FREUD ON THE IRISH...and the failures of November

It started off as just a doodle, inspired by my friend, tinker, who led me to this exercise in Sacred Doodling. But once I'd completed my doodle, I started wondering what Freud might say it revealed about me. Then I remembered my favorite quote from the founder of psychoanalysis. Speaking of the Irish, he said:

"This is one race for whom psychoanalysis is of no use whatsoever."

Though I'm a born yank, by race I'm one of Freud's incurables. Whether he meant to infer that the Irish were too crazy , too complex, or too smart to be successfully analyzed, I'm not sure--though, of course, I have my opinion.

Or maybe it's just that the Irish are too imaginative to ever get their stories straight. Get someone like me on the couch, and I may spin tales for years--some as true and clear as a spring lake, others shall we say "embellished" by metaphorical fancy and my own love of the dramatic. Who can cure someone like that?

Anyway, from now on, my artmaking will be markedly improved because--(drumroll, please!) my copy of The Artist's Manual has arrived at last! Now that I have a little in-house instruction, I'm going back to the post where several of you kindly suggested some art supplies a novice like me might enjoy.



From now on, the computer paper, the black magic marker, and the glue stick will no longer be my weapons of choice!

I also have a few November confessions to make:

1. I've failed utterly at NaNoWriMo. Though my absurdly optimistic nature would normally tell me that yes (!) I could still make it from the 3,436 words I wrote to the holy grail of 50,000, every now and then even we cockeyed visitors from fantasy land must face reality. And reality is this: I've only got ten days left, including Thanksgiving, a two day trip to New Hampshire, and my cousin's wedding day--all days when I won't be writing. And given that I've never written more than 2,500 words in a day, the hard mathematical facts are against me. Has anyone got a white flag handy?

2. I've also failed at NaNoBloMo--the campaign to post every day. In fact, I've failed so miserably that I can't even get the acronym right. However, I love cheering from the sidelines as several of my blog friends have kept posting through colds and sick cats, bad relationships and bad weather. I'm in awe of you!

3. And what about Make Art Every Day? Well, as you can see, around here, it's been more like "make something that vaguely resembles art some days."

4. Even my own November posting schedule, in which I enthusiastically announced that I would impose structure on my unruly blog was what George Bush would call a rout.

Sometimes I adhered to the schedule; other times life and laziness (my two guiding principles) intervened, and I didn't.

But wait! There's another way to look at it:

1. It wasn't time for me to write a new novel right now. It was time to return to the first draft of one I'd already written and begin the serious process of flogging it into shape--which I did and with a joyful vengence. Thus, my nano failure was a writing success.

2. I didn't post every day. But then again, I didn't have something to say every day, so consider yourself spared.

3. No, I didn't make art every day, but I made it more than I have in years. I did it with family. I did it with friends. And now with my new Artist's Manual, I plan to continue the fun long after the last of the leftover Thanksgiving turkey has been consumed and the last brown leaf has fallen. It's an unqualified triumph!

4. I tried something new with the blog, and some of it worked! I love writing about Ten Things every Tuesday, and the existential question on Wednesday. I also love going out and hunting down a new blog discovery of the week. (Surfing with a purpose! What could be more divine?)

Sharing the best links I can find has been great, too, but I think I'd rather post them as I come upon them. Collecting and putting them up all at once seemed a bit like, well, work, and committed lazy person that I am, I don't come to the blog to work.

So how's that for a fabulous self-justification? I fail at absolutely every single goal I set myself for the month, then I declare it some kind of crazy success. Maybe Dr. Freud was right, after all...

MORE ONE LINE OBITUARIES & The Existential Question

No art today, but I do have this photo of something Shevonne made and sent from LA.

I also found a few one-line obituaries by gleaning the long version for the single sentence that seems to distill the essence of a life. These people particularly inspired me this week:

Christabel Burniston, professional Educationist:

"Still elegant, immaculately dressed and tiny waisted at age ninety, she published a novel.

Ioan Ivancea, Gypsy leader of a Romanian village band:

"Only days before his death, he was still reaching for his clarinet."

