Carol Newman Cronin's Blog, page 52

Making Our Asparagus Grow

Last weekend, I planted a new asparagus bed in our back yard. The biggest task was removing the sod from a 16 x 3 foot patch of lawn; fortunately, Paul helped finish it off, just as I was losing steam. Once that was completed, it was fairly easy to dig a furrow, add compost and leaf mold, drop in the asparagus crowns, cover them up with soil, and wait for Monday’s garden-friendly rainstorm. (For curious gardeners, I planted 10 Jersey Giants purchased from Seeds of Change.)

What will be much harder than the planting is the waiting; asparagus needs three years before we can pick everything that pokes up through the soil. This is our third patch, so we’ve already lived through two rounds of torturous first and second springs: watching the tasty spears poke up through the soil, knowing if we break them off for that unmatched taste of fresh-picked, we will never produce a decent crop in the years to come.

Gardens are often called in as analogies for our life experiences because the seasons are so obvious. Spring is a time for digging new beds and improving the soil, while enjoying the fresh green shoots of magical renewal that never fail to surprise and enchant. Summer rewards our hard work with an abundance of flowers, vegetables—and the joyful colors of that plant we bought on impulse. Fall is a season of reflection, when we resolve to weed more and plant less. And winter brings the indoor solace of seed catalogs and planning for spring—when garden beds once again grow infinite in size, at least in our minds, and all those “buy less, plant less” resolutions are washed away by the happy imaginings of the next season’s bounty.

This past winter, as I restarted my freelance career, the gardening analogy seemed all too appropriate. Taking the time to improve the soil (by building a solid client base, tracking my hours carefully, and setting up an easy billing system) has already been rewarded by the magical green shoots of return business. Meanwhile, I’ve let myself enjoy the jobs on the “fun list,” even when they take more time than is justifiably billable. And when fall rolls around, I’m sure I will continue to refine website, blog, and the rest of the business backbone that (tiny as it is) ably supports my more visible progress.

Meanwhile, our spring garden looks different every single morning, as crocuses and daffodils give way to tulips and evening primrose. If I’m lucky, business will continue to look different every day too—right up through May 2019, when we can finally eat every single spear of the tasty fresh asparagus that this year’s carefully prepared soil will undoubtedly produce.

Road Trip: Co-pilot, Not Passive Passenger

I was really, really looking forward to flying home from Miami last Sunday. For the past several years, I’ve driven home after the annual DonQ Snipe regatta… by myself. Even if the drive is trouble-free, there are several unavoidable challenges of doing that 1500 mile stretch of I-95 solo: finding a safe place to pull over and sleep for a few hours. Changing from shorts to jeans in time for the first chilly gas stop. Getting through DC before (or after) rush hour. Getting through New York before (or after) rush hour. Staying awake. Finding entertainment on the radio. Staying awake.

No matter what transportation method you choose, it’s always hard to leave Miami for the trip north.

This year, I planned to skip all that by doing a three hour flyover instead. I’d made the ideal flight reservation: with a late departure on Sunday night, even a longer than usual day of sailing and packing boats would not make me stress about missing it. And thanks to a non-stop back to Providence, I’d be asleep in my own bed by 1:30AM, easy—about the same time I would usually be pulling into a South Carolina rest area for a few hours’ nap.

Those perfect flights, of course, are sometimes cancelled. Which is exactly what happened Sunday morning, due to a snowstorm in Providence that was scheduled to peak around midnight. And thanks to spring break, airline promotions, and who knows what else, the next available flight didn’t leave until Tuesday midday.

Thankfully, there was an alternative: my friend Andrew was about to drive his van and two Snipes back to Rhode Island. So I hopped into the passenger seat, transforming myself from passive airline passenger to active co-pilot. Andrew and I first drove home from Miami together in 1992, and we’re both members of the “get there” club. So I was quite sure I’d be home before Tuesday’s flight even left the gate.

