A Writer Afoot

Two things about traveling abroad

We leave for Italy three weeks from today.

I've found a couple of devastating dresses, which one should have for Italy, after all.   A couple of nice skirts to pair with tanks or sleeves, whatever is required.  The scarves I already have.  No shoes yet.  Still need to replace my suitcase, too, since the zipper on my main bag exploded last time I used it.  It occurred to me that I will also need to pack some jeans and sweaters, since we'll spend the final week in England, a spot not likely to be sunny and hot in October.   

I read a blog very recently (apologize that I can't remember where it was....if you know, tell me) in which the writer expressed her lifelong desire to go to England.   And I remember when I felt that way, that it was so far away and so expensive and so impossibly wonderfully impossible that I'd never be able to go.  Oh, I burned to go, first to England, then everywhere.  The memory brought home a couple of things.

One, travel is so precious and fantastic and I'm very grateful that it has become a part of my life.  I love to go. Especially go abroad.  Just that phrase gives me a little shiver on my spine.  If I have a trip abroad on the agenda for a given year, the mundane stuff seems ever so much more bearable.  Last year, it was England, Scotland, France.   This year, we were not going to take the time, but one thing and another conspired and we decided we really should go to England to see Christopher Robin's mother.   So we decided to go to Matera for the Women's Fiction Conference, too, and check out a little of southern Italy while we're at it.  Naples and Pompeii.  I'm doing a booksigning at a store in Bari, which will be quite an interesting experience.  (If any of you speak Italian, I would like a beautiful phrase to sign in my book.  I often sign "Walk in beauty," in English.  Is there something poetic like that?)  Then to amble around Kent in a very relaxed sort of way.  Go back to Sissinghurst, for sure.   

Anyway, point two: I know I say this a lot, but it's worth saying again.  A woman in one of my email societies thought it would cost $10-15K for one person to go to Europe for three weeks.  No. Way.  It can be done for much, much less, especially if you choose the time carefully.  Full summer is out.  Watch for holidays in the countries you are visiting, and check to be sure the sites you want to visit will actually be open.   Then, there's plenty of freedom to plan the cheapest possible times.  The internet has zillions of bargains.  There are house switching services.  Hostels and B&Bs.  Small ecotours for the active, or with special interests.   

If you burn to visit another country, I strongly believe you should do it.   Mark a date on your calendar, and start planning.  Plan a budget, start saving, and make it a priority.  It will change you, excite you, give you something to look forward to.   

Point three:  I have some new places on my "going abroad" list.   Next year, it's Australia and New Zealand. The year after, in 2009, it's India.  If I don't put it on the list, things will keep knocking it sideways.  In between, probably Hawaii (for CR who wants to see it) and Mexico with my girlfriends, since it's really close and I have never been and I'm very sure I will really like it. 

And next weekend, it's Indianapolis, to teach Sense of Place.  If you're around, come visit.

What is your dream place to visit?  If you don't have plans to get there in the next year or two, what's standing in your way?  Where would you like to return? 

MIRANDA'S REVENGE, by Ruth Wind

MIRANDA'S REVENGE
by Ruth Wind
Silhouette Romantic Suspense

ORDER NOW

For those of you who enjoy Ruth's romances, the third and final installment of the Sisters of the Mountain trilogy for Silhouette Romantic Suspense should be on the shelves any minute.

Book Description
With a murder trial looming, Miranda Rousseau had one chance to clear her sister's name. But tall, sexy James Marquez was quickly becoming much more than a private investigator. Miranda had hired him for the case, but every time she felt his dark eyes on her, she wanted him on her.

 

James was consumed with the passionate redhead, yet he had no place in her big-city life. He had a murder to solve and secrets to keep—secrets Miranda would never forgive. With so much at stake, could he let himself be seduced by a future he could never have? 

Read an excerpt

Romantic Times gave this book 4-1/2 stars and a Top Pick for the month of September. The previous two books are Juliet's Law and Desi's Rescue.

The leaded window opens.....

I walked home from the YMCA this morning, listening through my left ear to my Ipod Shuffle (which is one of the great inventions of all time).   The Jethro Tull CD Heavy Horses arrived in rotation, and I had not heard it for quite some time, so I switched from shuffle to playing in order so I could listen to it all.   

There are albums you love because they mark a period of time, pin down memories, capture some special something you treasure.  I can see myself lying in the middle of my living room floor in one of the first houses I lived in away from my parents, between two gigantic speakers, listening to Jimi Hendrix.  He was long dead by then, but lived in perfect, unmarked beauty in a poster on my bedroom wall (weirdly, my younger son resembles him quite a lot, or maybe I just think so because he's my child and beautiful and I did so love Jimi for a time).  In the right mood, I can still enjoy Are You Experienced, but it does have to be just the right mood.

