in it is all about, and she is just trying to get it write.(yes, I did mean it two ways.) She casts daily life in lyrical phrases, tossing them like softly spun silk against the wind for others to catch and twist around their fingers for a little while. Her stories inhabit you, they are that good. You can read her latest piece here. (click on December, and read page 8).
Living within this writerly community keeps me whole, even if I can't manage to write so much as a grocery list, I know they believe in me, even when I don't.
Cloos' Club — I can't complete this post without writing about the folks at Cloos', a place on the other side of town where some of my friends and I gather on Fridays to commune over the most awesome French fries in these here parts. We've been gathering for about 10 years I guess, crunching on those fries and giggling, mostly, about friendship, husbands, church and sex (yes, at Cloos' Club we can mention that in the same phrase). I've been writing a novel based (loosely) on our Friday experiences for what seems like a lot of years... I so close to finishing it's scary.
I might not be a part of this group if it weren't for Sandy, (shown above with the fabulous Charlotte) — the most inclusive person I know. She invited me to lunch some years ago to meet her friend Greer, because we both like books, and when our venue was torn down, we moved to Cloos'. Along came Trina and her sister Anna, then Sidney and Walker joined us later on. Sandy has a song for every moment, and she can play a mean nose guitar, even when she isn't asked. Cloos' is the kind of place where if they really do know your name when you walk in, and often your favorite thing to order. It's a real community, the people who come to Cloos', and it is not just about the food. When I turned 50, the entire place sang Happy Birthday. What a wonderful moment that was.
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| Cloos' Club all dressed up! |
The community I'd like to connect with more deeply next year? Family.
Who's Looking at Boo?
Now in our 30 years together, my husband has given me hundreds of gifts. The first best thing was a dog I didn't even ask for, but who ended up loving me every single day for or 13 years, even on those days when I had nothing much going for me. The next two are my children, of course. But the book, well, when I opened this 35th anniversary edition, I thought, well, this is nice. My paperback copy was looking a little dogeared. And then I cracked open the spine, pulling in the smell of it, like new ink, smoothing my fingers over the pages. It wasn't until I reached the title page that I looked up at him, tears in my eyes, thinking this man really does understand me, thankful none of my tears dripped across the name carefully penned in black in on the title page. Harper Lee had held this very copy in her own hands, the same hands that had written a simple story that begins with a broken elbow and ends with all of us questioning if we really can ever love our neighbors as ourselves.
(Bird lover that I am, I admit that I have never quite understood why she chose a mockingbird. The Mockingbirds of my memory, though they could sing, used to fly up and down across the yard, pecking at my Irish Setter's backside because he'd gotten too close to their nest.)
I imagine I'm no different from scores of other writers from the South when I say the book changed me. I've read it now at least six times, the last time just this past winter, and as a writer in Southern Living said in July, each time I read it, I find something new. I read it for story and for structure, for character and plot. I read it to read between the lines about Truman Capote's friendship with Harper Lee. I read it to see — as my friend the writer Doris Betts told me once good writers needed to do —how Harper Lee kills her darlings. How she finds the extraordinary in the ordinary days of rural Alabama. And I read it to see if we have learned anything from the mistakes made by those good folks in Maycomb in the 1930s, which wasn't so much unlike my own home town in 1960. Or later.
TKaM turned 50 in July, and thousands of fans made pilgrimages to Monroeville, Ala., to mark the event, with parades and walking tours, readings and recitations. They talked to Katie Couric and read essays on NPR. But nowhere in sight is the reclusive Nell Lee.
I used to want to make my own pilgrimage to Monroeville, just to see if I might catch a glimpse of her as she fed the ducks or picked up her mail at the post office, as if just catching sight of her might shed a little writerly magic over me. I imagined standing on the sidewalk outside her house and being invited up onto her porch for some iced tea, to talk about our similarities growing up in a small town, both with a father who is respected, if not beloved by that town. I want to know who the model was for Boo Radley (my town had Lucretia). About what she's reading and what she is working on now. I want to talk about writing and why some stories really do make a difference.
Sometimes I'm asked the question: Are you still writing? Which feels like Are you still breathing? I would never ask Nell Lee that question, because even if she is not writing things DOWN, she is writing, still. In her head. I hope always to be the same.
In my daydream I imagine her inviting me in to take a peek under her chenille-covered bed where I imagine she keeps her manuscripts, the ones she won't let anybody publish until she's dead, because she's had enough of folks making such a fuss over first one. Aren't we all convinced that she has hidden the next great American novel away?
In my hunger to hear more of her voice, I read the few essays she wrote, all in the three years after TKaM was published. But now I read her silence.
What irony, that Nell herself has become her beloved Boo, walk by her house, leave notes in her mailbox, hoping they'll be the ones with the magic words that will make her her come out.