Clarity

Now that The Hellebore Society has been out for a week (you can get your copy here if you haven’t yet!) it’s time for me to dive back into the sequel to Mud Witch! I’ve been working on it for a while, but between finalizing The Hel and all the end of year holidays, I honestly can’t wait for some quiet mornings to just…write.

My kids leave early for school these days, which means that if I’m at all diligent, I can be sitting at my table by seven and done with my writing by lunchtime. There is a real beauty in those morning hours and an even more wonderful feeling of accomplishment when I stand up, stretch out, and have time to get outside.

It’s easy for me to forget the importance of the last part. Now that I work primarily from my kitchen table, I can go a whole day without getting outside if I’m not careful. And while that is extremely appealing when I’m warm and comfortable, it’s also extremely bad for me. There’s a tunnel vision that can set in, where the project becomes the only important thing and nothing else really matters. While that is productive, it’s also not very conducive to creativity.

Tunnel vision is what keeps me writing a plot that is no longer working. Tunnel vision is what keeps me banging my head against the desk, trying to make up for the wrong direction by writing prettier words. Tunnel vision is what eventually paralyzes me with self-doubt.

It’s only by stepping away that I gain the clarity to actually do my job. For a long time, I was a work hard, work hard kind of person. Even when I wasn’t working, I would think about work. Perhaps that’s because I’m not always so good at the playing part. It’s easier to do things that feel important and bring a sense of accomplishment. It’s harder, somehow, to choose not to forgo those feelings.

I’m not talking about simply slumping into the couch at the end of the day. That’s easy. I’m talking about stepping away from work and stepping into play. Putting precious commodities, time and energy, into activities that are anything but useful. It feels risky somehow. What if I go to all that effort and it’s not restorative? What if it’s not even fun? What if I make that choice and come back to my desk and I’m no more creative or productive that I was before?

Those questions show the flaw in my thinking, don’t they? The idea that fun, the rest, is only there in order to feed the work. That if I return from my break still mired in tunnel vision then there was no point in taking it at all. What if I looked at things a different way?

What if I do all that productive work to make my fun more satisfying? It sounds bizarre to me, but then I think of working in my garden on hot summer days and sitting down afterwards to drink the best glass of water I’ve ever had. I think of cleaning my house and cooking dinner for friends, just to be able to enjoy sitting with them, knowing that everything is done. Or getting to a Friday night, tired and spent, but ready to sit down with a good book I’ve been wanting to read all week.

Maybe the fun is the point. Maybe if I start thinking about it differently, I’ll remember that I write not just to have the words on the page, but to experience that first, glorious stretch after I stand up and look at a job well done.

Plot Puzzles

I’m an avid puzzle doer. No jigsaw puzzles, although I’m happy to sit down with a tv show in the background and try to fit some pieces together. No - word puzzles. The kind you get at the drug store in a flimsy newsprint book, usually labeled something like “Variety Puzzles” or “Puzzles 4 Less Super Pak”. During Covid, you would rarely find me without one of them, and my kids learned which kinds they enjoyed as well.

My favorite part of doing puzzles is the moment when it all turns. I often do the Sunday crossword and it always starts the same way. First, you fill in the ones you know without a doubt - the actor’s names or book titles or acronyms. Then you go square by square, figuring out the ones you think you know, then checking and double checking your guesses against the other clues.

But there’s always the trick clues. Most Sunday crosswords have a twist. Sometimes it’s a play on words. Sometimes it’s a funky way of writing out the answers where they turn up or down halfway through. Sometimes, when the creator is being really devilish, they have a square that contains more than one letter or a symbol or something. And so I hack and hack at the conventional clues and eventually figure out the trick but still, it’s hard going.

Until, one moment, a moment I can’t quantify, when the whole puzzle turns. It all gets easier. The answers that I had only guessed at are now confirmed. I’ve gotten the hang of the trick. And even those actors’ names or book titles I don’t know are easy to figure out.

I love it. It’s like riding downhill on a bike.

This is the feeling I love about writing a book, too. One of the hardest parts about writing a book is figuring out how all the pieces go together. How this plot and that character arc need to intertwine. How this hanging thread will weave into a final scene. How the theme I started with will play out across the storyline. To me, it feels like one big puzzle.

A lot of people think that writing is about making works sound pretty, about making pictures in people’s imaginations. And those words are important, but only insofar as they work to earn their place. Those words are the tools you use to tell the story, to show the characters, to communicate the theme. And they had better work for you, not against you.