And of the marvelously dramatic poet, Francis Berry:

"He was happy to seem a foolish, passionate man."

Now for the infamous existential question: What inspired you this week?

10 THINGS THAT HAVE CHANGED SINCE I SOLD MY NOVEL and one that hasn't...

A year ago today, something incredible happened to me. Let me set the scene: It was around eleven in the morning, and I was in my study writing when the phone rang. I shambled toward the kitchen, coffee cup in hand, a defiant bunch of characters still carrying on a spirited dialogue in my head. I was still wearing my pajamas.

My first thought? Maybe it was my agent calling to say she'd sold my book! An amazing coincidence maybe? A sign that that I possessed the gift of prophecy? Nope.

Actually, that thought has passed through my mind every time the phone rang for years--even before I had an agent. In fact, I've probably been dreaming about that phone call since I was nine years old and I first started writing stories instead of multiplication problems on my papers during math class.

The only difference was that this time I was right. This time it was my agent. And this time she wasn't calling to say hello, or to suggest a revision or to tell me that we'd gotten a pass. This time she began the conversation with the words, "I have some very exciting news..."

What happened next, I recorded in detail last year. This year I want to talk about the expectations those words carried for me. (The illustration above may give you some idea of my modest hopes.)

While I waited tables and dreamed and scribbled by moonlight, I'd come to believe that if I ever sold a novel, I'd never have another moment of self-doubt, the grouchy old man in the deli would smile when he saw me and toss in an extra quarter pound of smoked turkey, and it would never rain on my birthday. Slowly, in the course of the past year, I've been disabused of nearly all my out-sized expectations.

In actuality life has both changed immensely--and not at all.

Ten Things That have Changed:

1. I eased my way out of my waitress job--with baffling reluctance, I might add.

2. When I told people I was a writer, they didn't do that funny thing with their eyebrows, or sneak each other sidelong glances, like they had in the past.

3. On my tax form, I wrote WRITER all in caps, instead of waitress. I wonder what the IRS thought about the row of exclamation points at the end.

4. I worked more hours than I ever have in my life and I loved every minute of it.

5. I learned that in today's market, the success of any given book depends as much on the writer's efforts as it does on the publisher's.

6. I became an enthusiastic promoter.

7. I threw around strange terms like "my publicist," "my editor," "my galleys," like I'd been doing it all my life.

8. I made some amazing new friends.

9. I went to New York for only the fourth time in my life--and this time I went "on business."

10. I realized that self-doubts, rainy birthdays, and grouchy guys at the deli never go away. And what's more, I wouldn't have it any other way. If life was perfect, what would we write about?

And the one thing that hasn't changed? This morning, around eleven O'clock I was in my study, talking back to a troublesome character, and sucking on a cold cup of coffee. And yes, I was still in my pajamas. In the end, that's still what it's all about.

YOUR LINKS, MINE, AND THE BLOG DISCOVERY OF THE WEEK

We have been walking at Eagle Pond for twenty years. We walked with the kids when they were small. We walked with our dog, Sadie, when she was young enough to race down to the pond, and obey her lab blood when it told her to swim whenever you get the chance, then to emerge from the water, shaking darts of sparkling light everywhere.

We also walked with her when she was so old that only fierce dog loyalty and the memory of her former joy in the place kept her going till the end, when she looked at the pond with nostalgia, but knew she could never navigate the steep hill that led to it.

Now that the kids have better things to do than hike with their parents and Sadie is buried in the front yard, we walk with other dogs, and with each other, still disbelieving that there will come a day when one of us will walk alone. Or that one day Eagle Pond will belong entirely to other hikers--their families, their dogs, their solitary dreams.

But not yet! Today I particularly enjoyed my walk because I was avidly stalking the perfect November leaf. At first, Ted made fun of me, but then he started his own collection, proving once again that art is elemental, contagious and everywhere.



Now for the links of the week:


Fiona Robin shares a poem called Seeing William in a Photo on Qarrtsiluni that one commenter calls "beautiful, memorable, hot." I agree. (You'll have to scroll down because I couldn't get the direct link to work, but scroll slowly; there's plenty of other fine things to read and see along the way.)

