M.K.B. Graham's Blog, page 6

Brown trout beware …

A little departure today: Following is a piece I wrote three years ago. At the time, it was cathartic. I publish it today, Sept. 8, on the third anniversary of the death of a friend who taught me more than I could have ever expected.

A month ago, my friend died. And I am diminished because of her loss. I am also greatly improved by having known her. Few people one encounters in life have lasting impact — we say they do, but they really don’t. Most people we know, we simply know, and what we learn from them is minimal.

But if you are very lucky, you come across an individual who teaches you lessons that are priceless, lessons that make you a better person, a better soul.

That was my friend Michelle.

A girl from Craigsville

Michelle and I could not have been more different. She was a girl from tiny Craigsville, Virginia, raised by her grandparents, the first in her family to go to college, and by any measure the most successful individual in her branch of the family. I, on the other hand, was raised with a silver spoon. My parents and grandparents were college educated. My great grandfather was valedictorian at the University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill in 1889.

Yet Michelle taught me lessons more valuable than all those I learned in classrooms. That alone, I think, should be a lesson to those so eager to lift up students of lesser means and fewer opportunities, those so eager to impart wisdom and guidance to them. Perhaps they should learn from them as well.

Michelle would tell you proudly that she was a redneck from Craigsville — and it was one indication of her great humility. She was never ashamed of where she came from or who she was. When you met Michelle, you knew Michelle. She owned no pretense and refused to be anything other than who she was. In this respect, she was the most genuine person I’ve ever known.

In an op-ed in the New York Times, educator Vicki Madden reflected on her own journey from a low-income home lacking in opportunity to the Ivy League and the challenges such students face. She wrote:

“In spite of our collective belief that education is the engine for climbing the socioeconomic ladder — the heart of the ‘American dream’ myth — colleges now are more divided by wealth than ever. When lower-income students start college, they often struggle to finish for many reasons, but social isolation and alienation can be big factors.” *

She went on to explain: “I know something about the lives behind the numbers….The other students I encountered on campus seemed foreign to me. Their parents had gone to Ivy League schools; they played tennis. I had never before been east of Nebraska. My mother raised five children while she worked for the post office, and we kept a goat in our yard to reduce the amount of garbage we’d have to pay for at the county dump.”

Michelle understood the struggle that Madden describes. She understood the isolation that first students encounter. You see Craigsville, less than 50 miles from Harrisonburg geographically, was far away culturally — more akin to the deep mountains of West Virginia than the upstart “college” town.

She told me once about her first experience at James Madison University. She missed orientation held earlier that summer, and when she registered for classes, the adviser scolded her for not attending. Michelle did not tell him — or her — that her absence was not because she hadn’t wanted to come. It was because she had no transportation to get there.

But she persevered, understanding that this was the place she wanted to be. It was the place she came to love.

Falling in love with a university

I don’t know — but wish I did — who at Buffalo Gap High School encouraged Michelle to apply to JMU. That individual deserves a metal. They inspired a dream, but then again, it might have been something in Michelle herself, who deep down believed she could succeed.

It was never easy for the girl from Craigsville who, until she was in the fourth grade, suffered taunts from classmates because her grandparents’ outhouse was visible from the bus stop. Her first days on campus as a freshman presented challenges. In the fall of 1984, Michelle was assigned to a triple room with roommates from New Jersey and California. They might as well have been from Nepal and Ecuador. They could not understand her Southern drawl, and she had no idea what they were saying. But again she — and they — persevered and became fast friends. To their credit and benefit, her roommates had the generosity and wisdom to get to know this open and unassuming freshman — to look beyond their differences and to find the remarkable person she was.

As a student, she would tell you that she wasn’t initially successful, that it was hard, that she sometimes made the wrong choices. But in the end, she made it, developing along the way a devotion to her alma mater that was second to none. She fell in love with JMU, for what it did for her, for what it was, and for what she believed it could be.

