Rachael Herron's Blog, page 20

How to Climb Revision Mountain

From my weekly writer’s email – are you a writer who should be on the list?

You hear me say all the time that I love revision, that revision is where the magic happens. (Many of you also tell me that I’m out of my mind.)

But I’m here to tell you that once you’ve revised three or four books, you’ll love revision more than first drafting (and if you don’t, then at least you’ll be way less scared of it than you were on your first few buckin’ bronco rides).

Listening to Joanna Penn’s interview with Natasa Lesik on my run yesterday, I heard something that I thought was a great metaphor.

Revising helps you see the mountain hiding in the mist.

I’m going to take that metaphor and unpack it until I can see the bottom of the suitcase and mix my metaphors at the same time! One of my favorite hobbies!

When you write your first, messy draft, you’re digging up dirt. You’re driving your spade into the soil of your soul and tossing it behind you.

I did this in real life just two weeks ago as I dug a hole in the backyard for a Japanese maple. I didn’t realize how much dirt I’d dug out until I turned around and saw it piled there behind me. It was a tiny, unexpected mountain.

The same thing happens in writing. You spend weeks and possibly years digging into your soul, pulling out a book, and patting the dirt back into place.

You’re left with lots of lovely, rolling foothills.

You say, “Oh, these are certainly charming. I’m going to revise my book now, and in these green and verdant foothills, I’ll place picturesque sheep and perhaps a shepherdess or two, with pretty staffs and cunningly laced shoes. A few babbling brooks, and a little tidying, and I’m done!”

What about that mist?

“Oh, that?” you say, looking over your shoulder. “That’s just mist.”

Is it hiding anything?

You look surprised. “Just more of the same, I think.”

More foothills?

You say with way too much confidence, “Sure!”

Then you hire an editor.

She takes your foothills into her arms (she’s very tall) and says, “I’m just going to have a look, okay?”

Several weeks later, she returns your foothills to you. The streams are flowing with red ink, the sheep have scattered, the shepherdesses have unionized, and worst of all, THERE IS A GODDAMN MOUNTAIN in the middle of your work.

“Oh, that,” your editor says, looking over her shoulder as she leaves. “I blew away all that mist for you. That should help.”

A mountain?

You didn’t write a mountain.

And you certainly didn’t write a mountain that you’d have to climb. You don’t have ropes, you don’t have crampons, you barely know what a belay device is.

Then you read her revision letter, and in it, she refers to the multiple times you’re going to have to climb this goddamn mountain that you DID NOT EVEN ORDER THANK YOU VERY MUCH.

What happened to your beautiful foothills? Weren’t they enough?

With all the love my heart can hold, I tell you, No, it’s not enough.

I’ve heard reading a revision letter likened to hearing a nuclear explosion. You’re left with nothing but deafening silence. People speak to you, moving their mouths, but you can’t hear the words they say.

Nothing makes sense, especially your revision letter.

But in another couple of days, the words do start to make sense (this comes slowly). In about a week, you can admit that yes, perhaps it might be a good idea to climb a few feet up the mountain. NOT VERY FAR, MIND YOU. You’re still not sure about any of this. But you buy a pickaxe and a couple of locking carabiners from REI.

Here’s the thing, my sweet friends: THE MOUNTAIN WAS ALWAYS THERE. You built it. All of it came right out of the deepest part of you.

You just couldn’t see it until someone whose gift it is to see things from on high (that’s why she’s tall) showed you the way. She drew a map for you. That doesn’t mean you have to follow the map (though I think you should—she knows more than you do about the shape of good books, no matter how smart you feel you are about your book), but the map is there if you need it.

If you get a good editor, either through your publisher (traditional publishing) or have paid for one (self-publishing), she’s given you a satellite phone. If you get stranded at the top, you can email her. I’m at the peak. There’s no way down.

She’ll email back: Don’t worry, there is. Then she’ll tell you where to start looking for the path back to your foothills.

Then you get to the bottom of the mountain. You did it! You really did it!

Now, do it again.

Happily, the second time over the mountain is way easier than the first. Oh, here’s the peak that looks like Bob Hope’s nose! There’s the stream where you caught that huge trout last time! The third time is even easier—you’re kind of jogging up the path now and sprinting down it on the other side. The fourth time is pure pleasure as you plant flowers and tidy avalanches along the way. All subsequent trips feel like afternoon jaunts to a place you love to be.