Dating God offers some excellent tips on building your blog, but as always, Kate's unique sassy voice is the best part.

Dave, whose photography grows more remarkable by the day, goes beneath the surface with his images of shallow leaves in water.

Thanks are owed to Sara who pointed me in the direction of Women that Meddle in Physick, a most informative post and for me, a great new blog.

And for those whose life is lacking in adventure, Zhoen suggests an anti-dote.

Natalie humbly reminded us that her own biography continues this week. Those who've been following this sporadic retelling of an extraordinary life in art and travel have been waiting for this installment for a long time. And to those who have yet to make Natalie and her friend Blaugustine's acquaintance, you're in for a treat.

And after all my searching, I did come back with the pearl I promised you. Awfully Serious is my Blog Discovery of the Week, chosen for its fresh perspective, its energy and above all its fine writing.

HOT NEWS

Tomorrow I will share links to the best posts I read this week, a practice I'm trying to establish every Friday.

In the past seven days, however, I've traveled mostly to familiar and favorite blog outposts. Thus I haven't yet made a Blog Discovery of the Week. But give me time! I intend to get on the search first thing tomorrow and and I won't be back till I've found you a pearl.

Meanwhile, if anyone has read anything truly wonderful this week, don't keep it to yourself! Leave a comment. It might contain the exact word, or image or line that someone out there desperately needs to read.

TWO SHOVELS AND A HOE

DSCN1956, originally uploaded by patryfrancis.

Not since I was hoping for responses to my agent query letters
have I waited for the postman so avidly. But every day, Michael comes without the copy of The Artist's Manual I ordered a week ago.

"Sorry, no package today," he says when he sees the disappointed slump of my shoulders

I also have yet to acquire my *real* art supplies. So for today, inspired by One Deep Breath, I decided to try a haibun for the very first time.

I knew I took this photograph for a reason!

For those of you, like me, who are unfamiliar with the form, it is a combination of prose and haiku. For a better and more complete description or to read more Haibun, visit One Deep Breath.

First chill of autumn. I traipse into the yard in my old boots and pin sheets to the line. Small satisfactions. The wind, fierce today and rising, will dry the fluttering cloth smooth. In one corner of the yard, the spot where the children used to dig. In another, our fallow garden.

Two shovels and a hoe
lean against the autumn tree
What will we dig for now?

And just in case you thought I forgot my blogging schedule, the best thing that happened to me today was that my website went live. Check it out and let me know what you think!

WRITING YOUR OWN OBITUARY

november, originally uploaded by patryfrancis.

The truth is we write it every day. Not the one that appears in the newspaper, but the real one. The one we write with our words and with our gestures, with every step we take to every place we go, the one we think and breathe and read on the faces of those who love
us. And yes, on the faces of those who don't.

The obituary that changes every day.

The one we write every time we say yes, and perhaps even more clearly with our stubborn refusals. The one that is wide enough and long enough to encompass what we see--and also what we turn our faces from. The one that records all that we know and also takes note of what we never allow ourselves to imagine.

No newspaper piece has ever captured the truth of a life. That truth is not found in who we married, where we were born, or where and how we did our work, or who stood at the funeral and mourned us. At least not completely.

Still, I continue to read newspaper obituaries. In today's New York Times, there was an obituary of a man named J.J. Servan-Schreiber. The headline called him a "French man of ideas." If one must be forced to wear a title in death, I rather like that one.

The obituary spoke of Servan-Schreiber's "many careers in many countries: Writer in France, teacher in the U.S., hotelier in Brazil. He started a controversial magazine, wrote a book on the torture he saw in Algeria; won and lost elective offices..."

But I especially liked President Jacques Chirac summation:

"One life wasn't enough to contain his energy, crativity and enthusiasm so he forged multiple destinies."

So here is your existential question of the week. If you were only allowed a one line obituary, what would you want it to say?

