Montana

Been a while since I posted here. We left on the 23rd for the much-anticipated Montana trip. We had agreed beforehand to leave behind the accoutrement of our everyday lives, like the laptop, and just use the time to be together and groove on Montana. We certainly did do that.

Can there be any more beautiful place in the country? Unless it's the coast of Alaska or the Grand Tetons in Wyoming. Both of those places blew my mind when I visited them, but Montana ranks right up there. Breathtaking sights at every turn. Seemed I spent a good part of every day with the camera in my hand.

I was surprised by how much history there is up there -- western history, the kind that tugs at me, that pioneer history thing that starts stories simmering in my mind. Lots of stories to be told up there, and so different because of the terrain and the weather, than Texas stories. It's somehow even more western than here, more rugged and individualistic. The population, what little there is, seems younger, more genuine in their friendliness. I don't know, I felt that I could live there. I understand more and more the reason my fellow is so in love with the mountains. He has had his three years of living there and I think he wants more. But we both love Texas, too, so what do you do?

Hit the lottery?!! Or write something shamelessly commercial? Something aimed at the people who just can't seem to get enough of vicarious adventure, the same people who spend hours tuned into reality shows, something sordid and purposely controversial. Hmmmmm. Don't think I'm that kind of writer, unfortunately. My finger is definitely not on the pulse of popular American culture. I didn't even like "Titantic" for god's sake. Oh well .....

We did go to the Book and Author Luncheon the day before we left on our Montana trip. It was more fun than I thought it would be. The SO had an absolute ball. He went around glad-handing the featured authors, buying their books, and discussing mystery writers he likes with them. I'm so happy he enjoys these sorts of outings. I think he might even like them more than I do. Later, after we were home, the friend who had invited us to share his table commented that the SO and I just seem to fit seamlessly together. It pleases me to hear because I certainly agree.

The trip to Montana, on top of being an investigative vacation, wanting to find a place to retire someday, or to have a summer place to retreat from the brutal Texas heat, was also a celebration of sorts, or a commemoration. While we were up there, our two-year milestone came, a remembrance of the first time we met for dinner at Olive Garden. We didn't find an Olive Garden to mark the day, but a pretty good substitute presented itself in Butte. My SO asked the hotel clerk if there were any country-style Italian restaurants in town and got a recommendation. It turned out to beat Olive Garden by a mile, and we drank a toast to ourselves and our future.

Onward ....

The Measure of Success

Well, the good news is, I finally put the children's book onto the computer. I write my first drafts in longhand, always have. So by the time my work gets put on the computer, it's already been through two drafts. So now, I have a second draft of the children's book, and it's not nearly as awful as I had imagined it to be. I think there is great value in letting a piece of writing sit. Or cook. Giving it a time out, so to speak.

This book was written right after a trip to West Texas at the beginning of the year. It's been cooking now for about six months. When I first wrote it down, I really had no idea what I was doing. I had never, at least not on purpose, written a children's book. I have had many ideas for one, just never actually tackled the beast. As soon as I had the first handwritten draft, I understood how difficult it is to write a children's book. It's a mistake to think that because it's a short piece it's easy. Short writing is often the hardest kind. In the beginning I was so unhappy with the thing, I just took the pages and stuck them inside the laptop case and forgot about them.

And then I started reading about writing children's books. I made a list of books to read, even though I've done a lot of that already, having raised two children myself, both of whom loved to hear me read books. When reviewing books for the newspaper, I would often get assigned the children's books that came in, so I have done a bit of reading for children. But still, you can never educate yourself too much. So I have a list of books to read, and will do that as soon as we return from the trip we're about to go on to Montana.

I'm actually excited about this book, now that it's gone through it's second draft. There's still work to be done, but I decided Sunday, after I had worked on it all afternoon, that I would not reread it again until we're back from the mountains next week. And yet, I find myself wondering if I still have a few contacts that matter at a couple of publishing houses I've dealt with -- and wondering how to find out about that, too. Things change so quickly, and have changed dramatically since I've had a book published -- any book. But that's putting the cart before the horse, something I've preached against in past workshops. Get the thing written, a final draft, then worry about a publisher.

Why is it that writers, many writers anyway, don't consider any kind of work that doesn't result in a published book to be "real writing?" This puzzles me. It's as if the only measure of success is to have something between hard covers. I am constantly asked when I'm going to have another book published. Answering that question is one of the reason I've sequestered myself away from people and places where books and writing are commonly discussed. Most of the people around me now don't really think of me as a writer, at least not a writer of books, and that's OK. That's actually much more comfortable for me. I feel less pressured, and the outside pressure has been one of the things keeping my writing at bay. And anyway, isn't there real value in just writing for pleasure, maybe for posterity, or even just for yourself?