Then you become a guide. You take others to this place and show them around.

Those people you take to the mountain are your readers.

And that is amazing.

Onward!

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2 Ways to Use Zucchini on a Weeknight When You’re Too Tired to Go to the Store

I have never liked zucchini.

I understand that this is a controversial position to take, but in general, I find cooked zucchini to be slimy and tasteless. It reminds me of tofu. Like tofu, it can be made into lots of good things, but I don’t need to be around its virginal state.

But we are a member of a CSA, Phat Beets. We’ve done CSA memberships before, but this one feels a little different. We get a box every two weeks, and it’s stuff that we actually use. I often go into the refrigerator and pull something out and cook with it, instead of getting rid of moldy CSA vegetables that I forgot to use again every two weeks (which is the reason we’ve quit a couple of CSAs in the past).

Also, Phat Beets is doing something awesome: They’re social justice workers and promote small farm and farmers of color in local organic production. I mean, check out their farms! There’s even a 1-acre farm at the high school behind our house! I love knowing the chard we got this week might have been grown on the same block we live on.

But yesterday, I realized I had a lot of zucchini.

I’ve done zucchini noodles, but honestly, if I want noodles, I want pasta, not vegetables. That’s the whole point of pasta: that it sticks to your ribs and makes you feel sleepy afterward. Zucchini noodles (zoodles, if you want to make it really annoying) just make you feel virtuous for twenty-five minutes and then hungry.

So I went over to Smitten Kitchen, because I’m a fan of her recipes. I searched for zucchini, and last night I made these zucchini fritters which I served with poached eggs and her lemon garlic sour cream. They were easy and divine. Fluffy, soft, a little crunchy. We ate ’em all.

Not content to just fritter the zucchinis away (yes, I had to), I made some of her zucchini bread, too.

When I was a kid, my parents’ garden overflowed with zucchini every summer. It was the typical menacing zucchini, taking over everything in its path. It would get sent home with you if you came to visit, and you weren’t getting out of it.

My mother made this zucchini bread that tasted like heaven to me. It was tall and dense and delicious. It was sweet, but not overly so. Slathered with a little bit of butter, it was the perfect snack.

Last night’s attempt did not turn out like my mother’s. My attempt is good, yes. But the loaves were flat and overly dense (maybe because I used gluten-free flour?).

It has the same background flavor, though.

The little kid in me wants to gobble slice after slice, and the adult in me knows that while it might not be the best idea, I’m allowed to do that if I want.

And then my thinking gets wider.

Do you ever stand in your kitchen and look around and hear the Talking Heads song “Once in a Lifetime?” How did I get here?

Seriously, how am I forty-six and thinking about my mother’s zucchini bread in a kitchen that I share with my beloved wife? How am I allowed to live this life? I can’t be old enough to do this – I’m not ready to handle this!

Oh, yes, wait. I love all this. I am ready for it.

Thanks, zucchini. You are not tofu. Thank goodness.

PS – Also, I really love meals that are unplanned and that you don’t have to go to the store for. Both the fritters and the bread were made with ingredients already in the kitchen, and I always like that’s a special magic. This bread was in my cupboards? In components parts? And I didn’t notice till now? 

PPS – In another good food episode of this week, making taco salad with CSA shredded cabbage because the thing you thought was CSA lettuce was actually thick chard, was INSPIRED, y’all. Suddenly, leftover taco salad, instead of being filled with wilted lettuce, is just as crunchy as the day you made it. (Chips always need to be crumbled fresh, of course.)  Lala and I both agree taco salad is better with cabbage now.

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Yes, I Want to See Your Kids

I sure do. I love seeing your kids online. And before you call any government agency on me, I want to make this clear. I consider myself your kids’ honorary fairy godmother. (Some of you have been so nice that you’ve actually told me that I am.)

If we’re friends at a place like Instagram or Facebook, you can’t post too many pictures of your kids doing cute things.

I don’t have kids. There was a moment ten years ago when, for about two months, I thought that I might like to have a child with my wife. We even got a sperm donor on board, a dear friend whom I love. But then I did the research, and it would have cost at least $15,000 to do it all the right way, legally, which I would’ve needed for my own peace of mind.

Back then, we were deeply in debt. I refused to put a child on yet another credit card.