10 Wellfleet Oysters and 10 Ways to Stay Young

These oysters, which my friend Jake gathered from the bay in the middle of a heavy storm for his and Laura's annual oyster party are my art of the day. I thought of painting over them, collaging them, adding quotes or pasting shells around the edges. But when it comes right down to it, there's absolutely nothing you can do to improve on a Wellfleet oyster. Except maybe adding a little hot sauce and sucking them down right out of the shell!

For Part 2 of 10 Things, I decided to tackle a topic that has probably inspired more snake oil salemen and self-help books and magazine articles than any other. Since youth looks good and feels good and sometimes even provides the illusion that we will never die, how do we stay young?



10 Ways to Stay Young

And no, I'm not talking about merely looking the part. Or dressing up in leggings and a long sweater that barely covers your butt if you're a woman, or spiking your hair up like a rock star and buying the coolest sunglasses on the block if you're a man. I don't mean finding a younger spouse or undergoing fertility treatments just before the AARP card arrives. Nor am I advocating that you become such an expert on hot trends that you know more about them than you do about yourself.

Many of us who are over thirty -- and some even younger -- have already bought the potions, hired the personal trainer, and seen the hair colorist. And don't get me wrong, I'm not against those things -- as long as they don't consume your life. As long as they don't make you forget that your time here really is limited, and maybe you ought to be using it.

Ironically, the more we worship youth, the more we market it and exalt it and mock it by imitation, the more we deaden its spirit.

How do you define youth beyond its obvious smooth skin and raging hormones and washboard abs? Here's my definition:


1. Being young is discovering that you've just inherited the world and that it's a marvelous one. It's also flawed, woefully mismanaged and seriously imperilled. It means setting out with all the idealistic fervor of Don Quixote to rescue it, to change it, to polish it till its new again.

1 1/2.It's not caring that you are probably destined to fail in all the big ways. It's doing it anyway, and discovering that maybe the "small way" matters more than you think.

2. Being young means its your job to fall in love, and you do it extravagantly and often. You fall in love not only with potential romantic partners, but with trees, with the dark and shiny streets where you walk with your friends at midnight, with the color of the sky when you rise from your bed at five a.m., with a snatch of music that you heard once and never forgot.

3. Being young means you are perfectly beautiful and beautifully perfect. You are not too fat, too pimply, too large of nose or legs or teeth, nor too small of breasts or eyes or height--though some may tell you that you are. But believe me, there will come a day when you gaze at a photograph of your young self and be absolutely stunned by its beauty. And you will wonder how you could have failed to see it, to inhabit it, to celebrate it every day.

4. Being young means you make mistakes. Glorious mistakes. Dumb mistakes. Sometimes even the kind of wild mistakes that will cause you to wonder what you were thinking. It's crying and regretting and bemoaning those mistakes until you realize they weren't distractions from the road after all. They were the road.

5.Being young means your body is meant for movement. It's a time for dancing, for running, for being able to do prodigious amounts of work, then collapsing in exhaustion, only to get up the next day and do it again.

6. Being young means you have very little time and less patience for sitting on the couch, watching other people live their lives on TV. You're far too busy with your own.

7. Being young means you ask the big questions.

8. It means you stay up half the night with your friends formulating answers, and then go to bed deliriously tired, intoxicated with possibilities. Even though you know no more than you did before you started. And it means continuing the conversation in your dreams where maybe--just maybe--the real answers lie.

9. Being young means that you see really well, and you hear really well and so you look with all your heart. And you listen the same way.

10. Being young means that you're capable of surprising and rattling and inspiring your world. And so you do! Whether the world likes it or not, whether it listens or not, whether it cares or not. Because this is your time and you're going to seize it.

*And no, it isn't all about age. In fact, some of the youngest people I know had enough candles on their last birthday cake to ignite a wildfire.

"bittersweet love"

bittersweet love, originally uploaded by patryfrancis.

*Thanks to Left-Handed Trees for the inspiration.

Speaking of bittersweet love, I got a laugh out of this list of 30 Ways Not to Write a Novel. Those who are deeply immersed in the joyful madness known as Nano should check it out. But don't take it too seriously. I indulged in an American variation of at least 27 out of 30 of these "Don'ts" when I wrote my novel, and still managed to do a victory dance at the finish line.

