Liz Michalski's Blog, page 8

Dinner Party

We have lots of bookcases in our house, and they all have their own purpose. The bookcase in the basement, for example, holds the baby books my kids enjoyed looking at when they were toddlers. (They’ve been chewed and drooled on and I still can’t bear to part with them.) In my office, I keep reference books, books on writing, and a few copies of my own novel, one of which is in German. (I can’t read German but I like just to look at it sometimes.) Upstairs, are three bookcases — two for the kids, packed to overflowing, and one that I can remember standing in my great-uncle’s hallway. That one is filled with a motley collection — leather-bound books I inherited from him and will never read, travel guides, novels and textbooks from classes I took. Dignified books all.

But it’s the bookcase in the living room that holds the stories closest to my heart.  This is where I keep my favorites, the books I turn to again and again, the ones I buy extra copies of just in case.  Some are high-brow, others popular, but I love them all. Divided into fiction and non, alphabetized, it’s one area of the house that’s always in order. (No comments on the rest of my housekeeping, please.)

Today there was a book in there that didn’t belong, stuck in by a small child who was using said book as a convenient hiding place for small treasures. It made me laugh, and then it made me think about all the authors forced to share space on my shelves, and how they would react if seated together at a dinner party.  Amy Bloom is next to Jane Austen — the sharply observed witticisms that must pass between them! Nora Ephron — whom I imagine being able to converse with anyone — is paired with William Faulkner, which could be interesting, but I cannot see Marguerite Duras and Alan Duff together at all. (Although an animal heat runs beneath both of their books, so perhaps I am wrong.)

Who shares space on your shelves? Do they cohabit well, or are there some odd pairings?

From poetry to pop-up books and everything in between.

The Darkest Month

I have a friend who thinks June is the darkest month. The kids are out of school, tourists crowd her tiny town, and she’d like nothing better than to curl up in bed with the air conditioner on high until September. (This is not me, I swear.) Another friend can’t stand December and all the forced cheer and shopping the holidays bring.

Me? My darkest month is February.

There’s a reason it’s the shortest month of the year — any longer and it would kill us. It’s usually cold and dreary, and if by a miracle it happens to be warm, there’s MUD.  (I’m guessing E.E. Cummings never had to brush out a pastured horse or clean up after a dog and two kids.)  True, there’s a week of vacation, but  if you manage to go away, everyone else is there too. And if you stay home, everyone is bored with snow, the local attractions are insanely crowded, and someone is always sick.

You can see being around me in February is an uplifting experience. (My sweetheart, wise man that he is, plies me with chocolate and champagne on Valentine’s Day, so at least I’m cheerful for a few hours.) So this year, I’m making a list of things that make me happy, activities that refresh my soul and the souls of those who have to put up with me.

Happy List

Climbing into bed with clean sheets and a new book. (Any recommendations?)
Walking in the woods with the Slobbering Beast.
Getting lost for a few pages in the book I’m writing.
Waking to find my bird feeder filled with blue birds.
Listening to my son laugh.
Watching my daughter dance.
Seeing my two kids play together happily.
Stealing alone time with my husband.
Doing something physically challenging that leaves me exhilarated when I’m done.
Reading any of the bloggers I’ve linked to in my sidebar. (C’mon, people, update — for me???)
Having school cancelled on account of snow.
Sledding at our favorite hill.
Tulips.
Teaching someone to read.
Getting real letters in the mail.
Surprising someone with a tiny gift or act of kindness.
Being warm.

What’s on your list?

In February, we need to be the light.

Inspiration

It snowed here last week — crisp and white and heavy. I’d planned for a snow day and finished  my work early, but the kids wound up having school.  And so I found myself with several whole hours and nothing (besides laundry! writing! dinner!)  to do.  I decided to play hookie and go for a hike.

Near the preschool where my children went is a parcel of conservation land. When the kids were little, I knew it well. The school was just far enough, and the program just short enough, that most days it didn’t make sense to go back home after I’d dropped them off, so I spent many of those two-hour segments wandering the trail.

I still hike there from time to time, but almost always the shorter loop — the longer one requires a time commitment I’m rarely free to give. Last week,  it felt almost sinful to start down the longer path, but I did.

My, what big footprints!

The trails have changed since my children were little — the conservation organization has added new paths and extended old ones. The snow had covered the way in several places, and I had to backtrack until I found the right direction. And then I found a pair of footprints leading off on their own, through a part of the woods I hadn’t visited before.

I was hiking by myself. Normally I have the Slobbering Beast for company. He’s an ideal companion — an 80-lb missile of muscle with Orca jaws and white shiny teeth, ready to have my back if required but a waggle-bottomed enthusiastic greeter of the toddlers and their parents we sometimes encounter. He’s also my personal GPS.  He can find a trail in any condition, and is a stickler about staying on it. (Unless there are bunnies, in which case deviations are allowed.) But even the most handsome Beast occasionally needs to be bathed, whether he wants to be or not, which is why I was on the trail and he was getting his nails cut.

So when I saw the footsteps, I hesitated. I worried whether I would be able to find my way back. I wondered who I’d encounter on my own, with no Beast by my side. But the woods were lovely, dark and deep, and I had no promises to keep that day. Except to myself, so I stepped off the path and wandered away.