There are others that just never wear out. Beggar's Banquet.  I'm pretty sure I can listen to Let It Be a few hundred thousand more times before I tire of it.  Simon and Garfunkel's For Emily, Wherever I May Find Her, the poetry set to a melody as delicate as cobwebs:

What a dream I had
Pressed in organdy
Clothed in crinoline
Of smoky burgundy...

Heavy Horses is one of my top ten CDs of all time.  If I tell you that my eldest son is named Ian because of Ian Anderson, you'll know I mean I love this band.  There are very, very few musicians who can create such a mood of joy, weaving that flute and elegant lyrics and guitar into something that feels celebratory and medieval and earthy, and it is never any better than it is in HH, an ode to the sweet beauties of pastoral life, the pleasures of the natural world and animals and simple living close to the earth. "Weathercock" is an ode to the simple beauties of pastoral life, the simplicity of faith in things beyond us, woven with the famous flute and medieval dance rhythms that can still--after 40 zillion listens--catch my throat:

Give us direction; the best of goodwill,
Put us in touch with fair winds.
Sing to us softly, hum evening's song.
Tell us what the blacksmith has done for you.

When my boys were small, we had music quizzes.  A song came on the radio and I would say, "Quick, who is this?"  (Often they would not know and answer, "The Beatles." )  But they both knew that "The Mouse Police Never Sleeps" was Jethro Tull, because it is a delicious song for small boys, full of slithers and s-s-s-s and twitching tails, in musical language as well as words:

Muscled, black with steel-green eye
swishing through the rye grass
with thoughts of mouse-and-apple pie.
Tail balancing at half-mast.
...And the mouse police never sleeps
lying in the cherry tree.
Savage bed foot-warmer of purest feline ancestry.
Look out, little furry folk!
He's the all-night working cat.
Eats but one in every ten
leaves the others on the mat.

Perhaps my favorite is the poignant Moths, which stands alone as poetry, but is a hymn when set to music:

The leaded window opened
to move the dancing candle flame
And the first Moths of summer
suicidal came, suicidal came.
And a new breeze chattered
in its May-bud tenderness....

And:

Chasing shadows slipping
  in a magic lantern slide ---
Creatures of the candle
  on a night-light-ride.
Dipping and weaving --- flutter
  through the golden needle's eye
  in our haystack madness.  Butterfly-stroking
  on a Spring-tide high.
Life's too long (as the Lemming said)
  as the candle burned and the Moths were wed.

And:

And the first moths of summer
  suicidal came
  to join in the worship
  of the light that never dies

I have not heard a band that sounds anything like Jethro Tull, blending that lyrical flute and elegant lyrics and stunning sense of play, but I'm willing to be educated. If you know a band I should check out, let me know. 

In the meantime, if you've not heard Heavy Horses, give it a try.

Meet Sasha

This morning's news was filled with the guilty plea of the NFL quarterback who has been accused of dog crimes.  I'm not sure why these stories still shock me, but they do.  This one is shocking on two levels:  how can anyone living in America think it would be okay with the public to have dog fights?  And even more disturbing who finds pleasure in such an activity? Ugh.

So, in an effort to put a more positive emotion into the world, let me tell you a good dog story.

It seems that Jack, my stunningly gorgeous, high-strung chow mix, gets a lot of attention in here.  I do have another dog.  In fact, I've had Sasha a VERY long time--she's 14 years old (and going strong), and as parents will, I suddenly felt guilty that I never talk about her.   So, please meet Sasha.  Aka Splinter (from the Ninja Turtles, remember him?).  She's a mid-size terrier mix, as you can plainly see.   When I first discovered her, sitting on a very hot sidewalk outside Safeway on my way to a critique group meeting, she looked like a German shepherd mix, and really reminded me of a dog we had when I was a child, so feeling tugged, I bent down and picked her up, just to give the wee little thing some love.   She took a big breath, put her head on my shoulder and sighed against my neck.   I was gone.

Now, let me say I already had a great dog, the late great April O'Neal, not to mention two boys in grade school, thirty-nine jillion of their friends running through my house constantly, deadlines, a husband who would not be pleased, a salamander and a tank full of goldfish.   I needed one more thing to take care of like I needed to lose a couple of fingers.