I was right. And I was also reminded how much easier it is to do a long drive with two drivers. There’s the obvious—I could nap in the plush van bunk while still making progress toward home—but there’s also the less obvious: Rehashing the weekend of sailing makes the first few hundred miles fly by. Even when we ran out of specific regatta anecdotes, there were other things to talk about: boat building, rigging, and tuning ideas. Sail shapes. How long does a Snipe jib really remain competitive? We “solved” all of that and more before we even got out of Florida. We also reminisced about highlights from previous road trips (including the Deer in the Headlight adventure). And by mutual agreement, we tried not to talk about how smoothly his aging van was running.

An efficient road trip is only possible if all riders are on the same page about pit stops. Andrew shares my philosophy that the less time spent not moving the better, so when the gas gauge clicks down toward empty, we make one stop for food, gas, and bathroom runs. Typically, we’re back on the road again in fifteen or twenty minutes. This trip, we did spend a half hour unloading two Snipes at Severn Sailing Association in Annapolis. But we still managed to beat the New York commuters through the Bronx on Monday afternoon.

26 hours after we’d driven out of Coconut Grove Sailing Club, we arrived at the Providence airport—where’d I’d so optimistically parked my car ten days earlier. Flying is quick, but some years driving is quicker—and it’s always better to be a co-pilot than a passive passenger.

Technical Support: Call Newtek

(We’ll get back to books and boats next week… but for a change, here’s a quick look behind the curtain of this site.)

For me, having a website and/or blog is a big part of my (small) business. The basic yearly workflow is this: Post weekly, when possible. Update the static pages occasionally. Ignore it the rest of the time.

I also prefer to be ignored by my web hosting company. As long as I pay my tiny bill, I don’t want to be hounded by the marketing team.

And then once or twice a year, I decide to do some crazy update that crashes everything. I cry for help, and I expect an immediate response.

That happened last week, when I did some “housecleaning” and asked the techies to change the name of my primary URL from livewiresailing.com to carolnewmancronin.com. I should’ve realized that this would break several key links—including the one that told WordPress where to find the files that drove the site. I guess I figured the smart techies would sort that out.

Friday morning, the site wasn’t showing up at all. And with a week away from my desk beginning at noon, I got on the phone. “We’ll take care of it,” one of the Newtek techs promised. As usual, they were expecting the fix to be a little simpler than it was. Since my site has been live for over ten years, there are, shall we say, some “legacy” complications.

So in spite of several emails back and forth over the weekend, it took those smart techies until Monday morning to get the site back up and running—with the requested improvements in place. They worked through all the issues, pointed out photos that still needed to be updated, and also told me how to fix the one still broken link. (If you spot any others, please let me know.)

Ten years is a lifetime in the internet service provider business. Newtek has changed its name and been bought up at least once… but through it all, their service to me, the little guy, has been fantastic.

Now they can go back to leaving me alone again, until the next time I crash something and cry for help. I have had to ask the marketing team to take me off their call list, explaining that I will come to them first if ever I’m ready to add more storage space or another client’s account. Until then, I’m sending out a very public thank you for all the great service they’ve provided over the past decade or more. So many companies ignore the small businesses that are the backbone of our workforce… but when I cry for help, Newtek responds.

Two Facts, One Fiction, Three Deadlines

I’m currently working on three projects: a profile, a history, and an imaginary island. What they require in both writing and research is quite different. Surprisingly, the goal is the same for all three.

First, the profile. One interview means only one set of quotes, backed up with a few rounds of fact checking and enough background to provide context. With a chronological story line, it’s easy to figure out what quote should go where. And the iceberg of required knowledge that, mostly unseen, supports what appears on the page, is limited to one person’s experience. So even in this case, when the scope of that experience is quite impressive, doing a good job on this story seems like the easiest task of the three. Just the facts, ma’am—or rather, the facts as the subject and I remember them.

Next, the history. Also a factual piece, but based on the memories of many, many people. We all remember events differently, and once those memories crystalize, they form different shapes for each one of us. The challenge is to combine so many unique shapes into one story.

And building the iceberg of knowledge to support those memories is like diving into a deep, dark well that leads to a secret underground maze. Following my curiosity, I search for one tiny kernel of information; that leads me to another tunnel that holds something I vaguely remember, which eventually twists and turns its way to another completely new piece of (hopefully) pertinent trivia. Fortunately, when I start to feel like I’m running out of oxygen, there is always a quick shortcut back to the surface: Close. The. Browser.