(The ones I didn't do? #2, #6, and #12.)

And despite my almost daily resolutions to apply the proverbial bum glue writers are always yapping about, I'm still walking the dogs on the beach or making art when I should be cranking out that extra page.

What's more, I'm not buying the assertion that the demi-gods who win the Booker Prize or the Nobel or the Edgar aren't masters of procrastination at times as well. John Banville may be more brilliant and prolific than you and me, but I'd be willing to wager he slips off for a cup of tea or three when Marla--or is it Roshni? refuses to cooperate with his plot.


Rule #1? There are no rules...except maybe when it comes to #2. Do that and you may write and sell a novel; you may even make a pile of money; but it won't matter much, because nothing you ever write will ever be worth a damn. And that's the bittersweet truth.

THE PIPING PLOVERS MAKE ART...AND THEN WE DO

piping plovers, originally uploaded by patryfrancis.

Though I didn't get a chance to post yesterday, I did make art. I also saw art. Everywhere. In the leaves that remain on the trees, browning yes, but still containing the last mysterious traces of summer's light, in the rust patterns on the my son's first car, in the cottony whiteness of my mother's hair.




Yesterday we trooped to the beach, kids, dogs, all of us, and found we had entered one of life's perfect and perfectly enigmatic hours. The tide was out; the light was pink and gold; and the piping plovers (one of my personal obsessions) were doing their delicate dance up and down the beach.

The kids and I played detective, following their arrow-like prints until they converged in an almost indecipherable mass. Usually there was a tell-tale clamshell or a sucked out crab leg to explain why the plovers had themselves a little party in that particular spot.


We also noticed the way the tides had etched treelike images on the sand as they tugged the seaweed onto the shore. Art was everywhere!

The dogs chased each other to the sandbars and then took a swim in the icy water. When they emerged, hey seemed to shake even more triumphantly than usual--as if they knew this might be their last swim of the year, and they wanted to enjoy it to the hilt.

Someday I will go to the beach without feeling the need to bring back a treasure, but yesterday was not that day.

Collectively we found:

*a perfectly flat rock that was shaped like an irregular heart

*some dried black seaweed that looked enough like my impossible hair that I saved it for a possible self portrait

*sea roses that were still in bloom which we admired, but did not take home

*pine branches both living and dead

*three pieces of sea glass

*an amazing shell that bore an exotic brown and white design.

On the ride back home, the kids pulled their treasures from their pockets and held them up to the changing light. I couldn't wait to look at mine either--though I waited till we hit a stop light.

Then we went home and made art! The kids set up the art space and made us a banner.



Then the women joined in. Though the men were preoccupied by football, they proved to be a most appreciative audience when we held our "exhibit" later on.

THIRD DAY BLOGS HALF OF A YELLOW SUN

First, a confession: there weren't many ground rules to this book club. You read the book, you write about it on the third of the month, and you don't read anyone else's reviews or thoughts before you do. That's it.

You'd think I could have kept them, especially since I'm the one who made them up. But once I saw comments indicating some of the reviews were only a click away, I got so excited I forgot all about the rules. (And yes, I've been known to regularly eat dessert before dinner, too--especially if it's something chocolate.)

Now it looks as if I'm probably not going to get this up before the midnight deadline either. Oy.

I'd like to say your views didn't influence me, but they did. I even understand the reservations some of you expressed, though I still think this was one fine book.

Half of a Yellow Sun, though it shed light on history, was above all a story, deftly plotted with enough plot twists and suspense to keep the pages turning effortlessly. I could almost taste Ugwu's pepper soup, and smell the scent of Baby's skin when she emerged from the bath.

I believed in Richard's almost desparate love for the remote Kainene and for the Biafran people; I was seared by his lingering sense of himself as an outsider, both in his native country and his adopted land. In the early parts of the novel when both Olanna were captivated by Ogdenigbo's fiery idealism and charisma, so was I. I also shared Olanna's disaffection when her "revolutionary" crumbled as his ideals were tested.