No one loved the university like she did, evinced by an office overflowing with JMU memorabilia. I suspect that the day she graduated in the spring of 1988 with a degree in communications was one of the happiest days of her life. The other was coming back to join the staff of Madison magazine as assistant editor. In a short order, she rose to the editor’s chair and from there guided the magazine to 14 CASE awards, including a personal one for writing and a Grand Award for the magazine that deemed it to be the best alumni magazine in the nation. And quite appropriately, in 2005, she received the university’s Distinguished Service Award. Few Dukes were ever so deserving.

Being editor of Madison magazine was, she always said, her dream job. She felt immensely fortunate and she never forgot it. I often likened her to Joseph Meister, the first person saved by Louis Pasteur’s rabies vaccine. For the rest of his life, Joseph Meister served as a gatekeeper at the Pasteur Institute in Paris. The same might be said for Michelle in her devotion to JMU. She loved JMU with every fiber of her being. It was, in many ways, the greatest love of her life, and the prospect of ever being separated from it terrified her.

Living with gratitude

And true to form, she never forgot those who helped her along the way. In 2002, she wrote about one professor, Dr. Paul Cline, who turned things around for her. “I am…,” she wrote, “a different kind of person for having known him at all. He quenched the thirst for knowledge and made it strong at the same time.”

Michelle was like that. No matter what kindness came her way, she was endlessly grateful — the way a person is grateful when they can hardly believe you would do something for them. It was a reflection of her deep humility, itself a reflection of the humble beginnings she refused to despise and instead, wisely valued. It was no surprise that as people learned of her death, the most common response was a reference to her endless gratitude and kindness. She gave and gave and gave, never expecting anything in return.

After her passing, I learned that every August when the new class of freshman arrived on campus, she would make a trip to her old, first dormitory room and stealthily, without anyone seeing, slip a $20 bill and a note under the door, telling the newest Dukes to enjoy a pizza on her, complements of a prior resident.

Around the office, she was almost always the first one to be inclusive — to make sure students were included in our annual end-of-the-year luncheon, and the first one to circulate a birthday or sympathy card. She genuinely cared for people, their feelings, and their worth. She had a heart of gold. And what is most remarkable is that she never expected one iota of payback. It was never do this for that. It was simply: Do this because it matters. Because you matter.

This was true of everyone who ever did anything for her — and for the university she loved. Hundreds of people who wrote for Madison magazine over the years received thank you notes and letters from Michelle, many of them hand-written. After each issue of the magazine dropped, she took time to thank all individuals for their contributions — every contributor, every issue — whether they were members of the faculty, students, staff, alumni or freelancers. She was generous with her praise and effusive in her gratitude, often signing thank you notes with her favorite salutation: “You rock!” It was her way of expressing her supreme appreciation for a story — or a kindness.

Any kindness that came her way was met with supreme — and utterly genuine — gratitude. A kind word could bring her to tears, a gift would send her to her desk where she would write a thank you note. Gratitude was an expression that was so fundamental to her that to not be grateful would have been unthinkable.

Only weeks before her death, a mutual friend who knew that Michelle was related to President James Madison, the university’s eponym, through his sister Nelly, gave me some mementoes she had found in an the attic of an old ancestral home to give to her. (Michelle’s little joke was that Mr. Madison had married into her family, which was true.) When I delivered them, Michelle cried — and immediately sent a note to the giver.

Such gratitude was on display daily by Michelle, the sold-out Duke.

Determined to excellence

Michelle and I once sat side by side taking a Myers-Brigg test. We laughed at how similar our charts were, ironic given our extreme personal differences. Both our graphs formed giant check marks, informing us that we were both highly creative introverts who tended toward perfectionism. Her tendency, however, was extreme. It didn’t even fit completely on the graph.