Knitting together the chronology has also been a challenge, since quotes stemming from one era often flow better if placed in another. And like any other writing, I first have to chisel away all the unnecessary words that makes up a rough draft before I can see the basic shape. Hopefully all that chiseling will eventually create something smoother than iceberg chunks glued together with a bunch of unrelated memory crystals.

Lastly, the imaginary island. You’d think this would be the easiest, because I get to “make up” whatever happens. But it’s not a fantasy, so the story must have a realistic context—which means I’ve been diving down knowledge wells I didn’t even know existed. Instead of searching my sailing memories for a relevant fact and then going in search of the data to back it up, I create “facts” (or in the best cases, my characters “remember” them); then I search for the relevant background to make sure what I’ve made up could’ve actually happened. In order to be credible, the fiction must align with a bunch of facts I don’t yet know.

Deadlines for these three projects vary… and of course, my mind seems to work most willingly on the least pressing one of all. But it’s nice to know that the basic task is the same for all three: Tell a good story. Based it on as much fact as possible. And most importantly, don’t let any random facts I happen to find along the way (in all those deep, dark, knowledge wells) distract from the overall shape of the story I’m trying to tell.

Leaping On Leap Day

I’ve always wondered why the extra day in a leap year wasn’t added to June. Or July, or August. Any month, in fact, other than February.

February, at least for those of us here in northern latitudes, usually seems to drag on forever—even when it’s only 28 days long. On Cape Cod, the accepted wisdom is “never make a major decision in the month of February.” The theory is that proper perspective will only return once March arrives.

Last year, I rightly identified (even in the moment) a sudden urge to buy a boat as a “February idea.”

So why make the month one day longer, even if it only happens every four years?

In 1978, humorist Art Buchwald suggested that Congress should eliminate February altogether—though he questioned whether Congress would even consider the concept, since they take such a long February recess. Closer to home, my mother (who has a birthday during the month) vigorously opposed the thought. At the time, I thought it was a great idea.

Of course the whole premise of Buchwald’s argument was to somehow make spring come along a month sooner, which probably isn’t going to happen no matter what the groundhog doesn’t see or what the four weeks between January and March are actually called.

This year, I embraced February 29. The benign weather definitely helped; I ran my lunchtime errands on foot instead of by car, feeling like I had enough extra time that I could make it a treat instead of a chore. I remembered to send my one leap-friend a birthday note. And still there was plenty of time for writing, and music, and sleep.

In my teens and twenties, time crept by and winter seemed to last forever. These days, I’m wondering how to slow it all down—so an extra day in any month seems like a gift. Even one that extends the much-maligned month of February.

 

Writing Through the Weather

I just heard from one of my favorite authors, James. L. Nelson, who is currently working on a new novel. Jim reports (from his home in Maine): “I was looking forward to a cold winter when I would be happy tucked away in my office, but it’s so warm I keep thinking I should be outside doing things!”

Now Jim isn’t complaining about the unseasonable February of 2016; we spent too much time commiserating through the blizzards of 2015 for that. This year’s warm off-season is a pleasant contrast to the past two years, whose entire months of February disappeared under an avalanche of snow, ice, and just plain bone-freezing cold.

A February sunset

Last January, I wrote a post about SUP as a cure for Cabin Fever. This year’s mild winter has allowed me to maintain a pretty regular paddling schedule. It’s also made walking around the island much easier, since sidewalks remain accessible. Which also helps keep the cabin fever at bay.

But I have to agree with Jim; there’s something so cozy and romantic about writing away at a warm desk, dreaming up warm colorful worlds, while the snow outside the window coats everything a uniform white.

That said, I’m beginning to realize that waiting for the best weather to write is just another procrastination excuse. Once I find the proper mix of inspiration and devotion to a project, I barely notice what is happening outside my window. That must be how my Florida and California friends get any work done; pure focus, spurred on by the luxury of knowing that the weather tomorrow or next week will be just as good as it is right now.