Surprisingly, my biological clock just stopped ticking. I’ve had no grief about not being able to have a child. When I woke up from my hysterectomy surgery at 39, I was prepared to be submerged in waves of emotion, and all I really felt was Hallelujah, the period is gone.

And I have two nephews! One is nine, and one is fourteen. I don’t get to spend enough time with either of them, but when I do, I’m astounded by how freaking cool they are. I have an unofficial adopted daughter, a girl I love with all my heart. (She makes me feel like a mom and a friend, a wonderful combination.)

I can’t stop thinking, though:

In all of history, up until recently, I would’ve been surrounded by children, either my own, are those of my family.

When you think about it, this is the first time in human history that society has been (kind of) cool with people not having children. It’s also the only time we’ve been surrounded by photos of our extended, chosen families on a daily basis.

When I click the LOVE button on Instagram, it’s the equivalent of me giving your kid an aunt-like hug or a high-five.

I’m watching your kids grow. I’m fascinated by how these cute little bugs, tiny little beings with edible cheeks, have grown into four-year-olds and fourteen-year-olds. Some of them ARE IN COLLEGE NOW. I’ve watched them in every phase of their development, and when they lose a tooth, I’m invested. When they go to prom and get all tiny-adult dressed up, I kvell.

I’ve heard that mothers sometimes worry that people will get bored if they post too many pictures of their children.

No, dude.

People like me, childfree women by choice, LOVE seeing the cartwheel he’s mastered, or the dump truck she loves. Plus, honestly, it’s the best of all worlds. I get to peek into your world and see the magical moments, when he’s wrapped his hand around your finger as he sleeps, or the moment she takes her first steps. I miss all the tantrums and the endless arguments about cereal.

Please keep it up. I can’t afford to send all your kids fairy-godmother birthday presents, but if it helps, they have all my love showered on them from afar. It’s a gift, to be able to witness their happiness. Keep ’em coming.

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Reclaiming Unused Space

I finally set up the front porch as a place where actual humans can hang out.

We’ve lived in this house for more than twelve years now, and the porch has NEVER, not once in that time, been a place to hang out in. There have been a few times when it hasn’t been a total hellhole, when I’ve had plants and a little chair and a bistro table in there, but honestly – who sits at a bistro table and writes? Someone at a bistro, that’s who. That’s the only person who does that.

But the porch never stayed neat. We have no storage shed or garage. We barely have closets in our 1926 bungalow. My clothes hang in less than two feet of space. My T-shirts and underwear are in a hutch. Our inflatable kayaks (yes, they’re rad and cheap) and all our camping gear lives in our bedroom closet.

Things like bicycles and tools had to live on the enclosed front porch. Things that we’ve left in the backyard either got dirty or they got disappeared (sometimes both!). Someday we hope to buy a shed of some sort, but they’re expensive.

Thus, the porch always filled with Stuff. It becomes what the Brits call a tip.

Let’s take a look, shall we? I would like to state for the record that this is EMBARRASSING. You’ve seen the inside of my house – while it can get messy, we really try to keep it in order. I love organization and tidiness! The house is usually ready to welcome unexpected guests. But those guests had to run this gauntlet:

That is: my sewing table (almost invisible), sewing chair, a sewing machine and a serger, boxes and boxes of books, several bags of old clothes to go the thrift store, a borrowed dog agility tube, a broken printer, a cat tree, some plants destined for the garden a floaty tube, and under that shit are two bikes!

Seriously, every time I’ve ever let a person into the house, I do a hand-waving spell as I led them in, chanting, Don’t mind the mess, we’re cleaning it up, keep moving, hurry through, nothing to see here. As if they wouldn’t notice they were walking through something from a Hoarders set.

About six weeks ago, I decided to reclaim the space. FINALLY.

I purged. I put everything up there that belonged somewhere else in the place where it went. I got rid of the sewing table since I rarely sew, and when I do, I can use the dining room table.

I gave up and hung the bikes on the bedroom wall. This was, literally, the reason we’d never made the porch into a comfy spot before: I couldn’t bear the thought of bikes in the house. Lala was fine with it, but I wasn’t. They’re UGLY. Gah. And our bedroom is tiny. Now that they’re in there, there’s only a hip-width space now to walk past the bed.