Perfectionism often inhibits individuals, but for Michelle it became a standard for the magazine she cared for so deeply. In this respect, she had, perhaps, chosen the perfect occupation because editors lacking this tendency are not very good editors. She worked tirelessly — and often into the late hours of the night, a quiet time without distractions that creative types need in the way that humans need air. She made sure every word, sentence, headline, cutline, paragraph and page were as perfect as she could make them.

Of course, she could be stubborn, but I’ve never known an editor worth his or her salt who didn’t have a stiff backbone. Editors, by nature of their jobs, have to be tough, and she was tough when it came to the magazine. She was determined to get it just right, even when it was hard work, even when she was up against deadlines. Part of the magazine’s success was Michelle’s laser-like ability to spot copy errors — and she knew AP style like nobody’s business. She would comb through text over and over and over, making certain it was perfect. An editor at Vogue magazine once perused Madison magazine and was astonished that she, a big-time professional editor, could not find a single mistake.

Editing a 60-plus page magazine is a daunting task, especially when you consider the coordination it requires with multiple writers, designers, constituents and readers. It requires a solid grasp of the material and a whole understanding of the standard magazine process. Adding Michelle’s encyclopedic knowledge of JMU to her own professional expertise contributed to its success. If she didn’t know a piece of information, she always knew the person to ask for it. In this sense, she was the consummate journalist.

She was also a writer’s editor. One on one, she was engaging, always striking a balance between correction and affirmation. She was always — always — cognizant of writers’ egos — which I assure you are universally fragile.

Every writer, in a sense, has a split personality. We are tough enough to go after a story, yet we are insecure enough to understand the nuances and unspoken sentiments that make a good story. As a writer and editor, Michelle understood this intuitively, and she treated writers, including legions of student interns, with supreme respect, embuing us with a kind of necessary courage. For me, her supportive words — sometimes couched in requests for changes — were affirming, never causing doubt. As a writer, I always appreciated that a suggestion here and there would always make me a better writer. Every honest writer understands that.

She wasn’t always treated with respect, sometimes suffering the arrogance that academic degrees and titles can produce, but whatever darts and arrows she suffered she absorbed as personal shrapnel in her fight to guarantee that Madison magazine would be the best she could humanly make it. She was determined that the university she loved would have the best magazine she could produce, no matter how much it cost her. A few weeks before she died, when the magazine’s production schedule was changed, she forfeited the deposit on a beach house and gave up her vacation. She did that often. Her devotion to Madison was complete.

And once again, she taught me. I learned that excellence requires sacrifice. Especially in a fast-paced world of carelessly lent words and capricious communications, excellence should always be the standard.

A faith to forgive

There were many parts of Michelle’s life to which I was not privy, and here our lives diverged even further. Michelle loved jewelry and fashion; I prefer sweatshirts and tennis shoes. She loved heavy metal — especially Metallica; I, on the other hand, prefer Copland, Gershwin and Rachmaninoff. She was a faithful devotee of Rolling Stone (a magazine for which she had also freelanced) while I prefer Southern Living. She once told me that the place she felt most comfortable was in a mosh pit. I cannot fathom it!

And while I am at ease on golf courses and country clubs, she found peace in the backwoods of Western Virginia. She was an avid hunter, outdoorswoman and conservationist — long before environmentalism became chic. In her skill as a hunter, she modeled Native Americans — using, as they taught, every muscle, bone and tendon that she took from the forests around Craigsville. Every fall, she took her quota of deer — a lot of meat for one person. What she didn’t use herself went into the freezers of needy local families. I wonder who will fill them this winter?

While Michelle and I were so different, we shared one significant commonality — a strong faith in God. It was the single thing that bound us together most closely as friends. I often had the words to express it, but Michelle always had the actions. And here, once again, Michelle lived it in a remarkable way — in a way I came to admire. Whenever someone had hurt her or had been cruel to her she would fuss for a minute and almost invariably follow by saying, “I’ve got to forgive them.” Those were sincere words, not meant to impress anyone but to set her heart right. Her anger never lasted for long, and I never saw it dissolve into bitterness or vindication; it always softened into a willingness to forgive — knowing that that alone was the best way to change her and to change circumstances.