But that weekday morning, with that tiny puppy on my shoulder, with a man telling me he had cancer and had to get chemo and had to give away the puppies (yeah, yeah, yeah, buddy), all I knew was that this
dog was mine.  She was born into the world to be my companion and I was taking her home, no matter what.

At times, that no matter what has been....er...somewhat trying.  Like the time she ate a clutch of my ex-husband's photos, thus sealing a mutual hatred that never flagged.  (Notice: the dog outlasted the husband.)   Like the fact that she has never, no matter what I've tried, overcome a proclivity for knocking over the trash.  Or stealing things off counters, and then perfuming the tri-state area with the resulting gas.   Like the fact that she and the ex really did have a war that lasted nearly a decade.   They lived to make each other miserable.   

She lives for food.  Broccoli will do.  Cauliflower is just grand.  Turkey, chicken, meat, milk spilled on the floor, drops of coffee on your fingers.  She recently took one of my (brand new!) placemats from the table and ate one side of it.  It must have smelled of something good.  She's never learned to take a treat gently, either.  She snaps it sharply, every muscle in her body quivering.   

Oh, and she's a barker, too.  Did I mention that?  She barks at anyone who walks by the house. Barks when I open the front door, at the dog on the other side of the fence (her soul mate--her master is out there calling, exasperatedly, "Kelly! Kelly, come here!" and I'm calling, "Sasha.  Sasha come here...!" as they bark wildly at each other, up and down the fence.   But I have a magic weapon: "Sasha! Cauliflower.") When I take her for walks, she barks wildly for the first two minutes.  I have never understood if she's just announcing to the neighborhood that she's coming or she's just chattering like a teenage girl, but after a couple of minutes, she settles down and just walks.

She's scruffy and adorable and devoted.  She's never met anyone (save the ex) she didn't love, and old ladies are her special favorites.  They like her, too, like to pet her and feed her and tell her how sweet she is.  She will, very delicately, kiss a nose with her tiny, thin, very undoglike tongue.  She loves to be hugged. 

And she has been my constant companion, devoted, protective of my children and the cats and me.  She makes me laugh.  Her simple, clear motives in life are a reminder not to take anything too seriously.  Life is about seeing what's going one, having snacks, getting kisses, going for walks, having snacks, stealing the big dog bed, and having snacks.  Oh, and greeting Christopher Robin when he comes home from work.  She sits down, shivering in happy anticipation, and waits for him to bend down and kiss her. Which he does, every day.   

Now that's a happy ending.

Building great characters

I've been talking with an aspiring writer who is very, very smart and driven, who confessed she didn't really understand how to develop character beyond what she was already doing. She's had some revision requests and wants to understand more about how to write great characters.   

This is one of my favorite subjects, so I thought I'd offer a few ideas this sunny Saturday afternoon, and a few exercises for you to try.  Most of these are taken from a talk I quite like to give, so some of you might have heard me talk about this before. 

Women's fiction and romance novels are character-driven plots.  The only thing that makes a romance interesting, no matter what style or subgenre you might be writing, is the particularity of THESE particular characters and our feeling that these two people really must be together.   To believe that, especially in our cynical world, we have to know and understand what makes each character tick, what motivates them, how they get through each day. 

I've talked before about Tony Soprano, and will say again, if you want to study character, The Sopranos has a lot to teach, especially about layering and the various influences that combine to create a character.  I'm slowly, slowly finishing the series, and last night watched one in which Carmella went to Paris with her friend Roz.  As always, the layering of character is quiet and you have to be paying attention to see what's there.  Carmela is stunned by Paris.  By the beauty and the art and the weight of time and history.  This is a woman who was born into a time and place where her considerable brains and hungers have no real chance of finding expression through her own efforts, so she's directed those energies into her husband, her children, her standing in the community.  She's a tortured, loving, hungry soul, and watching in her Paris made me cry.  I wanted to know what would have happened to her if she'd had the chance to go there at seventeen, after taking three years of French.  Her reaction to the city was profound, and she tried to reach out to her friend, but Roz simply doesn't speak Carmella's language, and Tony won't understand either. She returns home, and in the last scene of the episode, she carries her laundry downstairs, and nothing in her external world is changed, but we know something huge has happened within Carmella. 

The lesson is, great characters are complex.  They are a mix of good and bad characteristics, just as every human being on the planet is a mix.   I am. You are.  Your husband, your children, your parents.   

How do you get that on the page? How do you find out the layers of your own characters and bring them to life? 

We all start with the simple stuff.   Sex, age, career, cultural background, family history.   I think of these as the things that would show up in a police report: "White male, age 34, accountant."  The family history comes in the next level. Stuff a psychologist might want to know:  birth order, class, education, etc.