But you know what? In the same way I’d closed my eyes to the sheer hell of the porch, I can’t see the bikes already! Also, I gotta tell you, they’re really good for hanging clothes on. Even better than a treadmill!

And now this is the porch:

Yep! Totally heaven. I’m typing this blog post on the porch right now.

Both that comfy chair and the footstool were bargains of the century, neither of them over fifteen dollars. It’s looked like this for more than a month now, and none of the pretty plants have died. I can stretch the cord of the fan out here so that air blows on my knees as I write (important).

Best of all, I only write and plan and dream here. I don’t answer email. I don’t do marketing. This is for the good stuff.

FUN FACT: That green plant closest to the camera is the only fake one. I thought the tall grass looked nice. So does Waylon, the cat. He loves eating cat grass, and he loves eating this stuff. He’s not a smart cat. 

(And yes! I’m trying to blog every day for the two of you who still read blogs. I’ve loved it as a repository of memories, and I want to start it up again. I’ve said this before and failed – hoping it sticks this time. Said as if blogging were a piece of duct tape instead of (fun) work. Hmm.)

 

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Caftans will surprise even the best of us.

I have fallen in love with caftans!

This is mandatory, I’ve heard, at age 46, which I became last week. I like to follow the rules, so I jumped on board immediately.

What’s a caftan? Honestly, I don’t know the difference between a caftan, a kaftan, or a muumuu. Thankfully, Google would tell me. Also thankfully, I’ve realized I just don’t care.

I got the bug because I wanted to get a sexy muukaft (let’s call it that, shall we?) to wear while performing in my yacht rock (70s soft rock) band, SAUSALITO. (Should you like us on Facebook? Yes, you should!). I thought to myself, muukafts are sexy, aren’t they?

I quickly learned that no, not all caftans are sexy. Most were frightening, in fact. So I asked Twitter where they got their caftans, because Twitter is definitely a 46-year-old woman when it’s not being a 13-year-old Nazi, and it told me about this vendor.

I got this one:

It’s gorgeous, isn’t it? And in person, it’s just as good. It’s soft and flowy and cotton and most of all, COOL in this California heat wave. It’s been 82 inside all week, and I’ve learned they’re just what the doctor ordered when it comes to a hot day with no air conditioning. I like this one because I can tuck the sides up, under that elastic empire waist. KLASSY.

But I also have to take a moment to point out the photo fallacy here. I don’t fall for it in clothing so much anymore. Sweaters: never. I know what will look good on me before I cast stitches onto my needles.

And in ready-to-wear, I usually know if I see a dress with a high neck or a low waist, it’s not going to look good on me. Give a v-necked wrap dress, and I’m golden. This is a v-neck, and it does work. I feel pretty in it.

But girl, do I not look like she does in it:

I match our kitchen, don’t I? All old cabinets and stacked cookbooks. I look like I’m about to host the keyswap party for the local librarians, A LOOK I COVET, Y’ALL.

But I did think I’d look like the model when I ordered it. I’m still surprised I don’t.

And it’s okay. I love what I ended up with. Kaftmuus can (and probably will) surprise you. Now I need more of them because I’ve already been wearing this for two days.

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Self-Care Ain’t Ice Cream

I’ve realized something enormous about self-care. I was talking to my friend Jaci about how I’ve been feeling a bit off lately. Trying to wrangle these new-to-me emotions under control isn’t easy (and of course, I don’t need to control them–I just need to be present with them, that’s the point). (For those who missed it, I quit drinking 4.5 months ago. Life is better but very different.)

She said, “What are you doing for self-care?”

I said, “Eating ice cream!”

“Okay.”

“Eating a LOT of ice cream.” What I didn’t say but obviously made clear by my face was that the day before I’d had, in fact, four sundaes. Not four scoops of ice cream. Four full sundaes. Hot fudge, whipped cream, the works. One for each meal plus a snack! (To be fair, we’d bought ice cream for my birthday party and then forgotten to serve it, and it was my birthday week. #rationalizations)

“That’s not self-care.”

Ooooh. She was right. Overindulging in something that should be a treat wasn’t self-care. I felt so busted.

But isn’t that what we do when we want to take care of ourselves these days? We eat something we would normally need to rationalize? Or we buy something we don’t need? Or we go to bed and stay there for a full day?

Hmmm.

Those kinds of things have never felt right to me, even though I’ve frequently called them self-care.