I learned from Michelle that differences shouldn’t matter, that forgiveness was possible. It was, perhaps, the best lesson of diversity; that in the end, we are all human, fallible, mortal, and in need of forgiveness.

I learned from her than even in the midst of dark times that forgiveness was a bright and cleansing light. In the wake of her life, I want to emulate my friend, to offer forgiveness, even when it is unwarranted because, as someone reminded me recently, forgiveness is not for the one to be forgiven. It is for me.

Personal justice

The week after her death, I sat in Forbes Concert Hall listening to Virginia Supreme Court Justice William C. Mims talk about justice. Bill is an old friend, whose father gave me my first job. An accomplished man by anyone’s standards, he talked about how the world is changed when individuals practice personal justice. He wasn’t talking about courts or legalities or universities or HR protocols. He was talking about the practice of personal justice, which he defined as a supreme triumvirate: humility, empathy and gratitude.

As he spoke, I couldn’t help but think about Michelle, and how she embodied all three characteristics. While she lived, she wasn’t always the recipient of justice, but she never failed to deliver it.

Her last two years were difficult ones. She lost multiple people close to her, including her father and her lifelong best friend. She didn’t take a minute to grieve. Instead, she held fast to the job she loved, at the university she cherished, and she made sure — as she always made sure — that the needs of those around her and the needs of the university came before her own well-being. For Michelle, working was a kind of therapy. She loved her job; it was, in many ways, the whole of her life, her greatest love. To abandon it, even to grieve, meant abandoning it.

So she soldiered on, working through her sadness and pain in the only way she knew how.

It was hard for me to watch her grieve, and as one who has suffered little in life and faced none of the challenges Michelle faced, I would stop by her office regularly to cheer her up. I would do as I — a hopeless encourager — was wont to do: I was upbeat and offered her what sympathy I could.

But still she cried.

Gradually I began to realize that all the sympathy in the world, especially the rote sympathies — attending funerals or sending flowers — was not what my grieving friend needed. She needed empathy. Ironically, I learned it from Michelle, as I watched her empathize with others even in the midst of her own suffering. I learned that sympathy is easy — the cheap plastic replica of empathy. I learned what true empathy was.

Recently, Sarita Hartz-Hendrickson wrote on her blog: “I can be one person’s hug of empathy because I know what it is to lose and I know how rare it is to find someone who doesn’t try to explain the pain away, but stands in the middle of it, a brave and somber tree.” **

That was Michelle. One who understood empathy better than anyone I have ever known.

Justice Mims defined it beautifully when he said empathy was feeling someone else’s pain. Michelle taught me that, and I am forever grateful because that lesson alone dwarfed all the many others she taught me.

Perhaps that’s why her death hit me so hard. Perhaps that why it was so hard to see her desk cleaned out, her name whisked away, and every semblance of her erased. I miss her terribly. I am heartbroken that she has left us. And in a selfish way, I am sad that she is not here to teach me more lessons.

Perhaps it is because Michelle Hite changed my life forever. Perhaps in the faith she and I shared, I can know that she is now complete and happy.

On the anniversary of her best friend’s death, Michelle took a rare day off and spent the time in their favorite spot, a fishing hole tucked under the mountains west of Craigsville. I’m sure these were her thoughts that day — thoughts that she wrote on her Facebook page about the grandfather who raised her, a man she adored:

“I get told I’m too tenderhearted almost daily …. I wouldn’t have it any other way. You had more integrity and soul and character than anyone I have ever known. I am proud to be told I’m tenderhearted like you, PawPaw…..Save me a good spot by the riverbank….I’ll be coming with some peanut butter bait! Brown trout, beware!”