We’ve all read a book where the author is a little too in love with the sound of their own voice. I think we all have different tolerances for poetic language, but I think even the most metaphor-loving amongst us can fed up when we don’t feel like that poetry is doing anything for the story. Intricate descriptions of settings that are only used for scene. Long, winding characterizations that are immediately betrayed by a character’s actions. Extensive pontification by an author who has a message to share and is not going to let you get away without hearing it.

We’ve all been there. I’m sure there are still parts of my books like that, no matter how hard I try to restrain myself. Just like my crosswords, success only comes when you get the right answers in the right words. It’s not enough to know a synonym for “smart” - you’ve got to know a six-letter word ending in “R”. And if you’re not “clever” enough - in writing or in puzzling, the pieces will never fit together properly

Next Book: The Hellebore Society

In case you hadn’t heard, my next book is coming out on January 10th, 2025! But I thought it might be good to get all the details in one place so…here you go!

What book is this?

It’s called The Hellebore Society and it’s a modern fantasy about four friends in their forties (say that three times fast!)

Is this a Mud Witch Sequel?

No, it’s not. I am currently working hard on Mud Witch 2 (real name still to be decided) but I’m still in early stages of research and drafting. If you want to check out my Instagram page, there will be lots of content about the research I’m doing on that, since I’m spending a lot of time on it right now. Here’s the link to that: https://www.instagram.com/thedillawaydiaries/. Just be aware that this is my professional instagram page, not my personal one, so if you follow me personally, you won’t see that content.

How can I get the book?

It will be available on Amazon in both paperback and Kindle.

When can I pre-order?

I’m still finalizing little details like, you know, the cover, but as soon as you can preorder I will put a link on my website, on my Facebook, and on Instagram.

What’s it about?

Twenty years ago, four friends went out to a bar and came home the newest members of a magical society. They can barely remember that night, but the secretive Hellebore Society didn’t forget about them. Now they’re forty, and Mel, Talia, Josie and Kate have been called into action. Someone’s been using stolen technology to break into the world’s most secure locations, and it’s their job to stop them. Luckily, the Hellebore Society’s got a garden full of extraordinary plants to help them out. But twenty years is a long time. Old hurts and new frustrations threaten not just their friendship, but their mission. Can they overcome their quarrels in time to catch the thieves? And more urgently, can they also make it to daycare before they get charged extra for late pickup?

The Hellebore Society is a fantasy that that tells the story of four women working to recover stolen magical artifacts…and possibly the parts of themselves they didn’t realize they’d lost along the way.

Why did you write this? (And not a mud witch sequel like we wanted?)

To be honest, I started Mud Witch 2 immediately after I launched the first one, but for some reason, I just got stuck. So I set it aside and started writing what I call “my midlife crisis” book. I started looking around at all the extraordinary women around me and thinking about how dumb it is that we hear about teenagers and young adults saving the world when most of us don’t reach our full vitality and competence until long after we’ve said goodbye to our 20s. My brain started asking…what would it be like to take someone who wasn’t some ingenue and ask them to save the world? So many younger people aren’t sure of themselves and that plays out in their story. But these women, they know how to get stuff done…what would that look like? And how would their lives change?

Why is it called The Hellebore Society?

I named this book (and the Society) after the hellebore, which is also known as the winter rose. It doesn’t bloom in spring, or even summer, like most flowers. No, most hellebores don’t even think about blooming until November or December. And that made me think of a lot of the people I know, including myself, who didn’t find what they wanted to do or even who they wanted to be until later. There’s something special about a person bringing half a lifetime’s worth of experience to their endeavors. It’s richer and fuller and also, somehow, less frantic and harried. I like to think there are a lot of hellebores out there in the world, just waiting to bloom.

If you have any other questions, put them in the comments below and I’ll do my best to get to them!

Book release! (and some thoughts on being a real person)

Oh my goodness. the Mud Witch of Verdun launches this Saturday! I could not be happier or more nervous or more exhausted. All of the feelings. All of them.

I think that what I’m supposed to do here, a few days before the launch, is talk all about how amazing the book is. But what I really want to do is talk about how wild it is to self-publish a book. So let’s start with the part I’m supposed to do and then we’ll get to the part I want to do.