Here in New England, we don’t have that luxury. The weather changes overnight, even hour by hour. So when I see flat calm and sunshine, I drop what I’m doing and go for a paddle. Because I know that later in the day, the next weather system—or just warm air over colder water—will bring in a breeze from one direction or another. New Englanders have to roll with the weather, adjusting our schedule to its whims, rather than “work in the morning and sail in the afternoon,” as many of my SoCal friends do.

And that’s why Jim Nelson and I feel we are wasting a decent February if we hole up inside to write. But since we’re both into projects at the moment, and we know that better weather and longer days are just around the corner (no matter how fickle this New England climate might be), we’re staying at our desks. As Jim concludes, “It’s still too nasty to work on the boat and I don’t feel much like doing anything else, so the writing is going along well.”

P.S. I’m currently reading the latest installment of Nelson’s Norsemen Saga, Glendalough Fair. After devouring pretty much every novel he’s ever produced, though, my favorites remain those that revolve around members of the Biddlecomb family, including the newest, The French Prize.

Book Review: Big Magic Waves Its Wand

I read Eat Pray Love sometime after it first appeared on the bestseller lists (where it stayed for three years). I’m sure I did… though I can’t remember anything about what I found between its covers.

I will remember what lies between the covers of Elizabeth Gilbert’s latest book, Big Magic: Creative Living Beyond Fear. Because it hit home in a way that Eat Pray Love never did. I haven’t ever (yet) craved a transformative journey to India, but I did need a kick in the creative pants. And that’s just what this book provides: a reminder that humans should make the effort to create things, even if that effort doesn’t support us financially.

The book came to me at a moment when I’m just diving into a new fictional world, something that I know is both completely unjustifiable financially and extremely important to my definition of self. So I was particularly receptive to Gilbert’s ideas about inspiration: that there are hidden treasures within us all, treasures that are just waiting for us to flesh them out.

The “Big Magic” in Gilbert’s title is the name she gives to her theory: ideas are floating around the universe, in search of humans who can do the work to bring them to life. Just as “Nature provides the seeds; man provides the garden,” creative living is a team effort between inspiration (the body-less seed of an idea) and hard work (the creative human who tends the garden and brings it to life).

How do we find these ideas? Gilbert argues that they find us. All we can do is receive them when they arrive, recognize them as a gift (though one that should come with a big red warning label, “some assembly required”), and give them enough attention so they can flourish and eventually grow to their full potential. Ignored, they may flit off to someone more deserving. (She backs up this last theory with an incredible story about a novel idea that, when neglected due to other demands on her time, disappeared—only to be brought to life by another author only a few years later.)

Passion often leads to inspiration, of course. When we are so doggedly interested in something that we will track down every possible detail, no matter how well hidden it is or unrelated to the big picture it seems, we usually discover something unexpected. But Gilbert points out that “follow your passion” is usually unnecessary advice. Those who know what their passion is are likely already following it.

It’s when we don’t know what our next passion will be that we must trust our curiosity.

That point really hit home with me; how many times have I dug into something with no idea where it was going to lead, only to have it eventually turn into something really exciting? A leaf blows down a street outside my office window, and the next thing I know I’ve written Oliver’s Surprise. If I hadn’t allowed myself to follow that leaf and see where it led, I would’ve missed out on a fantastic ride—a ride that also made me believe in myself as a “real” author.

“Inspiration will always be drawn to motion,” Gilbert says. And this, too, resonates with me. Getting out in the world, and doing something else (like going sailing or paddling) have always been the best ways for me to settle on the next thing worthy of my attention.

My favorite quote of all comes from the section entitled “Persistence.” “Possessing a creative mind,” Gilbert explains, “is something like having a border collie for a pet. It needs to work, or else it will cause you an outrageous amount of trouble. Give your mind a job to do, or else it will find a job to do, and you might not like the job it invents (eating the couch, digging a hole through the living room floor, biting the mailman, etc).” I’ve known this about myself for a long time, but it’s good to have such a cute canine image as a reminder.

Gilbert also believes we are more likely to attract inspiration by being attractive ourselves—by getting out of our ratty sweatpants and putting on lipstick. While I can’t believe any ideas worthy of our efforts would be fooled by such superficial tricks, I do believe that self-confidence is a necessary precursor to inspiration. So if other authors can only feel self-confident by dressing up as if for a first date, go for it. (I’ll stay in my sweatpants, thanks.)