###

*Why Poor Students Struggle by Vicki Madden, New York Times, Sept. 21, 2014.
** http://www.saritahartz.com

 

 

 

Letting down my cool …

A few years ago, I was eating dinner in Charlottesville, Virginia. We were celebrating a birthday at a very hoity-toity restaurant, the kind where you have to pretend you know French and where you’d better have extra cash stashed in your pocket.

You know the kind.

As I was ordering, out of the corner of my eye I saw a gentleman walk by. It was obvious that he was a regular—or at least frequented these kinds of fine establishments. I blinked, realizing that I knew him. Well, not knew in the way that I’d walk up to him and say, “Hey, Dave,” but in the way that I would definitely know Elvis if he walked into the room.

The gentleman was author David McCullough whose books, Truman, John Adams, Brave Companions and The Wright Brothers, I have devoured. As much as I wanted to jump up and make his acquaintance, I just sat there being cool, hoping that he might sense that there was another writer in the room and saunter over to introduce himself.

He didn’t.

I thought about that encounter tonight while I was wasting time on Facebook. Author Rick Bragg’s name came up. Actually, I brought it up when I suggested that my tomato-loving friends read Bragg’s August column in Southern Living. (It’s great!) Bragg is one of my favorite writers. As an unrepentant Facebook stalker, I scrolled over to his Facebook page.

He, like David McCullough, is someone I’d like to meet someday. Bragg, himself, has written about his own experiences meeting great writers, like the late Pat Conroy.

I once emailed Erik Larson, another favorite writer, and got a reply. I was cool, of course, hoping he would want to be friends. Alas, it was only a casual conversation, like the time my niece (an actor) rode in an elevator with Hugh Jackman. She was just cool.

Writers, you see, are pretty cool, and sometimes you just have to play the part. I’ve been in the same room with author John Grisham and once with the late Irving Stone—but never met them. As I said, cool.

Still, I’d love to meet some of the noteworthy writers I admire. I’d love to pick their brains—hoping that some of their genius might rub off on me. So as an eternal optimist, I made a list of writers to meet and talk shop with over a cup of coffee, a Mason jar of sweet tea, or a shot of Tennessee Honey.

Here’s my list: Mr. McCullough. Rick Bragg—I would offer to share a tomato sandwich and sweet tea with him. Erik Larson. Ransom Riggs. Adam Makos. Francine Rivers. David Baldacci. Laura Hillenbrand. Eric Metaxes. Malcolm Gladwell. And Anthony Doerr.

I will probably never meet any of them, being cool and all. But you never know. Maybe the next time I see one out of the corner of my eye, I’ll try letting down my cool.

 

 

 

Free to go down the rabbit hole …

A bit ago I wrote about the unpleasantness of an open office work setting. Today, I’m going in the opposite direction: the delight of an office set up just the way I want.

Working at home as I do is utter bliss — even when I’m tackling a sticky story or wrestling with an uncooperative plot twist. Here it is quiet, and I am surrounded by objects that inspire rather than distract me.

Often I’m on my back deck, especially in early mornings before it gets too hot, with the sounds of birds, squirrels and rustling leaves. Here my mind is at rest and as a result I am  fully engaged. I do not have to write with one shield up prepared for the inevitable interruption. I can even turn off my phone and internet access if necessary, and occasionally I do.

In cold weather, I’ll retreat to my home office, pull up the shades to see my front garden and my cherry tree, and I’ll settle down at my desk, surrounded on three walls by books of all sorts, many of them reference books.

There are, of course, lots of books are on writing, but there are also books on myriad subjects: cars, birds, animals, flowers, genealogies, local and regional histories, world histories and events, music and theater, biographies, Latin, French, religions, science and math. And there are three sets of encyclopedias, including a set of Compton’s Pictured Encyclopedia from the 1930s.

Often one of these books draws me in. I may select it to look up one fact about, say, what makes of cars were new in 1929? And how many doors did they have?  That might lead me to another exploration of what were the most popular cars back then? And how much did they cost ? And how much of a normal paycheck did it take to buy one? And what jobs did people do? And what did people wear to drive? And who could drive? And when were driver’s license first required? The curious questions that one question can lead to is endless.