This book is fun. It’s full of explosions and magic and blood and skulduggery. Betrayal and friendship and a little bit of sarcasm. Addy was a really, really fun character to write. She’s all the things I wish I could be and am happy that I am not. She’s impulsive and brave, great in a crisis and never satisfied. She starts the book on a sinking ship and it only gets more intense from there. She looks out a war that was literally called The Great War and thinks, “Yeah, I should do something about that.”

And the world that she inhabits, away from the war, is an idyllic island off the coast of France. It’s full of gardens and delicious food and lots of strong personalities. There are quiet beaches and crowded community kitchens and everything is made better by magic. If I could live there, I would.

And finally, the book is full of amazing women. They all have talents and flaws and even the not-so-nice ones have their reasons. I loved writing them all so differently and then using what they brought to the table to build a really fun story. You should read it. Either by buying it on Kindle or Paperback or in pieces, here on the website.

Ok, writing that was more enjoyable than I thought, but let’s talk about the wild process of self-publishing. Did you know that you can just sit down at your kitchen table and, like, create something? And that even if no one wants to publish it, that you can just shrug your shoulders and say, ok, I guess I’ll just do it then? And that the only thing standing between a blank page and a book on your shelf is a lot of work and letting go of your ego?

It’s that last piece that’s hard for me. The idea that the publishing of this book is somehow less than real because I did it myself. It’s funny, how I still want the A+, the external validation, the idea that someone who knows more than me decided that this book is worth reading. I have no doubt that I would jump on a publishing contract that if got the chance. Nevermind that it probably wouldn’t make me any money. It’s about feeling like a real author, like a real grown up with a real job who is a real person worthy of respect.

Whew. And then I remind myself that my most deeply held belief is that all humans have dignity; all humans are worthy of respect. It is not tied to what we have done or left undone. It is not tied to what we have or how much we know. It exists because we exist. That’s it.

And it is that deeply held belief that allows me to sit down and write the book and inspect every typo and format it and design the cover and then promote it. Because if I were worried about my dignity, about my worth, I would be far too ashamed to put this little, unwanted book out there. There are people out there, a lot of people out there, who think that if something doesn’t have the stamp of institutional support, then it’s not valid. And you know what?

I bet they have a lot less fun. I bet all that invalidity just eats away at the joy of creation, at the wonder of what our human brains are capable of.

That’s why I write books. Even when it’s not fun, it’s fun, you know what I mean? And when I push the publish button, all I want is for a few people to have fun reading it. I want The Mud Witch of Verdun to bring a smile to someone’s face. Anything else is just gravy.

So, if you have a few bucks, order the book this Saturday. If not, keep watching this space. I’ll be releasing the book, little by little, over the next 6 months. And most of all, do me a favor: take a second to think about what you could do if you stopped worrying about being a real person and started being the amazing human you are.

World War I and 2021

My kids have spent a lot of time over the last few years with me telling them anecdotes or fun facts about World War I, except that the facts aren’t very fun and the anecdotes usually involve poison gas or dead bodies. Luckily for me, they’re pretty tough kids, but still…it doesn’t make for great dinner conversation. They’ve asked me, more than once, “Why World War I?”

I understand their confusion. As an American, our experience of that particular war was short-lived and not terribly influential. It was all but over by the time our troops got there and there wasn’t the patriotic war effort at home in the same way we remember Victory Gardens and Rosie the Riveter.

In fact, during World War I the situation here in the U.S. was far more complicated than most people know. A lot of people didn’t want to go to war, and when the U.S. declared, a lot of them got in big trouble for speaking out. There was significant prejudice against Germans and, then, Russians after the revolution, even though the U.S. was an ally! Also, there was a pandemic and significant terrorist activity from various anarchist and communist groups around the nation. The whole world probably felt like it was breaking apart.

And when I started this book, in March 2021, that was how I felt too. It’s how I still feel a lot of days. Yes, there’s nothing even close to the Western Front’s trench warfare - there never had been before and I hope never will be again - but it does feel like everywhere I look, things are malfunctioning. Everything from our roads to our international relationships seem too fragile, overworn. Like ice that is melting and just waiting to crack and drown us all.

And in the middle of all of that, my thought was, “What could one person possibly do?” Part of me was asking for myself, but part of me just wanted to explore the idea. Even if - even if - that person had supernatural, otherworldly powers. Even if they could get to the worst places and help the most - what could one person ever do against such systematic destruction. The inertia, the mindlessness of the bureaucratic decisions - how could anyone stand a chance against that?