We are still not done with the roofers. I cannot believe how long it has taken them to re-roof this house. Yesterday I made a list of things they had destroyed along with replacement costs. I intend to present the list to the contractor when he asks for his final payment.

Onward ....

Squirrely Sunday

Back to almost normal this morning. The dog and I scared up five deer as we walked to get the newspaper. She was mostly oblivious, running her squirrel route -- running her traps as we call it. She's become obsessed with squirrels. Before we moved here, she fancied herself a cowdog, in love with circling and herding the cows at the SO's land. Now, she doesn't even notice when the neighbor's cattle have grazed over to our fence. She only has eyes for squirrels, and when she spots one, leaps like a gazelle with her head in the hair, whining and howling. We joke that she's going to have a heart attack one of these days, because she comes back from one of these episodes panting and slobbering, thirsty, and will collapse in her corner behind the rocking chair to take an extra-long nap.

The squirrels, of course, act as though she's a minor nuisance. Sometimes they stop their aerial acrobatics long enough to flap their tail and bark at her. Mostly, they seem to think she's comic relief, as they fly among the treetops, surefootedly. They seem to have a route they run. Think I've mentioned before that we live in an oak motte, so there's no shortage of trees for the squirrels. They can go from the front gate to the back pen, tree to tree, without ever having to descend to the ground. Almost daily we spot a new bag-shaped squirrel's nest in some tree here. However, all of this said, they are doing a pretty crummy job of vacuuming up all the acorns we have this year. It's like walking on ball-bearings to go across the yard to the car.

The flowerbeds are decimated. The amaryllis we brought over from the SO's place the summer we moved in, are flattened, most of the foliage has been broken off at the ground. The agapanthus I planted in June are also broken at the ground. So are half of the daylilies in the back bed, and the society garlic has been smushed by an air compressor. This is especially irksome to me because there is a sidewalk six inches from the society garlic, which would have made a much more sensible platform for the compressor than my flowerbed. We have also picked up two nails in the soles of our shoes, and one in the back tire on my car. The roofing contractor assured me that there would be no rogue nails left on the ground, and that the flowerbeds would be protected. So much for promises.

And yes, I'm angry about it. We nursed this place through the worst drought on record this summer, with 61 days of over 100 degrees, and in two days the roofers managed to destroy all we worked so hard to keep alive. Nothing is sacred. I picked up cigarette butts and empty Coke cans they left strewn around. If the roof hadn't been leaking so much, I would've rather done without replacing it, but we were starting to have a nest of Tupperware on the floor every time it rained to catch the drips. However, this has been a good reminder to me of what a pain it is to have workmen around. I have been sort of hankering to replace the carpet in the bedroom and the tile floors in the two downstairs bathrooms. Now, I'm convinced I can live with it as it is for a while yet. The guest room on the other side of the garage, however, needs some attention. This is the room where company usually stays, and I want to repaint the bathroom out there. It's not a big bathroom, and I think I can do it without help even from the SO. Gosh, he hates to paint. Didn't realize it until we painted the sunroom last year. Thought we would divorce over it, and we're not even married.

He left after breakfast this morning to go do some of his land chores and to visit his sick, possibly dying, boyhood friend. With the alone time I've decided to do what I said I was going to do at least a week ago. I'm going to put the children's story on the computer so I can get to work on it.

Onward ....

SKY IS FALLING!

Roofers are here -- day two. Should finish tomorrow. I hope I can bear it that long. Sounds like termites from hell up there. This morning they were here at the crack of dawn. Didn't even get a chance to walk down to get the paper. The animals are both traumatized. Who knew something like this would be so disruptive. I can't even think, let alone get any real work done.

SO left for his land as soon as the workers arrived. I pouted a while, then dug into cleaning out the closet. The master bedroom is the ONLY room that is bearable. Even the cat is hiding. Can't wait until this is over.

My poor flower beds will be destroyed. The hummingbirds have given up, and the bees all over the heather have also fled. Mayhem .....

Book & Author Luncheons, Past & Present

Got home from a long weekend at the Coast. I didn't take the laptop, kind of wanted to, but we have been up to our eyes in duty and it just seemed like a good idea to veg for the weekend. I always sleep so good there, and it was especially good sleeping this weekend with the rain and dark overcast. Had a fun time with some friends, slogged around SeaFair and bought some tacky folk art, some cute things, too. Shouldn't be so judgmental. We have a lot of kitchy stuff down there anyway, so just added to the collection. And I keep thinking that I will go down there alone sometime and write, but that never seems to actually happen. Besides, I'm not in the mood for alone. Had plenty of that already in my life.