In the past, I would have to check myself whenever I ventured down one of those rabbit holes.

“Stop! Get on it what you must do! You have work waiting,” I would scold myself. And then I would put down the book reluctantly, sometimes marking my place, hoping to return to the adventure.

Now, however, writing in my own private space with the luxury of time, I am free to go down the rabbit hole and explore whenever and wherever it takes me. And that is simply wonderful.

Cue the planets …

Like most of the rest of the country, I’m getting ready to watch what’s been dubbed The Great American Solar Eclipse. My deck — and my schedule — are clear for the afternoon. I was going to employ a colander to watch the event, but alas, mine has square not round holes and whoever heard of a square sun.

I have my umbrella up and my interior lights off. My stereo is cued up. Drama, you know, requires music.

I’ve seen it before, this frenzy over an astronomical event. I remember the last solar eclipse. There were the same discussions and cautions about viewing. Back in the day, though, some said you could stack up lots of pieces of camera film and view the eclipse safely. This time around — and especially with the advent of all-knowing social media — we are more knowledgeable about viewing and safety.

I’m a couple hundred miles as the crow flies from the line of total darkness. A month ago, though, I was traveling in three of those lucky states. Bad timing.

Still, it will be fun — this event that should remind us all how small we are and how vast the universe is. For me, it’s the matchless power of God on public display. Who else, what else could darken the whole world in a single day?

And I’m ready. One deck. One bright sky. One umbrella to protect me. One glass of wine (maybe two). Ready to go. Cue the music — The Planets by Gustav Holtz. What else?

 

One writer’s rant …

I don’t often rant. Well truth be told, I do in private, but publicly, I generally hold my strongest opinions to myself. But today I’m breaking that personal rule.

I’ve spent the last three years and six months working in a modern concrete and glass open office space. From the moment we moved in, it felt depressive. The space was often noisy and visually distracting with people walking past my small cubicle. The lighting was poor, floors were hard, sound bounced off the concrete and glass, and I was often subjected to others’ random conversations.

For a writer trying to concentrate, it was miserable. Start a train of thought. Get knocked off the train. Struggle to get back on. It got old fast.

The idea of an open office with no walls or private offices, where the only sound barriers are earbuds or headphones is a place where collaboration ostensibly takes place by enabling some sort of magical creativity. As a concept, it sounds great and those who promote these spaces loves to extol its virtues.

These people usually have private offices.

In the corporate world, this concept is catching on. The bean counters love it. Floor space is expensive and the more people they can shove into fewer square feet, the happier they are. Chairs are cheaper than floors.

But there’s a down side — a huge down side — that these promoters are simply ignoring.

The open office is counterproductive.

For three years, I struggled to adapt. It was, I thought, my responsibility as an employee. I wanted to be a team player. I wanted to do a good job. All the while, though, I hated the space.

Gradually, my production diminished. Where I had once cranked out thousands of words a week as a writer, had many creative ideas for telling stories, and frequently followed leads to find stories that would illuminate readers, I began to get slow. It became increasingly difficult to put thoughts together. I began to lose motivation — something that in the realm of writing had never, ever been a problem for me.

I also began to think it was me. I was getting older. I wasn’t a 30-something anymore. Maybe I was the problem.

So I made the hard decision to leave my job. After all, my motivation was gone and I thought my talents were waning. I had to admit I’d lost my edge. I couldn’t in good conscience continue to take a paycheck when, after three years, my production had dwindled from a flood to a trickle.

So I left.

But then I got an enormous surprise. After a two-week vacation, I sat down at my computer at home. It was quiet, pleasant, comfortable. There were no distractions. No floating voices to derail my thinking.

And again the river ran. I had not lost my edge. I had not outgrown my talent. I had not lost any of my motivation. I was back. My writing was back. And I was excited.