I particularly loved Ugwu, who we first meet as a naive village boy, dazzled by his new master's refrigerator full of food, eager for knowledge, self-improvement and life. Though he recovers from the physical wound he sustains in the war, Ugwu has travelled far from that eager boy by the end of the novel. His altered spirit bespoke the horrors of war as much as the swollen bellies of the children or the slaughtered villagers Olanna finds when she attempts to visit her aunt and uncle.

There was not a character in the novel who wasn't flawed in some way, which added to their humanity. We come to care about them, not because they are mythological heroes, but because they make mistakes, sometimes tragic ones, but Adichie never seems to judge them. Nor do they, in the end, judge one another.

A story that concerns itself with the most depraved human conduct imaginable might be unremittingly dark, but the mercy, generosity, and compassion that the characters show one another were for me, the true yellow sun in the novel.

As a writer, thinking about Half of a Yellow Sun made me consider what elements comprise a great book. A compulsively readable plot and fully developed characters are essential; but many novels that quickly fade from memory possess those.

What makes this one exceptional for me was that it made me think more deeply about what it means to be human. In the end, no one is spared the horrors of war in this novel. Not the ravaged land where it takes place, and not a single one of the characters we've come to know is left unchanged. And yet, the final image is of Olanna and Ogdenigbo holding one another. Holding one another and going on.

A huge thank you to all who shared the reading of this book with me. Whenever I finish a book, I always want to talk about it. I want to tell someone why I loved it or why I felt like throwing it at the wall. I can't tell you how much fun it was to wander from link to link today and do exactly that.

Others who have reviews up:

Amishlaw
Gerry Rosser
Tinker(Includes an illustration of Ugwu!)
Jordan
Sustenance Scout
Left-Handed Trees
Laini
Steve
Colleen
tarakuanyin
Debra

As others share their musings, let me know so I can add you to the list! And if anyone would like to host next month's book club, when we will be reading Daniel Woodrell's Winter's Bone, I'm looking for a volunteer.

Dennis Lehane has said that Woodrell is the least appreciated great writer in America; and an impressive list of writers from Kaye Gibbons to Thomas McGuane concur. Next month the Third Day Book Club will decide whether they're right!

****************************************************************************
As for my distinguished career as an artist, I almost hung it up when my family mistook my chili peppers for strawberries. But then I saw my daughter working on her own art project as she talked on the phone. Her smile persuaded me to continue to subject you to my efforts...at least for a few more days.

A Photograph...and a New Book Club Choice and the best thing I did all day

The woman in the photograph being forced to sit still and participate in my experiments with collage is not Edith Sitwell, but my great-grandmother. On seeing her photograph, people have often commented that I resemble her. Whether the resemblance went beyond the physical is only one of the things I don't know about her.

Neither I, nor anyone living, knows her name or anything about her life. I suspect, but do not know, that it was neither an easy one, nor a long one. In a final affront, time has conspired to erase, not only her name and her story, but this last vestige of her face.


Was she an eccentric? Did she make art or write poems? I suspect but do not know that such things were luxuries a young woman of her time and place and class had little opportunity to explore.

But whether she wrote them down or drew them or pasted them onto a piece of old wallpaper or made them rhyme, I know she walked through the streets of her town and the surrounding woods, and dreamed abundant and astonishing dreams.

How do I know that? Because looking at her face, really looking, was the best thing I did all day.

***********************************************************************************

In other news, it's 11:40 on the second of November, which can only mean one thing.
In exactly forty minutes until it becomes the third!

That's right, in forty minutes, amazing bloggers from far and wide will begin to post their thoughts on The Third Day Book Club's first selection, Half of a Yellow Sun. Okay, maybe not in EXACTLY forty minutes. Some of you do sleep.

Twenty something people signed on to read and blog Adichie's novel, but I know many were tentative and busy, oh so busy, and Yellow Sun is a 400+ page book. Thus, I have no idea exactly how many people actually went read it. But I've heard enough from several of you to know there is a solid group of us. A real book club!