The deer have been marauding here while we were gone. There are tracks everywhere. Rained a good bit here, too, and it seems they grew fond of the mudhole in the driveway. The tracks were piled on top of each other, like they'd been dancing there in the night. Lots of small tracks, an occasional larger one, so we know it's mostly the yearlings who frolicked. There should be plenty for them to eat without roaming through our place, but they're in the habit of it by now, and besides, I'm sure they consider it their home not ours.

We also have fragile, pale rye grass shoots staining the open ground green. Pleased the SO to see his tractor work has been fruitful. Johnson grass surrounds the big oaks out in the front "forty." As soon as the rain stops I'll get out the backback sprayer and let them have it with some extra-strength Round-Up. It's just almost non-stop work to keep on top of unwanted weeds. I planted some daffodil bulbs in the bed beside the sunroom this evening. Fingers crossed they come up in early spring. I've had luck with bulbs in other places I've lived. I'm hoping that luck holds here.

Tonight an email came from an old book buddy inviting me and the SO to share his table at the San Antonio Book and Author Luncheon. My first inclination was to refuse, I've been doing that sort of knee-jerk-refusing for the last several years. But then I thought about it for a while. I was one of the "authors" featured at the very first SA Book & Author Luncheon. In fact, it was my first speaking engagement after the publication of my first novel, and there were 900 people there. I was up on the dais with Steve Allen, and John Erickson, and Richard Condon, and others, chosen because the Express-News book editor liked my novel. She recommended me to the UTSA board. I was really happy that I was the first speaker because I would never have been able to calm down enough to actually eat the gorgeous lunch they served that day. And it truly was gorgeous to look at, in particular the little book-shaped cake with buttercream icing.

It's taken longer for me to write all of this, of course, than it took for it to go through my mind after getting the emailed invitation. These memories have become fonder to me than they once were, for some reason, and I thought it might be fun to go as part of the audience. Michael Connelly is the headliner this time, and although I've never read one of his books, the SO is a big fan of the kinds of serial mysteries Connelly writes, sort of gritty LA stuff, and he liked the idea of it being a luncheon that we can go up and do in one day and come back, since we're leaving the following Friday for Montana. Anyway, I emailed my friend back, said thanks and we would love to go, so it's on. Now, I can't sleep for thinking about what I'll wear. Such pitifully mundane thoughts keep me awake at times.

As I said, for the past several years I have avoided anything writer-related, sort of figured my writing career was over, fire in the belly long gone, as I've said in earlier posts. The SO says I've just got lazy. He says it as a joke, but could be he's right. I know that I've felt the push beginning lately, and also am starting to get a little tired of being so directionless. Maybe going back out there, even as an audience participate will inspire me to knuckle down. I've never thought of myself as a quitter.

Onward ....

Resonance

Resonance: When something echoes something else and deepens it. Makes it mean something more than it meant at first.

Pondering this morning "the novel," the long-stranded stack of papers asleep somewhere in my office, or in several places in my office -- boxes, wire baskets, file cabinets, on two computers, in my mind, locked in the recesses. I've told myself that the novel was irrelevant to my life now, that I was uninterested in writing a long piece of fiction again, that I had moved on, that writing fiction seemed too mundane, too overly intense, too frivolous in light of world events. Oh, I've given myself lots and lots of excuses. Excuses have always been a forte of mine.

Here are some of the truths: It's hard. It takes more time than I've been willing to give it. More concentration, keeping all those details corraled in my head. I haven't felt I wanted to exit the world long enough to finish a novel, any novel. I'm disappointed with the business end of publishing, don't like the "appearances" a writer has to make, don't like the fact that my hard work isn't mine anymore once a publisher takes it on. It's partly fear of failure, and it's partly being a control freak and not liking when something so personal is taken out of my control. But it's also not knowing how to finish the damned thing.

I've said to myself so many times that it would only take about three months of pure concentration to get the thing done, and that's probably a pretty fair estimate. But there has also been this roadblock, this wondering just what in the hell the thing is REALLY about, feeling it needed that kernel of truth that would make it worth reading, that would make it resonate for any given reader. And not knowing how to give that, if it's even in me to give.

So here I am this morning, before daybreak, reading someone else's work and thinking about resonance, what it means, why it makes a piece of fiction work. It depends, of course, on why a person reads, and I can only speak for myself. But it's the stories that resonate, the ones that stick around, the ones that make me feel I've reached some new level of understanding, and it's this resonance that the "endless novel" doesn't have. Right now, it's pretty much of an exercise in history, of research, of character building, but it doesn't have any deeper meaning, anything that would cause it to especially stick in a reader's mind.