Sure, taking a hot bath is self-care, as is reading and resting.

But what about doing difficult things like the bills? Or quitting drinking? Or telling the absolute truth all the time, without lying to yourself or others?

As Brianna Wiest says, “It is often doing the ugliest thing that you have to do, like sweat through another workout or tell a toxic friend you don’t want to see them anymore or get a second job so you can have a savings account or figure out a way to accept yourself so that you’re not constantly exhausted from trying to be everything, all the time.”

By Wiest, This is what self-care really looks like.

Me, I’m going to put my feet up on the couch and read Educated, because I’ve been working without a break for 9 hours now. I’m tired and now I’m taking care of myself. Here I go.

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I Know You Don’t Want to Do Your Creative Work

[This is from an upcoming collection of letters to writers, but it applies to all creative makers. This was written after my first Venice retreat, so more than a year ago now. If you’re interested in the weekly writer’s letter of encouragement, sign up here or below!]

Hello, writers!

I’m back from my writing retreat in Venice, which went spectacularly. The people who came were amazing, and together, we inspired the lids off each other. The tops of our souls were opened up, we looked inside each other, and we came away better for the seeing and hearing and writing we’d done. We’d write all morning and get lost in the Venice calli all afternoon and evening. The weather was perfect. Our pens were fresh and new. Our pages turned from blank to scribbled-upon. The water rose and fell and rose again, as our hearts did the same.

It was my first time leading a retreat.

I’ve done a lot of teaching, so I had that to rely on, but this was my first time being The Organizer (let’s not talk about the $11,000 wire transfer that was lost for three weeks before it was found, holy helen in a handbasin. My hair is whiter now).

And I loved every single minute of it.

Since then, though, I’ve done another writing retreat. Okay, the second one was just for one person, but she can be kind of a whiner, so I’m glad she enjoyed it. That retreat—of course—was for me. Seven days in Venice, mostly by myself, to rest, to write, and to wander. I wanted to fill the well. And boy, howdy, did I.

I got two book ideas out of it, and I filled a whole notebook. I wandered when and where I felt like it. I took notes on everything from the noise inside of my cluttered mind to the sound of the seagulls arguing over the fish market.

And every night, I’d look out the windows of my wee apartment onto the Grand Canal and think, “How did this happen to me?”

Luck, luck, nothing but luck, one voice answered me.

Hard work, another one said.

The truth is somewhere in the middle.

I’ve worked my ass off. And I’ve gotten really lucky in many, many ways.

But the one thing I know that’s been one of the biggest helps to me is this: You never feel like doing your heart’s work. (Okay, sometimes you do, but those times are very rare and can be relied on exactly as much as you rely on your Uncle Earl to not spit off the porch.)

I just watched a great TED talk on this, and the speaker says exactly what I’ve felt so many times:

We get in ruts because they’re comfortable. Auto-pilot is our default setting and it feels good. Doing something new/different is really hard.

And if you wait to feel like writing?

You won’t write.

You just won’t.

No one feels like writing. It’s hard almost every single time we sit down to do it. This very letter, in fact, I started this morning and gave up ten minutes into it. I walked the dogs, I recorded a podcast, and I took a nap before I made myself get back here to finish it.

You will not get what you want unless you make yourself move toward it.

The funny thing is, this applies to almost everything that’s outside our routine.

There was nothing I wanted more in the whole world than to lead a writing retreat in Venice. I would say it’s up there with those bucket-list items you don’t really think will ever happen to you, like sleeping in one of those clear-ceilinged hotels under the Northern Lights.

But I didn’t want to get on the plane to go. (When I was on the plane, however, I was nothing but excited.) I was overwhelmed thinking about how much work it would be. (When I was working, it was energizing, not exhausting.)

That first night, when I set out the prosecco and strawberries at our get-to-know-you meeting, I had to keep my knees locked to keep from running away. (When we were all chatting, of course, it was exciting and fun.)

I did not want to walk into our meeting room that first morning. (When we were writing together, of course, it was wonderful.)

I couldn’t wait until I felt like doing any of these things. I had to make myself. And the rewards were above anything I could have imagined.

I can’t wait until I feel like writing a book to write one. I have to make myself work, daily. Like the speaker says in TED talk linked above, we have five seconds to make that choice. Feel the impulse, move toward it within five seconds, or you’re going to slip back into your status quo.