So how to proceed? Today, Jordan asked if I would link the other readers, and I definitely will. I also suggest that you all link to one another so we can form a chain. Or a circle. On second thought, a circle is much better than a chain.

I've thought of starting a separate book blog for third day where we all could post our thoughts--another good point Jordan brought up--but at least initially, I think it might be more fun to post our thoughts on our own blogs.

Why?

1. It will attract new readers to our blogs, where they will undoubtedly find many other amazing things to fascinate and seduce them.

2. It could also draw some of the readers from our individual blogs into the book club.

Gerry wondered what we were supposed to blog about the book. To that end, I'm posting a few discussion questions. Use them or devise your own, review the book as if you were writing for the New York Times, or respond to it with a poem, a piece of art, or however you're inspired to do. Around here, we're nothing if not flexible.

Possible Discussion Questions:

1. The thing that struck me most about this novel was how war transformed the characters in surprising ways. The strong became weak; the good committed horrific acts; a character who seemed cold and somewhat harsh in the beginning revealed herself to be capable of the greatest generosity and courage. Did this feel like a true assessment of how war changes people?

2. Over the course of the novel, Olanna and Ogdenigbo's relationship, which seems strong and vibrant in the beginning, deteriorates to a near complete alienation. And yet, the final scene if a loving one. Do you believe that when the war ended a couple and a family who had seen and endured all that they had could ever be the same?

3. One thing I admired most about the novel was that it was more than a platform to express Achichie's feelings about war. It was a rich and deftly plotted story. What were some of the ways that the author rewarded her readers for their time?

4. Reading this novel makes us confront some uncomfortable subjects: hunger, forced conscription, and the violence that ethnic hatred so often breeds. Did any of those subjects particularly rattle your sleep--and why?

5. Throughout the horrors they endure, Olanna and Kainene never give in to the madness or despair around them. What do you think was the source of their strength?

6. There were a number of vivid and appealing characters in this novel. Which one did you relate to most and why?



This month, inspired by a rave on Myfanwy Collins' blog, I've chosen Daniel Woodrell's novel, Winter's Bone as our next read. The line in Myfanwy's review that most convinced me: "One part coming of age story, one part mystery, one part thriller, one part literary, this book truly defies classification." As all the best stories do!



When I picked it up at the library tonight, I was surprised by its slenderness and by the sparse number of words per page. At less than 200 pages, it should not place too heavy a burden on those who are doing Nano or involved in major preparations for the holidays.

This will be the last selection I make alone. In the coming months, as Third Day grows and hopefully takes its own direction, I'm hoping we can make nominations and then vote on upcoming books.

It would also be great if we we could take turns hosting Third Day, providing discussion questions and the voting forum on our blogs, festival style.

See you all tomorrow!

Nanowrimo, MakeArtEveryDay and the Existential Question(s) of the Week

Yes, it's November and I'm participating in Nanowrimo. For those of you living in remote forests who may have never heard of it, Nano is a crazed activity in which participants vow to produce a novel in a month, chaining themselves to their computers late into the night while the rest of the world slurps pumpkin soup or jumps in piles of leaves or enjoys hot mulled cider while watching Ugly Betty on TV.

"Why?" you sane people from the forest might ask. Well, just for the fun of it. Or at least that's the theory--though I for one don't believe it.

For one thing, writing a novel might be satisfying. It might be the culmination of a life's goal. It can even be--oh my god--profitable. But fun? Who do these people think they're kidding?

So okay, I'm not in the heads of the 70,000 other participants. Maybe they are doing it because November tends to be a grey and brown month and they wanted to add some color to it...Or maybe they're doing it because their friends have all signed up, and peer pressure ate their last brain cell. Hey, maybe opening a vein and seeing what color the ink runs is even their idea of a party.

But like I say, I don't buy it. I think that the vast majority madly pounding out novels "for fun" in November are really trying to trick their subconscious into producing the real thing. A serious, someday publishable, amazing story trapped forever between covers. I know I am. Strangely enough, this is the first year when writing novels is what I do for a living. Pinch me, please.