It opens with an unexpected death, and continues with what that death causes the primary character to do, choices he makes, the road he embarks upon, but nowhere is that death, or the propulsion it causes, echoed. Nowhere is there a deepening of meaning, a new understanding. And it has never occurred to me until this morning that it's really this thing that's lacking that has caused this novel to abort and languish.

Should it take ten years for a writer to figure such a simple thing out? No, not one who is focused and I have been completely unfocused for a long time. But just figuring out a way to express what's wrong with the thing doesn't fix it. Pondering the significance of this morning's revelation, there's still the fact that I have to devote real time to it if I ever want to see it to fruition. Think I've been too busy actually living life.

The friend I mentioned a few postings ago, who went into the hospital for knee-replacement surgery and ended up in a coma, has gone home and he is damaged. Everyone is hoping it isn't damage beyond repair, that in time his brain will finally right itself, but he's still confused, barely ambulatory, and maybe more upsetting, he's angry and depressed. My SO and I are driving over this morning later to look after him while his wife goes to the beauty shop. She needs the outing, but both of us are dreading the trip. Up until last night just the SO was going, but I could see how he was longing for me to offer my time, so I did. He jumped on it, and so I will set aside writing once again and help him with his good old friend. And I don't mind this, certainly not the way I probably should. There are times, though, when I do feel superficial, personally unproductive. And more troubling, it would be very easy for me to continue along this path. It's an easy path, it's fun, it's a lot less stressful than making myself vulnerable, which is what any writer does when they decide to open that proverbial vein and lay it all out on paper -- or more appropriately for the times -- the computer screen.

The first real norther is on its way. Windy as hell yesterday, and already gusty this morning as the sun starts to lighten the sky. For some reason we've had an outstanding crop of acorns, and they were pounding the ground yesterday as the wind threshed the limbs of all the oaks. The bed of the pickup was layered with them. They're underfoot wherever you walk. With the serious drought we've had the last two years, so many acorns are a shock, another example of nature assuring its continuance.

Onward ....

Kitty Love

The cat and I went on "walkabout" this morning. He gets the wanderlust every now and then, and decides to explore a little, or as much as his 87 (in cat years) body feels like on a given day. This was the day.

We've been here for a year, and kitty has gone on walkabout maybe four times. Usually he's content to stay on the patio and the sidewalk that runs beside the sunroom, and he prefers it if I leave the sliding door cracked enough for him to come inside when he's ready.

This morning he decided to walk part of the way with the dog and me down to the end of the drive for the newspaper. He didn't go the whole way, the driveway is long and covers three acres, but he went as far as the crossfence, smelled of the newly turned dirt there. I let him linger as long as he wanted. He gazed beyond the fence to the deer pasture next door, and lifted his nose into the air. His ears telescoped this way and that, hearing the morning birdsong and probably lots of other sounds known only to him, and perhaps the dog. They both love to go out and roam. When the kitty had enough, he turned and went back towards the house and his usual safer hangouts, the downspout where a lizard sometimes hides, and the concrete patio by the sunroom.

I've had this cat since he was a tiny kitten, abandoned by his stray mother, a hauntingly beautiful Persian someone had left when they moved away. This was at another house, 12 and half years ago, a different life than now. His mother abandoned him in a pile of brush behind the greenhouse in our yard. It took me 45 minutes to coax him out and into my arms. I had been without a pet for seven years, didn't really want another one, but he was such a sweet little scared thing.

He's seen me through some big life changes, and has seen a few himself. In my lifetime I have had seven dogs and three cats, and feel sure there will probably be more of each in my future, but I doubt somehow that any will own a bigger piece of my heart than this particular kitty. I admire the silkiness of his fur, a kittenish softness that he has never lost, probably handed down from his Persian-haired mother. His markings have a symmetry that I also find pleasing, even now that he's grown fat and elderly. At times he is regal and aloof, with his mysterious golden eyes and curved forehead, but usually he's a lovebug who wants nothing more than to lie in my lap and be petted. Because he was born to a stray, he's always tended towards skittish, but he's also courageous and can be a bit of a brute. I've laughed at his total domination and intimidation of the SO's shepherd. From the very first day they met, the cat let the dog know, as he chased her down and slapped her all over the house, who was in charge. She still, over a year later, gives him a wide berth, and she's at least three times his size.

The SO has been doing tractor work lately, and is, as I write this, riding by the window on his old blue Ford, disking, readying the ground for winter rye and a few oats for the deer who browse through on their nightly rounds. This place was neglected for ten years before we moved here, and the ground and grasses, flowers and trees, are mending slowly. There is so much to do to bring a place back. The grounds were once pristine, with a sprinkler system that no longer runs, and with carpet grass throughout. We see patches of it around but have only been able to reinvigorate the small area between the drive and the house.