Watch the video linked above, and see if it sparks anything for you.

When you’re done, you can watch my video-podcast of the latest How Do You Write episode, which I shot from the Venice apartment, in which I was still giddy even though I was in my last hour of being in my favorite city.

This Monday morning? Maybe don’t hit snooze on your alarm clock, or your life. Make yourself. See what happens.

Love and prosecco,

xo, Rachael

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Grateful in Barcelona

I think a lot about how lucky I am, and right now I’m thinking particularly about Lala. I’m the one in the relationship who likes to Get Things Done. I’m the list maker and the do–er. Lala is happy to sit around and enjoy things, and I learn so much from her about this way of life. I get serious joy from being a control freak, though loosening the reins in my hand is always something I’m trying to do. But I know that Lala likes that I got to Barcelona first and got the lay of the land (I know this because she said so). She appreciates that I figured out the bus system so we can use it every day and she doesn’t have to worry about it. She likes that I go out in the morning and buy our coffee and talk to vendors about cheese and jamon. I make the bike tour booking, and I lead us there on the foreign streets. I tip the people who get tipped. These are things I love to do. They give me pleasure. 

But when I’m fighting a migraine in a foreign country, I adore the fact that I can wake up and think, “Oh, Lala will handle this now.” When I say, “I’m feeling terrible. Can you go to four different stores and get me a coffee from the cafe, some bananas from the fruit vendor, some eggs from the meat market, and some Vichy Catalan from the convenience store?” she says, “Absolutely. I’m on it.” She puts on her handsome jacket and her newsboy cap. She grins and goes out. I get to rest, to type here in this bed four floors above Carerr de Villaroel, listening to the buses wheeze past, to the motorbikes buzz down the street, knowing she’s on her shopping-way to take care of me.

To have chosen to marry her is the best thing I’ve done in my life, and the fact that she chose to marry me back (quite convenient for me) is just sheer good luck. At the end of this month, we’ll have been married for twelve years, together for fourteen. I’m so full of gratitude for her, even on the days when I’m grumpy and ill–suited for company and grateful about very little.

We went to Sagrada Familia!

We learned as soon as we went in that the particular ticket we’d bought wasn’t going to be honored – we wouldn’t be able to go up the tower because of wind, which was terribly disappointing. It turned out to be a weird kind of nice thing, though. Because we weren’t going up, we didn’t worry about going up. We took time with the audioguide, and looked at the museum and all the things, but mostly: We just spent time in the space.

It was built to be a forest of light, and the stained glass, which only went in in 1999, makes it a living, breathing space. From the blues and greens that light the place in the morning, to the reds and oranges that fill the space in the afternoon as the sun sets, it’s as close to heaven as I’ve ever seen. The religious shit isn’t too—well, for a church it isn’t bad. Lala noted that the stations of the cross aren’t evident, and few of the saints are looking pained, except on the bleak passion side, and even they are gorgeous in their despair.

But the light—the light! I want to someday arrive in the morning and stay all day, just watching. I bet people do that, pack a lunch and stay for hours. Watch the colors change, watch the tourists mill through, ants crawling below the glory.

Instagram pics HERE, one for reference on this page.

Boy, am I one lucky woman.

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Draft Three

Yesterday, I finished the draft of Every Little Lamb! I sent it off, finally, to Susanna. I am ready for her to take this book out to sell, and I really, really hope that Susanna thinks so, too. I need an editor’s hand to shape it now. I do not think it’s ready to hit the shelves; I have enough sense to know it’s not. But it’s ready to sell, I think. I hope.

I finished the draft in a soulless Panera in Walnut Creek as I waited for my car to be tuned up (all day, at the cost of a thousand dollars – really need to sell this book!). I love a Panera because there isn’t enough there there even to despise it. You can just go and sit and drink good–enough coffee. They have one gluten-free chocolate cookie. Their salads are subpar but edible. Their music is low enough to be covered by white noise, their internet fast enough to read email, and their chairs comfortable enough to sit in for long periods of time. Their employees don’t give a shit if you stay for hours on one cup of coffee—it’s just one less table they have to clean for a while. And there are always enough tables so that I don’t have a moment’s guilt of taking one up for a long time. It’s corporate. It’s McDonalds for cafe writers.