Finally, Gilbert reminds us to “keep the day job.” Maybe our creativity will support us eventually, and maybe it won’t, but that’s dependent on many things outside our own control. “There’s no dishonor in having a job,” she points out. “What is dishonorable is scaring away your creativity by demanding it pay for your entire existence.”

And note that the subtitle of this book is not “Creative Living Without Fear.” Gilbert explains why we will always feel afraid of the unknown, which is where creativity takes us. The trick is to understand that fear, and to get it to work with us—instead of letting it block progress toward that unknown next idea.

Gilbert enriches each global statement about creativity with real life stories about friends, family, and acquaintances, and her writing is simple and elegant at the same time. I don’t know if Big Magic will hit home with non-fiction-writing creatives, those who paint or dance or add stars to bicycles (one of her stories). All I know is this book was exactly what I needed, when I didn’t even know I needed it. Big Magic, indeed.

Bike, Build, Smile, Repeat

This summer, my niece Lydia is going cross-country. And not as I would do it (on four wheels, inside a comfortable vehicle, most likely towing a boat or two). Instead, she’ll be on two wheels, riding from Charleston, SC to Santa Cruz, CA on her bicycle.

The trip is called Bike and Build, because between May 21 and August 10, she and 29 other young adults will fit in seventeen “build” days, constructing houses for people in need.

I have to say, I’m in awe.

For the past twenty years, we’ve watched Lydia grow up via thank you notes, holiday letters, and random in-person visits. From the tears of a two year old (Who is this person I don’t know who looks so much like my mother??), through the funk of early teenager, she’s somehow emerged as an inspiring young human. Her enthusiasm is infectious, and her hunger to learn is tempered with the realism of a generation raised on an overabundance of fingertip information. “How do you know?” is asked not in the snide tone I’d have used at the same age; it’s a straightforward question. (Where did you pick up this knowledge you’re passing along, and why should I assume that it will work for me?)

The other day, Lydia asked this very question of my husband Paul. The answer was simple: he’s drawing on several decades of knowledge about biking and fitness and fueling. And in case that wasn’t enough to make her believe him, he referred her to one of our favorite resources: the Hammer Nutrition website. In our 25 years of working with them, we’ve been impressed by how much information they’ve accumulated and shared, always with the goal of helping endurance athletes properly fuel and hydrate for long, grueling days—which is exactly what 100 miles on a bike in one day sounds like to me.

What’s even better is that Hammer’s founder, Brian Frank, just happens to be a cycling enthusiast—though I like to think he’s learned a little bit about sailboat racing by now.

So to help Lydia achieve her goals, I’m sending her a Hammer gift certificate. Hopefully their products will help keep her healthy and happy while pedaling across the country this summer. (We’ve also made a tax-deductible donation, which will bring her a tiny bit closer to her fundraising goal of $4500.)

And starting May 21 we’ll be cheering her on, as she pedals and builds and smiles and repeats, for all of those 4172 miles.

To learn more, visit Lydia’s Bike and Build web page.

The Language of Sailing

Over the five years we worked together, fishhead Lenny Rudow often emailed me a question about some strange term he’d come across in a sailboat review. I never did tell him what a baggywrinkle was (or more importantly, that it’s really not a term he needs to know in order to edit 21st century boat reviews). But as he developed a working understanding of terms I’d never thought twice about, I realized how specialized my own vocabulary is. And now I’m able to put that vocabulary to use, by writing about sailboats and sailing once again.

Even though I take it for granted, sailing lingo is its own specialized language. Photo: PaulCroninStudios

(The how to sail video series we filmed last summer was partly inspired by Lenny’s questions; Sailing Lingo identifies some basic parts of a sailboat.)

I spend a lot of time thinking about how to use the wind and waves to move at a snail’s pace toward a completely arbitrary location. Much of that time and effort is devoted to figuring out how to move at a slightly faster snail’s pace. Ridiculous, right? What can I say, most passions don’t seem rational when looked at from 30,000 feet.