In that moment, I had an epiphany. I realized that my old open office space had not only been depressing, it had been destructive. It had gradually torn me down to the point that writing had become a chore, that hauling myself every morning into that mouse-size cubicle, that enduring the constant barrage of noise had worn me down every bit as much as the Colorado River ground out the Grand Canyon.

I can’t function in those circumstances, but happily I won’t have to anymore. My new office — my home office — feels like a high mountain where no one (save the phone which I can turn off) can distract me.

It is simply glorious.

 

 

 

The kindness of strangers …

“Whoever you are, I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.” This line, perhaps one of Broadway’s most memorable and enigmatic lines, spoken by Blanche Dubois at the end of Tennessee Williams’ A Streetcar Named Desire has special meaning for authors.

I was thinking of that this morning when I noticed another rating on Goodreads for my book, CAIRNAERIE. Recasting Mr. Williams’ words, I might write: “Whoever you are, I have always depended on the reviews from strangers.”

Every author, indeed almost every writer, feels some trepidation about putting their work out for the world to read. It is wholly intimidating. You think you’ve worked hard. You think you might have a readable book. You hope you do, at least. And you timidly peel back the cover and let readers in.

Your friends — and mine are the very best in the world — are almost universally affirming. They do, as I would do, find something positive to say, some encouraging word.  Some of them are more effusive than others because some readers like it better than others. Some readers are tepid. And a few say nothing, prescribing to the dictum that if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all. And that’s fine, too; I can assume my book isn’t quite their cup of tea.

And that really is fine. Most readers, me included, have strong opinions about what they like and what they don’t like. Assessing a book is highly subjective — like any art. Different genres. Different tastes. Different likes and dislikes.

There is one group, however, whose reviews or ratings  are especially affirming —those from strangers. When readers who do not know me and who have no vested interest in a friendship actually like my book, it feels great.

So a nod to all those strangers who have reviewed or rated my book, I am so pleased that you took the time to read it — and I am enormously grateful that you took the extra step of rating or reviewing it.

So whoever you are, I am grateful for the kindness of strangers.

 

My new life …

Stephen King has a routine, as do many writers. For Mr. King, mornings are for writing. Afternoons are for walking and reading.

This is a plan I am adopting in this, my new life as a full-time novelist. As a morning person, I’m embracing Mr. King’s routine.

Summers are especially productive. As early as 5:30 a.m., I can escape to my deck with my coffee, my laptop, and a stack of papers. Up until now, I’ve always done this with a little bit of guilt, knowing that I should be doing something else or that something needed to be cleaned or cooked or organized or messaged—all those life obligations that every wife, mother, and employee feels.

But now mornings are my “professional” time. My office time, as it were.

So as the blue jays chirp, the cardinals chip and the squirrels fuss in the trees around my deck, I am in the place I have always wanted to be.

And I am loving it.

The power of quiet …

I’m sitting in a hotel room hundreds of miles from home while some necessary travel adjustments are being made. It’s quiet. The “do not disturb” sign is hanging on the door. I am encased in quiet. And it is delicious.

I’ve long known that I work best in quiet places — a fact profoundly confirmed by Susan Cain’s monumental (for me at least) book, Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking. Here, in the quiet, I can think clearly. My mind is not interrupted with extraneous voices, sounds, and movements.

Some people find this kind of silence distracting. I have one friend, Ben, who simply needs noise to think.

I need quiet. It is a need as great as air. When I am too long surrounded by conversations and telephones and especially television (the modern world’s most ubiquitous distraction) I can’t think. My brain feels more like a ping pong ball bouncing around inside my skull. Just about the time it settles, some noise hits it again.

Having once worked in an open office, I have come to realize that such a lack of quiet is not only distracting, it is subtracting. In other words, it creates a deficit of mind, a confusion of thoughts, and ultimately, an enormous frustration, especially for writers like me.

In quiet, by contrast, I can listen, sort out my thoughts, capture those that come randomly, organize them, and consider them. In quiet, I can turn on a stream of thoughts that will flow uninterrupted.