And it was lovely.  Peaceful and quiet, aside from the ice and snow falling from the trees, shattering into a handful of sparkles when they hit the ground. There were deer tracks, raccoon prints, and disturbingly large dog-like tracks that appeared on their own and disappeared down a little gully, but the only human prints were those that I’d followed into the woods. And then they veered up, toward where the trees broke along the meadow, but I continued on, along the hint of the path ahead, which curved and double-backed and eventually met up with the main trail, at the exact spot at which I’d meant to be. But the way I’d gone this time was so fresh and new to me, I was able to see it with clear eyes, and so the journey was completely different than it might have been.

Writing is like that. Sometimes you have to break away from the known, from the carefully constructed outline you’ve made, and follow that hint of inspiration where it takes you. It may get lonely. You may come across something that disturbs you. But the journey will be your own.  It will be unique, and it will be what your reader remembers, even if you end up in the exact same spot you’d intended all along.

The end.

Reminder!

If you've read and enjoyed Evenfall, please drop me a line and I'll send you the links for two secret pages on my website. What's on the pages? You'll have to read them to find out!

Got Nothing

Except two article deadlines and a sick child home with me. It’s amazing how quickly the whole idea of ‘balance’ can be thrown out of whack by a bad cough and small fever. I’m grateful it isn’t worse, and until I have the time to post something more profound, I wanted to show you this:

 

It’s dirty and wrinkled because it has been hanging in the hallway of our preschool teacher’s art class for years, and it’s been splattered with paint and glitter and who knows what else. But it stays there because it is so profound.  On this day, no matter what else you have to do, make time to play. (And no, my sick child, Angry Birds does not count.)

 

Balance

Writers these days are funny people. (Perhaps they’ve always been.) I spend hours at my computer, creating imaginary people, and then a few hours more interacting with other people who, for all I know, may well be imaginary too. (Have you seen some of the Face Book profiles out there?) It’s a life wholly of the mind, no body required.

Charles Dickens was a writer who knew the importance of getting out and about. According to a book by Jill Lepore, Dickens would write in the morning from 9 till 2, then prowl about the streets for as long as he had written, taking in the streets and sights of the day.

This year, I want to bring a bit more balance to my world. I want to spend more time outdoors, more time shutting down the constant chatter of my mind and shutting off social media, time spent observing what is around me, what I’m doing right this second, right here. For the next four weeks, I’m trying to get out of my mind (my eight-year-old helps me with this daily) and back into my body. I’m going to hike or do yoga as many days as possible, take a walk after dinner with the kids and the dog, stomp through the snow. I’m certain it will improve my  mood, and there’s evidence it might improve my writing as well.

My hiking partner.

What are your plans for 2013?

Happy Christmas to All!

And to all a good night.

“In spite of everything, I still believe that people are ...

“In spite of everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart.” 
― Anne Frank

 

Because to believe the alternative is unthinkable.  Kudos to those working to make the world a safer place.  We owe the children who were murdered and the teachers who died defending them nothing less. 

You’re a Mean One, Mr. Grinch…

Max had it easy….

Stabbed Through the Heart

My favorite place…

This is the view from the parking lot of my children’s preschool.  It’s a magical place, where every single teacher is amazing beyond words. I hike nearby, and sometimes I’ll stop in for a little-kid  fix. I love watching the three and four-year olds tippy-toe running, their hands outstretched, confident someone will be there to dust them off if they fall.

Both of my children went there, and since they are such completely different personalities I had two completely different experiences. My son, active guy that he is, spent most of his time outside kicking a ball, digging in the sandbox and racing about with his little buddies. My daughter is more reserved, and spent most of her first year observing, rather than joining in, the activities. Even the second year, she was tentative. If there was any conflict at all — if another child wanted her toy, for example, or her spot at the craft table — she’d often just relinquish the item and walk away rather than cause a fuss.

She was my first, so of course I fretted. I wondered how she’d be able to handle herself as she grew older, in settings that weren’t as nurturing as this one. I worried about how she felt. And the teachers, who taught me so much there, would gently remind me that every child is different, and that she needed to have the space to figure out some of these things on her own. When I think of my children, in my heart’s eye they are always back at that school, round-faced and sweet and innocent.

Last night, we went to fencing.  (Yes, I am still fencing. I do not appear to be getting any better at it, but at least I’m not getting any worse.) We’re taking class at a different location this year, with the same instructor, but the group of kids are all strangers to us. When we walked in last night, a handful of the younger boys were exuding that type of energy that automatically signals a tough class — bouncing around, knocking into each other, driving the instructor a bit crazy.

One of the boys was being particularly difficult, and when we fenced he kept making these giant swashbuckling gestures, flailing as if he wanted to remove my head and helmet both, whacking me wherever he could reach.  He was fencing ‘like a jerk’ as my instructor says.  It was not a fun match, and while I usually go easy on the littler kids, by the end I was perfectly happy to deploy my superior height (yes, he’s a young one) and cunning and beat the pants off of him.

My daughter was in line next, and as I passed her I whispered to watch out for him.  She nodded, a little too nonchalantly for my liking, then went off to fence him while I moved down the line to my next match. And of course I fretted, straining to see her out of the corner of my mask. She’d retreat from him, I just knew it. She’d let him push her around, let him score touch after touch because he’d back her into a corner and rather than fight such an aggressive personality, she’d just give up and walk away. He’d hit my side once, particularly hard, and I worried about her getting hurt.

When he lunged forward, she calmly stepped back, and used the force of his attack to impale him on her blade. She stabbed him in the heart. And then she did it again. When she finished with him, her next match was me, and she beat me fair and square for the first time — 5-4.  And when she won, she smiled.

My own heart might have been a little sore, watching her and remembering the preschooler she’d been, but I was very proud.