I have promised myself that I will work on something this week -- some writing project, still wanting to get to the children's book. I have a handwritten draft, and have probably avoided it for so long because I'm afraid to find out that what I have is really rotten. However, I do believe that it's absolutely necessary to give yourself permission to write badly in a first draft. If you don't you'll never get the first word down at all. It doesn't have to be Tolstoy on the first go-round. In fact, I'll bet my life Tolstoy wasn't Tolstoy on his first draft either. So I will buck up my courage, face the ugly first draft, and get it on the computer where I can edit it into something worth reading. Fingers crossed ....

Time to get to it. Onward ....

My Hoot Owl

We have a hoot owl who lives around here somewhere. Sometimes I hear him right at dark. He seems to hang out in the trees just outside the bedroom. He has a sort of whispery hoo-hoo-hoooo sound that he makes, and for some reason I find it comforting. Once I was in the hot tub at twilight, and saw a pale gray ghost fly by in my periphery. Then I saw him outlined against the sky, way up in the topmost limbs of one of the largest oaks on the place. There's a squirrel's nest up there, as well, and I wondered if he was looking for fresh meat. Didn't see him make a kill, and in a while he disappeared. He can leave the squirrels alone, but I'd just as soon he caught any mice, rats, or snakes he might happen upon. I like the idea of nature taking care of itself.

A friend of mine had an owl come to his birdbath one evening during a drought. It was a ground bath, not one of the kind on a pedestal. I have a ground bath, and we've been in a serious drought. I wish my owl would bathe for me. I would like a closer look at him. It's easy to forget they're birds, they're so majestic, so large and such loners. I had a screech owl make a nest and rear young inside a hole in the eaves at the lakehouse I used to own. They made a tremendous mess. One day I climbed a ladder to look inside the hole with a flashlight. Two white downy hatchlings with big round eyes peered back at me.

When I lived in San Marcos great horned owls appeared every October. They would perch high on top of the telephone poles, and looked like Halloween statues silhouetted there. This latest owl is a barn owl, and he lives here permanently, not just in October. I'd like to know exactly where he lives, but unless I happen upon him somewhere on the grounds I suppose I'll never know. This house lies deep in an oak motte, so it's possible one of these trees is his home, but just as likely, he lives over the high fence that surrounds the thousand-acre ranch adjoining us on two sides. Anyway, I like having him -- or her -- here.

Today is Daddy's 85th birthday, and I've had him on my mind all day. I spend as much time as I can with him but it never seems to be enough. We were together all day yesterday and will be again tonight. It's somehow disconcerting to me to see the bent and shrunken man he has become. In my girlhood he seemed like a giant, so strong and capable. He was and has always been, my hero. I hope to have him for many more years, but I do see the sunset in his face now. All the changes he has experienced -- I think he's borne them well. He's begun to reminisce a lot. Occasionally he tells me a new story, one I haven't heard. At one time he was writing these stories down, and I wonder if that's something he's still pursuing. Think I'll mention it to him tonight.

I have not made the least effort towards writing this week. The SO went out of town for a couple of days working, and I had plenty of alone-time to get something going, but as usual, made excuses. The hardest part of writing sometimes is just sitting yourself down and DOING IT! When I taught my writing workshops I had an entire lecture devoted to finding time to write. I need to dig out my class notes and take my own advice.

Last night there was a piece on TV on the making of talent. We tend to think of talent as something a person is either born with or without, and so to "make" talent sounds like an impossibility. But the truth is talent can actually be learned, it can be practiced, and studies are beginning to show that the more one practices the more white matter one's brain grows, and synapses start firing more and more in sync. The TV program was primarily dealing with musical talent and sports talent, but watching, I also related it to writing, to all the practicing I did throughout the 1980s, writing story after story, sending them off, getting them back, papering the walls of my writing room with the rejection letters, until finally -- oh happy day! -- the practicing began to pay off. One story a year for a while, published in very obscure quarterlies, then less obscure ones, then my first $1000, paid-on-acceptance story, getting my first agent, first book contract. Then the career really took off in the 90s, until... now....

I know that I can write. I'm confident in that. What seems to be lacking in me now is the fire to write. This blog is fun, there's no pressure here. I'm enjoying this kind of writing, putting random thoughts down, hoping someone is reading, but if not, it's still a release for that part of me that wants to communicate through the written word. I have a lot of theories for why I lost my fire, but those can be saved for another post.

Onward ....