And so, Addy was born. She was the avatar for all the hope and fierceness I held in the midst of a world that felt full of fear and despair. I like to think that she became more than that, but throwing a strong-minded woman in to the middle of hell on earth seemed like a good place to start asking the question, “What should we do when the world seems determined to break into a thousand pieces?”

More about The Mud Witch!

So, now that I’ve announced my book, I thought I would take a moment to talk a little more about what it’s about. I’ve been working on it, on and off, for two years now, although the bulk of the writing and revising was done over a year ago. It’s strange. The book was very much written during the worst of the pandemic times when we were stuck inside. And as unproductive and sluggish as I felt then, clearly those long boring evenings were good for something.

The story follows Adelaide Simone, a young woman who also just happens to be able to do magic. She’s been trained by a mysterious Order on an island off the coast of France to use the combination of mud and water, plus her own abilities, to be able to bend the laws of physics. At the start of the book, she’s using those skills to protect transatlantic boat crossings from the dangerous waters around the English Channel. Oh, did I forget to mention? It’s 1915. And she’s on a ship called the Lusitania.

Addy has some big decisions to make. She’s got some pretty extraordinary skills, and there’s some pretty extraordinary carnage going on. But she’s not really supposed to be involving herself and the Order has strict rules about how and when their members can intervene in world affairs. Still, unlike them, Addy has seen what's going on firsthand and she can’t just stand by.

Things get even more complicated when Addy realizes that she’s not the only one using magic on the Western Front. And the other magic is stronger and more dangerous. She’s got to find some allies, convince the Order to trust her, and figure out who is causing all the chaos. Too difficult? Not for The Mud Witch of Verdun.

Book Announcement!

Do you ever flit in and out of a book, picking it up for a chapter or two between other novels? I’m still working my way through a book of essays by Madeline L’Engle, even though I’ve probably finished 6 books since I started it. She’s a remarkable writer, of course we all know that, but I’m enjoying her humility more than anything else. In our world of self-promotion and striving, her accurate sense of her own importance is refreshing. It feels, in some ways, anachronistic, until I remember that Lord Byron and Ernest Hemingway floated their way around the world full of hot air and bravado. There’s nothing new about ego.

It's hard for me to contemplate doing so many of the things that I’m told need to be done to achieve success. Not the networking and relationships, I do that for fun. But the constant, constant demand to be out there – pithy and poignant, always directing the conversation back to myself and my work. I find the whole idea of it exhausting.

It’s en vogue right now to find that self-promotion to be morally repugnant, but I don’t see it like that. I come from a long line of people who are charming, funny, and can talk themselves both into and out of trouble. Sometimes you just have to go for what you want, and sometimes that means that you make sure that the person you’re talking to remembers who you are. It would be a little rich for me to condemn influencers when we all talk about P.T. Barnum as though he’s anything different.

But that’s not me. I want to communicate my thoughts clearly and memorably, and after that, I’d mostly like to be left alone to read or chat or snuggle with my cat. This isn’t to say I don’t have a big ego. I’m constantly taking on projects that I can’t possibly complete because of course I can figure it out! And you would think that getting in this many scrapes would dent that sense of competency, but nope. I just mostly don’t want to share that ego with other people. It’s too much work.

So when I think about self-publishing, I don’t stress about getting the book finished or completed. I stress about getting the book out there. And every author’s guide tells me to suck it up. Success depends on selling myself, depends of buying a hundred copies and going to every bookstore and convincing them to put my book on the shelves, depends on hammering on a door until it opens.

Maybe that’s true. I often find myself outright refusing to do something and then, in the end, coming back around to the idea. But when I think about success, all I want is for people to read the stories I write. Authors don’t make any money anyway (they really, really don’t). So, I’m going to try something different with this book. Let’s just say that this is my turn to bow to my ego.

I’m going to release my new book, The Mud Witch of Verdun, via Amazon Publishing, on April 15th. You’ll be able to buy it on Kindle or in paperback and read it to your heart’s content.

But, at the same time, I’m going to be really, really old fashioned, and release this book, bit by bit, over the next 6 months. It’s called serialization and it was all the rage back in the day. So, three times a week, I’m going to put up a section of 1,000 or so words, and in the end, the book will be available for free if you’re willing to click through. And if you want to speed ahead, you can always hop over to Amazon to buy it. Either way, my goal is that this story gets out there.

I don’t know if this is how it’s all supposed to work, but I know for me right now, this feels like the right way to release this book. I loved writing it so much that I even loved editing it! The story and characters made me laugh and cry and I hope that you will enjoy reading it. There’s a few more weeks of tweaks and changes that need to be made but in the end, I think it will be more than worth it.