And that’s where I finished this third draft! I never knew I could feel such joy in such a plastic place! I had actually forgotten the new ending (no surprise to me, the forgetting itself), and I gasped as something rather shocking happened. And I almost cried! Given that I can cry over nothing but the Very Biggest Bad things right now, that was awesome. I love crying at my own work. Some people think that that’s the sign you’ll really move people, that if you can make yourself, the creator, cry, that you’ll make everyone else sob. I don’t think that’s true, though I do love to make people cry with my books. I think that the author gets so damn close to the characters and sees them in so many different lights for so long, that we might be the easiest of all to make cry with our work. Feels like cheating. But since I got close to it, I’ll take that as a good sign. My fingers are so firmly crossed they ache.

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Big and Small

Oh, so many thoughts, and no way to corral them — that’s not true, I have this way to corral them and what on earth do people do who don’t have this to steady them? Even when I’m not normally journaling as I have been for the last three months, I write. Really, what do people do? Talk on the phone? Post on Facebook? Seems like we all need to be heard, and to me sometimes it’s enough to just be heard by myself (though then I ruin it all by posting my morning pages on my blog, which is something of a nervous tic—I post, therefore I am).

Went to see Hilton Als speak last night. I’d originally wanted to cancel and stay in and be sad some more, but when I offered my tickets to my sisters, B said she was already going and C said she wanted to go, so then I wanted to go, too, to be with my sisters. It was great, and he was wise and funny and sweet, but there was something missing from him. C said he felt somehow empty, or flat, and I said that he didn’t seem quite authentic. I figured out what it was in the middle of the night—he admitted no flaw that I remember. He showed nothing broken, and therefore, he didn’t feel quite real to me. I like seeing brokenness next to patched repairs. I think it might be one of my favorite things about humanity—when we meet each other and display the cracks. I lift my shirt and show you my scar, and you lift your shirt and show me yours. Hell, even if you don’t show me yours, I want to tell you about mine, so that I feel less ashamed and perhaps you feel emboldened at a later point.

And I’m so broken, in so many ways. I fail and screw up and land in the wrong places over and over, and if I keep all that secret, then I choke and drown in my own shortcomings. But if I show them, I own them. I am given empathy (not the scorn we naturally expect when rolling over to show our bellies) and then I can show more. I like using the belly analogy because my own belly button is like a saloon’s swinging door—it’s been opened and shut by various surgeries so many times I can barely stand to look at it.

So therefore, I look at it.

Navel–gazing.

Which is EXACTLY what I’m doing now, what writing often is.

And that’s interesting—it’s one of the things new writers are scared most of. “Am I navel–gazing by writing this? Am I just solipsistic and annoying and self–obsessed?” Well, hell, yes! We all are! I think the more we can admit the automatic narcissism that lies within us the easier we can feel about it. It doesn’t make us narcissists in the clinical sense of the word. I’d argue it does the opposite—it gives us empathy for everyone else around us, each of whom thinks they are the center of the universe. And that’s fine. They should.

I’ve said this before, but when I meditate I take a moment to notice how I feel physically, emotionally and spiritually. I try not to judge the answer, just to notice it.

Spiritually, since I’m not religious, I like to inhabit for a second the awareness that I am all that matters in my solo world, the only person living in this body, and then I like to immediately think about that the fact that I’m one of over a hundred billion people who have existed on a planet that is in one of a hundred billion solar systems that is in one of a hundred billion galaxies. I’m literally nothing. I don’t matter—this can be argued empirically. But maybe what I do and say and who I touch matters a little bit. I let myself have this small hope, and it feels large. The knowledge that I’m so small can be frightening, yes, since this body is all I know, but it’s also comforting. No matter how much I screw up, it’s not that big a deal.

And I still get to stand at this desk and look out my windows and see the sunlight on the green, grassy hill that hangs just under my porch eave. I look at a couple of dozen houses on the hillsides, their windows shining in the sun, and think that in each of those houses live people who are exactly as tiny and as huge as I am, with all my same emotions, all struggling to avoid pain and find love and connection, and that in itself makes me feel like this life is sacred and shared.

This idea lets me get excited about tiny things like really excellent backpack zippers, and also about really huge things like birth and death, the universe’s creation and its annihilation.

And I’m allowed to get super excited about the fact that I get to sing Xanadu’s Magic at band practice on Sunday. It’s little (huge) things, of course, that matter.

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