Next comes the passions:  He loves fly fishing, watching reality television, drinking iced tea with big chunks of lemon, a juicy steak on a hot summer day, his ex-girlfriend whom he hasn't spoken to in five years but secretly believes he will never get over.   What does he hate?  What would he banish from the world if he could?  What does he believe about God? 

What one thing does he believe in absolutely? What is he most afraid of?   What would he do if he could do anything at all? 

In voice class, we do exercises that begin:  "The house I lived in when I was seven years old....."   "I am twelve and....."   and "I am eighteen and....."   Doing those exercises in first person from the POV of the character can take you a lot deeper into their psyche.

One thing that powerfully brings a character alive is the inconsistencies.  Tony Soprano the mafia boss who can be so tender.  The socially conscious queen of the mob who is slain by the beauty of Paris.  Think of some of your favorite characters--can you pinpoint those inconsistencies?   

Where is that tension?  Think of your mother. Right now.  Where are the inconsistencies of her character? What maddening, endearing tics and attitudes does she carry? 

 

A few little tricks that are fun to try:  write the starbuck's order of your character.  For example, I used to be a triple vente latte with skim milk and seven raw sugars.  I always had to make a little joke about how much sugar was in the coffee because it was embarrassing, but I wanted it my way.   What does the dichotomy of skim milk vs seven raw sugars and TRIPLE coffee say?  (Babe, you are so in denial.)  I've since downsized considerably because the more I run, the less I can tolerate large amounts of coffee.  A modest grande, regular, skim milk, two (or three if I'm feeling indulgent) raw sugars.

What does your character order? Or would she skip Starbucks for the local coffee shop down the street? 

Another great trick I learned from great romance author Jennifer Greene many years ago: look inside the purse of a woman, the glove box or pockets of a man.  What are they carrying with them? What does it say?

It is also true that each one of us is the star of our own movie.  With a secondary character, imagine that person is the start of the movie and see how the layers begin to appear. 

There is always something brilliant about every human. Every human.  There is something disgusting or reprehensible about every human.   Find the two, and you'll be well on your way.

Can you think of other examples of the tension in a great character?   Name some.  Scarlet O'Hara, of course.   Who else?

Little bitty steps to change the food world

We lost the Safeway nearby our house about four or five months ago. There was some sort of scuffle over the lease, and Safeway moved out.  It was sudden--and for me--dismaying.  I am a Safeway customer, and have been for many years.  Not that any other store is better or worse, but once you are used to a particular market, it saves time (and money) to shop there.

But mainly, I loved Safeway's fairly recent Organics brand.

As I live in Suburbia, there are many other supermarkets within a very short distance, two within a mile. There is also, if I want to drive an extra couple of miles (and spend a lot more money), a Whole Foods, which I enjoy visiting, but don't enjoy shopping regularly since they are so MUCH more expensive.  It's not that I can't afford it--I can.  It's just that it goes against the grain for me, raised by a mother who could feed a family of six for a week on seven cents, to spend twice as much on groceries.

That said, I am a big believer in organic food, and in supporting that industry as much as possible.  It makes a difference--organic eggs are more expensive, but imagine how many more chickens are living reasonably decent lives.  I've discovered I'm quite sensitive to the hormones added to milk and meat, and eating cleanly there is worth it.   Safeway made that quite possible, and for a reasonable rise in cost. 

There are cost issues in eating organically, even in eating whole foods.  One of my side-jobs stints was as a residential aide in boarding homes for functional schizophrenics (which is where a lot of the material in Lady Luck's Map of Vegas came from). The food budget for the houses was small and had to last a month, so the group meals relied heavily on trash meats like pressed lunch meats, white pasta, white bread, sugary drinks that can be mixed with water, lots of coffee.  At least there was a lot of milk, and some eggs.  As a whole-foods person, I was shocked at the poor (practically non-existent) nutrition available in that food--and I couldn't help but wonder how much better the residents would function if they consumed whole grains and organic meats and lots of fresh fruits and vegetables. I'd still be interested in studies that examined the functionality of schizophrenics eating whole foods vs those eating that old-school cafeteria style mush.

But it was an issue of cost. The homes were always struggling to stay afloat and house as many clients as possible (to save them either from the state hospital or living on the street--not great alternatives), so eating whole, highly nutritious foods is a long way down the list of priorities.   