While I’m releasing the book bit by bit, I’m going to ease off regular blogging for awhile and work on the stubborn manuscript that’s been on the back burner. I’ll pop back in when I can, of course!

I’m so excited to share this project with you all. I have been so bolstered by this blog and all of you wonderful readers. So, mark your calendars for April 15th. I can’t wait!

Lost in a Good Book

I have to confess, I’d rather be reading right now. I’m in the middle of a total beach read, a fun little book by Sophie Kinsella, and I feel like I’m back at my first job right now, because all I want to do is get to my lunchtime so I can read for a half hour. There’s this great old song by Ben Folds where he’s singing about how he has to finish one more song for his album and usually he tries for excellence, but he’s newly in love and just wants to get it done so that he can get back to his new girl.

This is like this, except not love, just a book that’s a little bit too addictive. It’s a hard thing, making a book hard to put down. A lot goes into it – pacing, chapter breaks, plot twists – and as a reader, we usually don’t notice unless it’s done badly. Then, it feels like every time we approach the end of a chapter, someone is professing love or falling off a cliff or being revealed as a secret spy. After a while, it gets a little tedious and more than a little unbelievable.

Done well, however, and I find myself awake at one a.m., ignoring my sensible self, saying “Just one more chapter,” over and over. Prose is usually pretty accessible to me. I notice characterization and foreshadowing and themes and all that, and I can tell when it’s being done well or badly. Except when a book hits that addictive spot. Then it’s like I’m bewitched. I don’t even know it’s happening until I my stomach rumbles because it’s been 7 hours since dinner and I realize I really do need to get to sleep.

On the other hand, poetry always feels like magic to me. I’m not a poet so the idea that you can convey meaning not only with the words but the rhythm, the sound, the feel of the words – it’s as close to enchantment as I think I can get. Not every poet hits me the same way. Shakespeare is a slog and I find T.S.Eliot frankly confusing. But Emily Bronte haunts me and I find myself tapping along to Longfellow’s meter. I think that’s one of the beautiful parts of poetry: it hits each of us differently, resonating with our uniqueness.

And for some people, poetry doesn’t do anything at all. It might make rational sense, but that magic isn’t there. I feel that way with visual art. It doesn’t hit me. I’ve tried. I’ve researched and learned and I can explain the difference between impressionism and post-impressionism art, but my taste boils down to, “Do I like the colors?” Which some art scholar could tell me the meaning of, I’m sure, but in reality means that it doesn’t draw me in.

To each our own, I guess. I’m glad that the magic works differently for different people. And I’m really, really glad that I don’t know why it works on me. There’s something missing when you learn too much, when you step too far back from the story and turn it into a work to be critiqued. I’m still glad I know how to get lost in a good book.

Cover Art

I’m nearing the final stages of revision on this book and it’s time for the parts I like least – proofreading, formatting, and cover art. I got into this whole writing thing because I like painting pictures with words. I like figuring out where the story will go and envisioning exotic places and most of all, never, never having to actually do any visual art of any kind. It’s not my forte.

Generally, I’m a “more is more” person. I want to buy all the pictures to hang on my walls. I want to use all the colors when I paint. I want to put all my ideas down. And when I’m writing, I can generally do that. (Or, I can put them into a second document to use for the next book!) But cover art is hard. You want to make it look interesting. You want it to have some visual appeal. You want it to have some relation to the story you’re telling. I can lay those things out and have absolutely no idea how to achieve them. Honestly, I should just hire one of the many qualified people who exist for this purpose. And, in the end, maybe I will. But unfortunately, I have a general “How hard could it be?” outlook on life.

This outlook has helped me achieve many things. Without it, I would never have gotten through college, let alone grad school. I would have given up the idea of ever becoming a parent. I definitely wouldn’t have taken on an amorphous semi-career while also spending way too much time volunteering and somehow keeping our family fed and reasonably well-cared for. I’ve written three (3!) books just because I never stopped to think that maybe I couldn’t.

At the same time, I’ve had more than one DIY project that involved stopping after about half an hour to actually look up the steps that I was supposed to be doing. I’ve bitten off more than I can chew more times than I can count, and poor Forrest spends a fair amount of his life helping me dig out of situations I impulsively got myself into.