I also spend a lot of time thinking about language: words, phrasing, even grammar. What to leave in, and what to take out. And for better or worse, sailing is such a highly specialized sport that it requires its own vocabulary. Which means not just anyone can write about sailing and sailboats. One of my clients tried hiring copy editors, but then those stories had to be translated into publishable sailing-speak. Turns out, I am bilingual: I speak English and Sailing. And since writing about sailing and sailboats is at the top of my fun list (and fun jobs usually turn out better than not-fun ones), it’s a win all around.

Teachers often learn more than we manage to pass along to our students. By explaining terms to Lenny that, to me, seemed like normal everyday words, I realized that my own second language is a valuable skill set.

Maybe as a thank you, I’ll tell him what a “baggywrinkle” is.

 

Sailing World Cup Miami Update

Hello from Miami, where I’m dodging the snowstorms at home and writing about my favorite topic: Olympic sailing. For those of you who sailed in the Miami Olympic Classes Regatta (MOCR) back in the day, you’ll be able to picture the scene quite well. For those of you who don’t remember the MOCR (which turned into the current Sailing World Cup-Miami), or for anyone who hasn’t yet experienced late January at 25 degrees North latitude, let me explain: Olympic and Paralympic sailors from a record-setting 64 countries have descended on Coconut Grove for a week of great warm-weather competition, against the cream of the Olympic sailing crowd. Palm trees, meet pressure: it’s a heady brew, even for spectators.

And the pressure is even greater than usual in this Olympic year. SWC Miami is the last chance to qualify the USA for a slot at the 2016 Games in Rio in three classes (49er, 49erFX, Men’s RS:X; for details, read Olympic Sailors Gearing up for Live Miami Showdown). It’s also the first of two Trials events for many of our Olympic hopefuls. (For qualification specifics by class and athlete, read USA Preview).

The drumbeat of pressure underlying a vacation paradise is something we MOCR veterans can recognize, even if this regatta has never actually been used as a Trials event before. But the visuals are so different, a 1990s time traveler would hardly recognize the boats or sailors. Well-branded and very fit teams. Country flags on most of the sails. A sea of coach boat RIBs, each with an identifying (or sometimes mystifying) three-letter country code on its outboard. Six circles of professional race committee teams, raising numbered flags (5,4,3,2,1) that denote the time left to each start. Twitter feeds updating the order of most mark roundings. Spectator boats filled with cheering supporters. Added all together, it’s much easier to be a spectator these days.

Nacra 17s (a coed boat making its Olympic debut in Rio) line up for a start against the Miami skyline.

You don’t have to be here to “watch” the event, but one major change would be easy to miss when spectating from anywhere else: Regatta Park, the new centerpiece of Coconut Grove. Three fleets (49er, FX, and Nacra) are sailing out of there, which means that all the fleets are now within a half hour stroll of each other along the Coconut Grove waterfront.

I’m writing about Regatta Park for Sailing World, so I’ve been walking around it a lot the past few days. I have to say it’s a game changer for the entire feel of Coconut Grove. What an amazing thing for a city to do: opening up valuable waterfront real estate to anyone who cares to wander through. The paths are wide, the trees add enough shade to keep it pleasant, and there’s still plenty of open grassy areas for non-sailors, even with 200 skiffs and cats currently on-site.

One of Regatta Park’s pathways

I’ve also been enjoying the bay-front walking path, strolling all the way from Coconut Grove Sailing Club to Monty’s without becoming a pedestrian target on Bayshore Drive—though that still requires cutting through a working boatyard along the way.

According to the city planners, Regatta Park is just the beginning of a multi-million dollar renovation to the entire Coconut Grove shoreline. By next January, the remaining pieces of “old Grove” grit (like that working boatyard) may have been completely erased. I sure don’t miss the dirt and crime this area used to be famous for, but I will miss the rough-planked picnic-style waterfront dining of Scotty’s Landing. That building is scheduled to be torn down to make way for “Grove Harbour,” an upscale restaurant/shopping complex that will also replace the Chart House building next door.

Fortunately, the casual vibe of Coconut Grove seems to be holding steady in spite of all the civic improvements. Along the Bay, away from CocoWalk, flipflops still dominate. I only hope that continues, even once the cream of Olympic sailing has moved on to their next venue.