The same is true of feeding a family on a budget--whole and organic foods cost more.   It takes a lot more time for a busy mother to get to the farmer's market than to stop by the supermarket on the way home.  If the organic meat is $7 and the regular is $4, most budget minded mothers have to choose the $4 version. 

Which brings us back to Safeway and their much more affordable Organics line.  Bulk organics creates a standard for the food industry--if we as consumers say we want whole, organic produce and a meat supply that's unpolluted with chemicals and harvested from animals who have been treated humanely through their lives, then the price comes down.  We change the world by changing little bitty things, one at a time. 

So, here's today's food challenge: pick two or three things you will commit to buying organically for now. Milk is insanely expensive at the moment, so if you haven't started that, choose something easier for awhile.   Eggs are a good place to start.  There are lots available in most grocery stores.   And then choose two other things--peppers, maybe, or onions, or adding one pound of natural chicken to your usual week's shopping.   If you are raising children, I highly recommend either skipping beef entirely or choosing natural, antibiotic and hormone free.

Who has other tips for whole and organic eating on a budget?   Have you tried adding organics to your food cart?

Where am I again?

Today I visited a new grocery store in my neighborhood.  There is a Starbucks inside.   And, maybe 50 yards across the parking lot, there is another one.  A freestanding cafe. 

I do a talk about characterization, and make a passing comment to Starbucks and using it as a way to figure out who your characters are.  What is their Starbucks order?  The first time I gave it, the talk was in Vancouver, and I suddenly worried that there might not be be Starbucks in Vancouver.  There were 130, and in one spot, there are two across the street from each other. 

In that spot, the traffic is quite heavy and I could, once I saw the location, understand why that might have happened.  So many people.  Lots of cars and lots of foot traffic, and if you had to cross the street, you might not be able to get that coffee.   (Horrors!)

But I'm flummoxed at the two at King Soopers. One inside. One outside.  Wow. 

Jack bites Jack and other stories

I've not really recovered from my weekend.  Not really because of the bad run but because two days later was One of Those Days and I was already tired.  The charming South American orienteer came back through and we had some fun, though we got stuck in a bomb scare at the airport.  The sad story is this: 

My beloved dog Jack is a protective creature.  He doesn't allow strangers in the back yard. The young teen who mows my grass knows this and rings the doorbell so I can get Jack in the house before he mows.   On Monday, he--for who knows what reasons--did not wait for me.  I was away, fetching the fetching orienteer. His mother was taking his brother somewhere.  He had something to get done that morning and wanted to knock out the job.  I get all that.  As the mother of sons, I can even follow the non-logical thinking of going into the back yard, thinking it would be okay. 

It wasn't.  Jack is a good watchdog.  He is very friendly when I tell him to be so, but if I'm not around, watch out.  He bit the boy. Not badly.  He came back and mowed the back lawn later (but only because his mother insisted, I'm pretty sure.)  The boy's name is Jack.  I don't think he'll want the job of feeding the cats when I happen to leave. 

In other news, I saw a beautiful photo on another blog tonight:

It's a great visual, but it would be quite challenging to row with those yards and yards of fabric getting wet.

I also revised many pages today. 

The dark side

I can't promise to be slick or pretty here today.  It's been a very tough, humbling day and I'm both irritated with myself and surprised.   Orienteering is hard, okay?  I just want to say that.  It's a very challenging sport, and today I fell flat on my face.   Literally and figuratively.

It's hard to learn to do something complicated.  Orienteering, writing, learning a language.  There are so many ego things tangled up in it, the ego that wants to always be looking slick, dignified, together, smart, and always, always hip. 

First, that reminds me: this whole week has been about CR running the US Champs and the Colorado Five Day.  He's a serious, long-time orienteer and runner, but he's been very busy the past couple of years and couldn't train as much as he wished.  This year, he did.  He's only been training since March, and he ran very well this week.  Very well.  Numbers aren't all in, but looks like a nice solid top five.  Not just in his class.  Top five overall.   

Now to my struggle, which I hope will give you courage in your writing struggles:

So, two completed orange course in the past couple of weeks. Feeling pretty good for the last event of the season today.  (The Colorado Five Day has been going on this week, in case you're wondering why there've been so many posts about orienteering.)   Today's event was in the mountains, at Saylor Park, which is at about 9000 feet, and very hilly. 

Gorgeous day. I've been feeding CR lots of past all week, running support module around here, and I was glad for this last chance to test myself over what I've learned.   Felt pretty good.  Had my compass and my Gu and my running shoes on.  A hat against the sun.  Hefty CamelBak because one thing I know about myself is that I'm a lot less likely to panic over anything if there is plenty water.   Weird little Colorado girl trait, maybe, but there it is.