I will say this, though. I have found myself far more capable than I would have imagined. And I am the kind of person who learns by doing rather than reading. So, maybe I’m condemned to spend the rest of my life getting myself into and out of scrapes.

So I’ll take a crack at the cover, try a few things and we’ll see how it works out. And in the end, maybe it’ll be better than I imagined. Or maybe it’ll be wonderfully done by someone who is very much not me.

Revisions

I’m going through revisions for my World War I book, reading through all the things that don’t make sense or maybe I changed halfway through the book and forgot to double check, plus the typos and stupid mistakes that persist in a 90,000 word manuscript no matter how many times I read through it. It can be a pretty demoralizing process, but one in which I have been delightfully surprised at my own conscientiousness. I’m also in the middle of a new manuscript, one that is all jumbled and broken and I keep pausing and wondering if maybe I should just start over and, well, it’s at least nice to know that past Serenity actually checked to see if they carried revolvers or pistols in the British Expeditionary Forces.

It’s a little window into the slow and halting process that I went through, a little over a year now, trying to make sure I got it right. There are so many things I would change, so many little and big tweaks that I could switch, but I don’t know if it would help or hurt the story, so I don’t. I once read that Dostoevsky rewrote Crime and Punishment three times, in first person, third person, and third person privileged. At the time, I thought, “That’s wild!” and now I wonder if maybe that’s just what it took.

There’s this American thing about work ethic, nose to the grindstone, hustle culture and all that. I hate it so much, not least because I have been in both creative and non-creative professions and I’ve found that all work and no play doesn’t make Jack a dull boy, it makes him make increasingly poor decisions due to exhaustion. When it comes to writing, there is a limit to what any person can achieve, unless they’re Stephen King on a coke-fueled binge in the early 1980s, of course.

Even some of the most prolific authors I know talk about spending 8 hours writing, but include sitting and staring out of a window or going for a walk to be part of that writing time. It’s hard, this job that doesn’t feel like a real job. And having a significant portion of that “job” be sitting and imagining, well, I might as well pack it in. There’s no grindstone here.

So there’s relief in the revisions. Look! All of those days spent thinking and typing, it’s here! That two hour rabbit hole where I looked at pictures of mess kits to figure out if they would use a bowl or a cup for soup? It mattered! And maybe, when I switch back to my current mess of a manuscript, I can remind myself that I won’t remember how messy it was, just how much fun I had writing it.

Old Favorites

I’ve been cocooning myself in some comfort reading lately and I’m trying very hard not to feel bad about it. My book club has been reading some heavy stuff – a gruesome crime novel, then Invisible Women by Caroline Criado Perez, and then finally a nonfiction about the immune system, which is good, if a bit gross.

On my own end, I’m neck deep in a new book that is coming together, but it’s all bits and pieces right now and self-doubt and wondering if I can ever make it come out the way I want it to. And the manuscript from last year is being edited, which means that someday soon, I’m going to get a document telling me all the things I did wrong and if you’re wondering if that day is worse than unmedicated childbirth, let me tell you, yes, it is.

So in my free time, I’m reading old books that make me smile and feel cozy and require absolutely no deep thought or discussion whatsoever. It’s all L.M. Montgomery and Terry Pratchett and Nora Roberts with fluffy blankets and a cat on my lap.

There’s a part of me that feels like I should be reading more complicated things. Or at least new things. There’s so much great literature out there and I haven’t read most of it. I know the gist of course. Wuthering Heights is about a codependent relationship with a narcissist. Pride and Prejudice is about navigating class and gender in an overly dogmatic society. Ulysses is about…just kidding, even if I had been able to finish it, I wouldn’t know what Ulysses was about.

Of course, by not having read them, I’m not getting the fullness of any of the stories, of the poetry and character building and settings. But my brain is tired and I don’t yearn for more things to think about. I have read books that shake me to my core and, as edifying as that process is, it’s not fun.

There’s a part of me that needs to cocoon during the winter. I want all of my people to be in one place, happy and safe and fed, and then I want to get really, really warm and not talk to anyone at all. I’m sure it’s evolutionary or something, but it’s not easy to justify in a world that tells us we must always be improving, moving forward, being productive.

I think it stems from the idea that we must be all things to all people at all times. I can’t just be a mother and a friend and a writer and a contributing member of society. I must also be well read and well thought and have educated opinions on everything from cryptocurrency to foreign policy. Nah. I’m giving it up. I’ll keep learning and trying, of course, that’s deep inside me, but not at every moment. Some moments are for greeting old books like old friends, reconnecting with familiar stories, and reminding ourselves that it’s ok to take it easy sometimes.