That is my morning. Today, I can absorb what I learned yesterday at the home of President Harry Truman and at his presidential library — a place I would give 10 gold stars. I can process the thoughts provoked by the museum’s sentinel character, by the players who surrounded him, and by the history that consumed him.

I can think because it is quiet.

And I can write.

 

 

 

Tacking with a new wind …

An announcement: This week I’m leaving my job of the past eleven years. My job has been the latest iteration of one I’ve held off and on for decades. As a staff writer for James Madison University, I’ve written about international students, philanthropists, autism, dams, archeology, engineering, international affairs, intelligence, education, pioneers, cyclists, museums, business, and scads and scads of people. And this is the short list.

It has been a wonderful opportunity for a writer—and  I am enormously grateful for it because by the act of writing, one becomes a writer. It is a also profession that requires tutelage and hard work. Few come to writing knowing it all and one might argue that no writer ever knows it all. There is always something more to learn, to discover, to hone.

Right out of college, I became an editorial assistant for my alma mater, Virginia Tech. It was a heady position for a wet-behind-the-ears political science major, whose only academic claim to fame—save a few quarters on the dean’s list—was having garnered “A’s” on all my papers, except for one—a “B” from Dr. Sturm, the university’s research professor in political science. (I also passed micro-economics because I could write, but that’s a post for another day.)

A co-worker, Mrs. Milhous, took me under her wing and taught me. I had a LOT to learn. She was patient and kind and once brought me goulash because I had been so wrapped in my job that I’d forgotten to grocery shop. (I also forgot to leave one evening because my Mickey Mouse watch died; this is true.)

Later, when another colleague, Harry, and I decided that the university needed a magazine rather than the large format newspaper they had used for decades, we pitched our idea to our superiors: “You need a slick, new magazine that can compete with commercial magazines,” we told them. And they agreed. Harry became the editor and I became associate editor. (Putting monks on the cover of the first issue was probably a tactical error on our part, but again that’s another post for another day.)

When my husband, first son, and I moved to Harrisonburg, I took a job at JMU, in the office where I’d interned for a couple of summers. My boss, Fred, was a very cool, 30-something with the patience of Job.

I still had lots to learn. And I did. What I loved most about working for Fred was his trust in me as a writer. I think that’s tremendously hard to do — I know this to be true from later being on the supervising end. As a former newspaperman, Fred was highly skilled and his talents served the university wonderfully for decades. He helped create an entirely new persona for a school that had, historically, been thought of as a teacher’s college for women.

Into that university, I swam in and out for a long time. All the while, I was learning, honing my technical skills, and earning my chops as a writer. And I was paying attention to how Fred wrote and edited. (He’s still at it, by the way. Now retired, he’s taken on a new role as a magazine columnist. Click here to read his latest.)

Now it’s my turn. As of this week, I’m turning in my keys  and walking away from a place that has taught me much about writing and also about life, about organization, about friendship, about hard work, about success and failure, about kindness and empathy, about trust and honesty. It is a wonderful university—an upstart in the best sense of the word in a state that boasts some of the nation’s oldest and finest.

But I am leaving — tacking with a new wind — to pursue my lifelong dream of being a full-time novelist and writer. I’m sure I’ll face doldrums, but I will not face regrets. I am excited about the future and the full sails that I have long dreamed about.

 

 

A little trumpet fanfare, please …

I’ve hit it—the 100-books-sold mark for my novel, CAIRNAERIE. I am elated and enormously grateful for all those friends and acquaintances who have read it and shared it and reviewed it on Facebook and Goodreads. For a writer, having your work appreciated—even loved—is the epitome of success.[image error]

Now begins the real work of finding new readers who don’t know me, whom I must convince that my book is worthy of their time. And there’s the work of growing my online presence and of seeking more reviews because more reviews, I understand, draw more readers.

So, a little trump fanfare please. I am on my way!