CR was off like a rocket.  I watched him head out, then got my map. 

Not. A. Good. Day.

I really got lost.  The first mistake was my own, a silly mistake I shouldn't have made, but I compounded it by insisting in my head that I knew what I was doing.  I recovered, let the first mistake go, then did the next five legs cleanly, making smart decisions that put me right on course.  I navigated forest, marshes, waded through waist high grass with soggy feet and never even thought about what might be in the water (though may I say I would not do this sport anywhere there might be watersnakes).  Twice, I tripped in my haste and scraped my knee, a thigh, jolted my wrist, but both times, I just leapt back up and kept going.  I knew from looking at CR (it's good to have a mentor) that falling is part of the game. 

I took a fall after the sixth control. Tore my shoe and lost the compass for a few minutes, and I think it rattled me.  Or maybe that's just my excuse.  But I did not find the next control.  I was getting tired (the first control took much too long) and hot and sweaty, and sometimes the right answer is to call it day.

But, as often happens, I made another navigation error and really got lost.  I mean, really lost.  There are few trails in this park, and the rain has made a thick carpet of greenery.  I found myself in an impassable ravine, on a boulder, all alone in the utterly silent forest with no idea where I was.  Standing there, I could see where I wanted to go, but could not figure out how I could get there.   The thought of bears was in my mind. It occurred to me that I didn't have a whistle, which I should have had.  The cell phone wasn't getting a signal.  When I looked at the map, it all looked the same.  One reentrant after another.  Boulders and rocks, some marked, some not.  No people around.  No beaten down grass to follow. 

There were two choices.  I could stand there and freak out, or try to see if I could get out of there.  I scraped through to a fairly level spot, looked at the map and made a guess over where I was, and headed south.  It was the only thing I could do at that moment, the only bearing I had: I knew where south was, and I knew that the finish was south of where I was.

Eventually, I managed to climb a steep ridge and found an indistinct path to follow.   It seemed it would lead somewhere.  The distances were not huge, so surely I'd find a road soon. 

I did.

The trouble was, it wasn't the road I thought.   It was empty and featureless (reentrant, trees, boulders, reentrant, minor bend, reentrant, boulder field, trees) and I had no idea where I was, but again, it was heading south.  I knew that I was going south. 

But here was my dark moment.  I had no more GU.  The water was running out.  I had no idea where I was on the map and I'd left half the flags unfound.  I was defeated.   It seemed like everything I'd learned was temporary, that all those disdainful gym teachers and the jocks who looked down on my clumsiness were right:  I was not an athlete, no matter what my friend Mary said, and I was proving the truth with this failure.  Obviously, I'm just not good at this and I should just stop trying.  I'm making a fool of myself and everyone probably thinks I'm pathetic.

I'm sure you know this voice.  It might say slightly different things, but it's always mean.  It's the voice of a nasty green-skinned goblin whose entire job is to make sure you feel really lousy.

The one thing I didn't do was cry.  I absolutely would not allow it.  Whatever happened, I would just keep going. 

I will not lie, my friends.  It took a long time, but after an hour of walking I finally found my way to a fork in the road that was, far, far from where I wanted to be, but at least I knew where it was.  It was downhill, and I  jogged to the finish.  It took awhile, but that was the thing I could do to feel better.  I jogged all the way on a knee that didn't mind, and that felt really good.  I passed a woman in her seventies, who'd run a tough course and wasn't pleased with her performance.  Two girls waved at me.  I kept jogging. 

It was a lousy run for me.  I made mistakes and my inexperience got to me, but in the end, I didn't have to be rescued.  I just kept going and found my way back to where I needed to be, and learned.  A lot.   Covered with grit and sweat and bruises, burrs and scratches, and with torn shoes, I made it home.

Orienteering is hard.  CR said later that this is the hardest terrain I've experienced, but that's to be expected.  This is like speaking another language.  I'm very good with words and it's very difficult for me to risk looking ridiculous in another language, but you have to be bad at something before you can ever be good.  I need to be a bad orienteer before I can be a good one.  A bad speaker of French and Spanish and Italian before I can every be okay at them.   

Writing is hard, too.  It's hard to stay with it, to be terrible at it, to make mistakes and write bad books sometimes and take chances knowing you might fail.  You will fail.  So will I.    But the only way to better is to keep moving, keep reminding yourself of what you DO know and realize that the only way to learn is to be vulnerable and open.