Dreams and Distractions

It’s November 1st, a new month, and the unofficial beginning of the coziest season of the year. For me, and my writing, it’s also the beginning of my biggest ambitions and probably least productive time. There’s no sunny backyard to distract, the kids are (mostly) in school, and there really is nothing that makes me happier than a cup of tea, a cat, and my laptop.

But that same coziness also brings with it the little creeping distractions. I’ve already planned out our Christmas crafts, started shopping for stocking stuffers, and just this weekend, Willow and I made maybe the best muffins I’ve ever had. I’m currently stuffing my face with one of them and let me tell you, the roly-poly feeling is not conducive to deeply creative thought.

I’ve of two minds on productivity. On the one hand, I’ve got a “butt in seat” mentality. You sit down, do the work, and don’t stop until you’re where you want to be. “You can’t edit a blank page” and all that. On the other hand, as a parent who is trying to work, there are moments where the exhaustion/worry/neverending task list obliterates anything resembling excellence. And I do believe that rest is part of work.

What does rest mean? Does it mean sleep? Does it mean frequent breaks during the day? Does it mean significant time spent on nonwork? What about hobbies that are fulfilling but physically hard?

And the final piece is that there is literally no room in our society for the mentality that rest and work are not opposites, but rather two sides of the same coin. There’s no room to realize that forcing oneself to push through the exhaustion is occasionally helpful but mostly just borrowing from my future self. (And let’s be clear, that future self is the one who spends time with my kids. They get the mom who is running on empty.)

There’s a luxury in this life of mine and it’s one I am self-conscious about. A few years ago, I was allowed to decide what I wanted to do with the next ten years of my life. There were a lot of parameters put in place by the realities of my life, but all of those had to do with time and flexibility and my ability to randomly spend a couple days in the hospital if my kids’ needs flared up. Money was the piece that didn’t have to matter. I can’t even express how thankful I am for that.

But that flexibility that this path offers me is a double edged sword. I can be anywhere at anytime (in fact, I must be able to be anywhere I’m needed at anytime) but there’s also no one prioritizing this writing but me. (And Forrest, of course, who is a total rock star, except for his habit of begging me to write the books he wants to read instead of the ones I actually want to write.) And without a boss, or a true deadline, or even a clear path forward, it’s hard to navigate the work/rest/play balance.

I don’t purport to have any answers. I set my little writing goals and I put a timer on and turn my phone to do not disturb and then I spend my time falling down a wikipedia rabbit hole that is only marginally related to the work at hand. And the holidays will bring their own work/rest/play balance, or imbalance, of course. Most of all, it’s nice to remind myself that no one knows the answer. There isn’t one. There is only persistent effort to try to get it right, try not to let down the people I value most. And remind myself that one of the people I’m trying not to let down is me. Because if I don’t value her dreams, how can I ask other people to?

Setbacks and Carrying Water

It’s been a week of frustrations for me. And it’s only Wednesday. The new book I was working on stalled, the book-in-waiting hit a roadblock, and I lost a day to health stuff. And then, this morning, I was all set to spend a free hour on a long-procrastinated DIY project only to realize I don’t have any paint stripper. Gah.

There was nothing left for it but to go for a walk. Too many things inside my head were jumbling. New book ideas, paths forward for the book-in-waiting, parenting worries, house plans, and all of the emotions and frustrations and regret that commonly swirl in my brain when I’m at decision point. So I put on some terrifically moody music and got outside.

There’s this amazing book by Barbara Brown Taylor called “An Altar in the World” about accessing the sacred through the mundane. In it, there’s a chapter about “carrying water.” That is, the holiness of monotonous physical labor that connects us with both our fellow humans and our own humannness - the daily bundle of needs that make up being a living creature. I may be misremembering since the last time I read the book was last year but her point resonated with me: Sometimes, when we’re stuck, we need to get moving physically in order to get unstuck mentally.

That chapter is one of the reasons I garden. It’s one of the reasons I build in time to do the dishes in the middle of my day. It’s one of the reasons why, when things are really bad inside my head, Forrest will come out for lunch and see me preparing to paint a room in our house yet another outrageous color.

If I sit and try to think, I circle the drain. But if I’m moving, even doing something as simple as a walk, those annoying ruts are interrupted by other thoughts - thoughts like, “Damn, this hill is steeper than I thought,” and “Oh, they tore down that cute house I liked.” And those interruptions pause my rage and regret for just long enough to maybe provide a new path to walk down.

A path like, “I can’t believe I forgot to order the paint stripper. Who does that? Remember that meme about going to Home Depot ten times for every DIY project. Well, if there’s a meme about it, maybe it’s just a thing that people do.”

Or, more helpfully, a path like, “Ok, this plan didn’t work. Why did I choose it in the first place?”

And by the time I’ve gotten back to my yard, I’m sweaty and gross and tired but also ready to just admire the morning glories that have taken over my yard instead of feeling like the worst gardener ever for just giving up fighting them sometime in August.

I’m putting this post in the book section of my blog because this has been the hardest part of being a writer, keeping my own brain in check. There’s a lot of alone time and a lot of time wondering if any of this is real work at all or if it’s all just a narcissistic fever dream. You get into it wanting to create magic and then you find yourself spending a half hour comparing two different synonyms for the word “blonde” and it all feels like it went off the rails somewhere. But then something as stupid as a walk sorts everything back into its proper places and it’s hard to admit it but maybe that’s as close to magic as I’m going to get today. Then again, 30 minutes of sappy music and things are back on track? Maybe that’s not so bad, as magic tricks go.

Time Confetti

I’m returning back to book four after a month of jumping in and out and frankly, even though I wrote it, it’s like I’m picking up a half finished novel that I set down sometime last year. As a parent/author/friend/wife/homeowner, my life these last few months has been an endless stream of fifteen minute increments punctuated by interruptions. Not just the kids, either. The dogs, a delivery, a new neighbor coming to say hi. None of it’s bad, but it’s also not conducive to a plot that makes any sense.

A friend of mine calls it “time confetti”. Lots of time, as long as you don’t mind it being broken up into a thousand little pieces. I call it the creativity killer. Just enough time to feel like I should write something, but not enough to immerse myself in the task. And definitely not enough to do it well.

Some days I wish that I could put myself in a little bubble, one where there are no garbage trucks making a racket or cats helpfully coughing up a hairball at my feet. And still, the vibrancy that surrounds me is what keeps me sane. Because too many hours inside this head of mine and I realize that I am terrible, everything I write is terrible and do I even know how to make a grammatically correct sentence anymore? It’s like when you say the word “foot” too many times and it feels like it’s not a word anymore. Except with my entire identity.

I guess some people, when left alone in their own head, come to a grand sense of self-importance. Absent external feedback, they come to believe that only they know how life, the universe and everything works. And the outside world acts as a humbling influence, reminding them that they are but a small part of an expansive universe, that in the end, doesn’t particularly notice them or their grand ideas. So, I guess the cat puke is pretty important to bring them back down to earth.

Me, on the other hand, I need reminding of how important and essential I am. There have been a million writers, poets and artists who could outshine my little flame any day of the week, But there’ s only one person here to hug my hurt child, reach out to my lonely friend, and yes, clean up the cat puke. The words I put on the page are important, but my identity doesn’t sit in those words. I am the sum total of all the things I do, both grand and mundane.

I’ve spent a summer in the mundane. In a thousand small moments. And now that there is time, I feel my soul expanding to fill it, stretching out like a cat in the sun. Basking the in luxury of both beginning and finishing my thoughts. The luxury of writing something, and then staring out the window, and then rewriting it, all in one go!

But don’t worry, I’m sure I’ll still be cleaning up a hairball at some point today.

New Book News!

Hey!

I am starting research on a fourth novel by reading lots and lots (and lots) of books about post-World-War-One America. Whew. Dark times. Between an ongoing pandemic, struggles between European powers over disputed territories, fear of international meddling in American affairs, racial animosity, and union battles, things were rough. Sounds familiar…

I’m probably going to write more about specifics, but for today, let me enlighten you about an event called the Boston Molasses Flood, when a giant silo full of molasses (used to make rum, I believe) broke, sending a 20 foot tall wave of molasses through a crowded Boston neighborhood, killing 21 people and injuring over a hundred. Anarchists and Bolsheviks were blamed, but it was probably just negligent maintenance on the part of the owner.

Not much more to say about that, except that it was said you could still smell the molasses on hot days up to sixty years later. And although people died and so it’s definitely not funny, I can’t get the phrase “slow as molasses” out of my mind, and so I am imagining that scene from Austin Powers when the guard is killed by the steamroller even though he has a full minute to get out of the way.

More weird updates to come…