May I say, however, that I'm going to be quite happy to do something tomorrow that is not such a test? I'm going to polish some pages.  Tweak sentences.  Layer in some poetry and a little secret payoff for readers who are paying attention to details.   Those are things that I, after decades of practice, know how to do.

Watermelon salad

In the summer, I eat a watermelon every week.  This started when I was a young married and my ex brought home watermelons every Friday.  He had a knack for choosing the sweetest melon on the pile, and when he found an especially fantastic one, he would call his mother.  I'm not as talented as he is, but I look for the heaviest melon, one that has a yellow patch on one side, and "sugar marks," which are jagged little brown marks on the shell. 

Mostly, I just eat the melon, because it's so cooling (and diuretic, for those who find hands and feet swelling in the humid summer).   This is a fast, simple salad I made for lunch this week--all cooling foods and a slightly different mix of lunch ingredients:

Spinach Watermelon Salad

1 c watermelon, cut in small triangles or cubes
2 cups fresh spinach leaves
1/4 c crumbled feta cheese
1 tablespoon Parmesan cheese (I used shaved, because it's prettier, but grated is fine)
1-2 T. olive oil
1 T lemon juice or vinegar
1/4 tsp chile powder

Lay the spinach leaves as a bed, and arrange the watermelon on top.  Sprinkle with cheeses.  Blend oil, lemon juice and chile powder and shake well.  Pour over the salad.

Water

Last night, I watched WATER, recommended in a discussion either here or in the discussion of Bollywood triggered by Liz Bevarly's music post on the now-defunct Squawk Radio.   Set in 1938, it is the story of a little girl who is widowed at the age of seven, and sent away to an ashram to live for the rest of her life, as is the custom.  Chuihya's head is shaved, she's dressed in white, and she is sent away from her family to the grim environs of the ashram, where she meets three women who all influence her fate.  One is the beautiful young Kalyani (Lisa Ray) who falls in love with Narayan (John Abraham), and their star-crossed tale is woven into the struggle for faith, the desire for happiness, and the excruciating tale of women condemned to a life of nothing after a husband dies. 

Which makes it sound as if it would be a grim movie indeed.  It is not.  Water is lyrical and earthy, and highly romantic.  It is also a visual feast, filmed with extraordinary attention to light and composition without ever being self-conscious or haughty.

It also raises my on-going and pleasurable debate with myself over wanting to visit India. So beautiful and so challenging and so poor and so rich, spiritual and severe, romantic and sexist and sensual and ignorant and wise.  It is a swelter of ideas and possibilities; frightens and perplexes and intrigues.  I'm afraid I will go and hate it.  Maybe just as afraid that I won't.   

 

Beautiful film. Thanks to those who recommended it.  On one site, it said the move is banned in India.  Does anyone know if that is true?

Monsoon weekend

Outside my open window, an August monsoon is falling.  Rain drops the size of dinner plates pattering down, accompanied by much crashing and flashing.  August is the drama queen of weather in Colorado; the monsoons filling the lakes and reservoirs and streams.   

In a discussion elsewhere, a writer I know said, "Writers don't just build careers, they build lives. Too often, too many let writing suck everything they've got and they end up with nothing left."   Wise woman, wise words.  This weekend, the rains of life were filling the wells and reservoirs of my writing landscape.  The sights and sounds of the outdoors, a trip to church with a friend, a hike and orienteering and lots of cooking for the hungry, hungry runner in my house, a meal out at Zio's, where I had the most luscious chicken piccata (has anyone else had it there? Wow!) and a long conversation with an orienteer from Argentina who told me wonderful stories of her adventurous life.   I read a book and a magazine I kept from a coffee shop because it had a great photo on the cover.  (I asked permission, lest you think I stole it!)

Next week, I have blocked out an afternoon for an artist's date, ala Julia Cameron.  I haven't been doing enough of them.   Remember artist dates? I think I want to see the movie No Reservations.   Maybe buy some new music for the brewing book.  Look at shoes for Italy.   

Speaking of that: whatever shall I wear in Italy at the end of September?????

Dashing through the forest.

Another Orange yesterday.   The terrain was quite different--lots of meadows with thigh-high grasses.  I've never wished for gaiters before, but they would have saved a lot of annoyance yesterday.  My socks bristled with seeds by the end of the course.

I finished again.  Very slow, again, but I'm still very happy.  I was actually able to jog most of it, even in those uneven fields, and my knee is fine this morning.  I feel like a million bucks, honestly. 

Orienteering makes me think of my days as a Girl Scout.  I was a fanatic for badges.  The Sign of the Arrow and The Sign of the Star, plus all the little round ones.  I'd get one for orienteering now.   And well, I'd certainly get one for cooking this past winter.  Growing dahlias. 

I'm making fun of myself now because I know some of you must be scratching your heads thinking, "WHY would she DO this?"   But every time I find a control, I feel like I won the lottery.  I come home scratched and tanned and grimy and feel ten feet tall.   My brain loves it, and my body loves it, and it matters not at all to me if I'm faster than someone else or the slowest one of all (which I was last week).

Happy Sunday!

Gently De-Railed

I'm a list maker.  I like making lists and plans, then recording my progress in various colors of ink.  On my walls are two dry erase boards, each with its own purpose, three calendars, and giant post-it notes for brainstorming.   All are written in many colors.   

I have charts for recording my writing progress each day, and charts for how much exercise I've done, of what sorts.  Each evening, I make a plan for the next day, and most days, I stick to it.  This probably goes against the picture a lot of people have about the creative personality--all this planning and listmaking seems very type A, doesn't it?  In truth, it's the only way I've ever found for reigning in both my ability to be absolutely languorous and conversely, mentally racing through 500 tasks at once.  I have trained myself to do One Thing At A Time (breaking the rule for household tasks and talking on the phone--I don't consider that multi-tasking.  Obviously, God designed the phone for women to have someone to talk to while doing chores).   

This week, I had lots of plans.  I meant to finish the hard-copy editing of Cooking for the Dead, and block out the scenes I need to add.  I had planned to go to yoga twice, work with weights twice, walk 30 minutes each day.   

Instead, I've been gently derailed all week.  I say gently because it was nothing dramatic.  No one is ill or upset.  I've had a minor virus that's not doing much of anything except making me really tired, so I drape myself like a cat over this couch, that pile of pillows, yawning and dozing and learning how to flip houses from 700 shows on about the art.  I've been arranging a trip, which seems to be going slowly, too, and we had a very intriguing surprise guest from Argentina, and of course, I had to gently coax her story from her, because that's what I do, collect stories.  Charming woman.  And tomorrow, I'll be orienteering again, another orange. (CR has been training all spring for this week's events, so if you can spare a thought for speed his way, please feel free.)

I have maybe read about six chapters.  Scribbled notes about one scene.  Captured a new character who walked on stage and insisted she be heard for the new, brewing book.   Walked the dogs two or three times, but even that was almost too much.   

As I headed home from one such walk, I felt guilty that I'd missed yoga.  I missed because I was just too weary to imagine it.  I did an ambling walk in the fresh cool morning to ease the kinks, and that took all I had.   (It sounds worse than it is, so don't anyone worry or anything. )   It occurred to me that I'd listened to my body, which is what yoga would tell me to do.  I hadn't the energy for vigorous asanas.  I hadn't the energy to work with weights.   I didn't have the mental acuity to edit my pages. 

What a lovely recognition.  In peacefulness, I slept a lot more in the basement.  I watched three episodes of the Sopranos back to back, and the Kate Winslet move Holiday, and My House in Umbria, with Maggie Smith, which was absolutely charming.   I read two novels.   Today, I was refreshed enough to take a long walk with the visitor from far away, and listen to her story.   

On Sunday evening, I'll make my lists and plan my time, because that makes me more productive.  On those empty blocks of chart I have waiting on my walls, I'm going to draw smiley faces in different colors, because what I did was recharge the batteries, and that needs doing, too.

But this is also something I need to notice, something I tell my students and then forget to practice: I need down time.  A lot of it, actually.   I tend to overextend myself mentally, and then fall to an exhausted heap as I did this week.   I like to order my time, but I need to notice when that little voice is saying, "Um, can we go to the movie? Please."   And go.  Play time needs to go on the schedule.   

Goes back to being present.  Now.  Every day. 

Dahlia season

I suppose I should create a category for Garden, since I do seem to post flower pictures so often.   I just like growing flowers.  And taking pictures of them.  This morning is a very good example of why:  I fell prey to some sharp brief virus the past few days and this morning woke up feeling like myself again.   It's cool and softly breezy in Colorado Springs, so I sent CR off to work and puttered out to water the pots on my patio.  The dogs and I wandered around, sticking fingers and noses into the soil.  I deadheaded while they made sure no marauding aliens came over the fence.  Then we went to the front yard and the first dahlia of the season was in wild blossom.  So I took a thousand pictures of it, and other things, and now I'm sharing my favorite with you.  Isn't it beautiful?  I planted many, many dahlias this year.  They all have buds.   It's a dahlias and poppy year.   

What's in your garden right now?