Producing art on the other hand IS fun for me--probably because I know I'll never be a real artist like Laini or Swirly or Marja-leena or several of the other talented people on my blogroll. It's so much fun, in fact, that the first thought I had this morning when I woke up in my bed this morning was, "Today I'm going to glue stuff on paper! Today I'm going to color!"

And I did!



I searched the house until I found my art supplies: a glue stick, a few of the kids' old crayons and black marker. The rest of my inspiration came when I was sitting in a doctor's waiting room for my annual exam, and reading an old copy of Oprah.

When I saw the photo of Stanley Kunitz walking in the garden, and a I knew I had to have that page. I had to have his words inside my pocketbook, in my room, in the drawing I was going to make.

The poem seemed to sum up all the excitment I feel beginning this month of November. Since it blurred a little in the photo and I want you to have it, too, I'll reproduce it here:

"...I pick my notebook up
and I start to read aloud
the still wet words I scribbled
on the blotted page:
'Light splashed...'
I can scarcely wait for tomorrow
when a new life begins for me,
as it does each day,
as it does each day."


On the next page there was another quote from Joseph Campbell that captured my imagination. And well, the magazine was over a year old--and more significantly, no one was looking...which leads me to my existential question of the week, or actually my three questions.

Why three? Because existence is strange and complicated and sometimes can't be encompassed in one question. And besides, as Sara recently noted, I seem to have a thing for the number 3. Since this isn't an exam, you can answer one, or you can answer all, or you can just hang out and read what other people have to say.

1. The trivial: Have you ever stolen a page out of a magazine--and why?

2. The philosophical: What do you think of the Campbell quote about our responsibility toward the world? Agree? Disagree?
Depends what day you're asked?

3. The practical. This one is for you artists out there. If you were a joyful and perpetual beginner like me, whose only art supplies were five crayons and a glue stick, what's the one thing you would purchase? (The Artist's Handbook is already on the way.)

TEN THINGS I HATE ABOUT HALLOWEEN

Yodog, originally uploaded by myhappylittleplace.

It has chocolate! It has make-believe! It has skeletons rising from the grave to walk through the streets one more time. You'd think I love it.

But I don't.

I know it's curmudgeonly; it's practically unpatriotic; and what's worse, it's probably a sign of being too old and jaded to remember the joy of traipsing through the streets in the cold, nose dripping behind your plastic mask, with an increasingly heavy bag--or even a pillowcase, for the truly enterprising--laden down with an assortment of tantalizing, teeth rotting, commercially made junk food--but I hate Halloween. There I've said it!


And what's more I've got good reasons for it. Ten of them, in fact.

1. Animals in costumes. Seriously, have you ever met a cat who would enjoy getting dressed up as Batman or Bridezilla?

2. It exposes my inadequacies as a mother. I can't sew, and even if I could, I could never come up with the creative costume ideas that the "mother who does everything better than you do" has. As a result, my kids were always dressed up in last minute, hodge-podge costumes made from stuff found around the house. Sheet ghosts and funky princesses were my specialty.

3. People who don't even wave to you on the street bring their children to your door demanding candy.

4. The candy's not even good.

5. I eat it anyway.

6. The prime trick or treating hour is just when you're having dinner.

7. Bad people put razor blades in the candy. Or at least, some sick Halloween Grinch (not me, I swear) did once ten years ago, and the Organization of Paranoid Parents, of which I'm a charter member, has been worrying about it ever since.

8. The dogs don't get it. The doorbell ringing every five minutes? Little people dressed up in furry costumes who haven't even done a trick get treats from their master? What the hell?

9. Fifty dollar costumes! How silly are we?

10. Someone always steals my pumpkin. This year the bold band of thieves came right to the doorstep while we sat reading in our armchairs only feet away, and while the dogs barked madly in the background. Fortunately for them, we were too lazy and curmudgeonly to get up and see what was going on. (Besides, I was reading a really good book.)



The good news? This year, the thieves left something in return. And though I don't think it would make a very good soup, it's almost pumpkin colored.



The bad news? Now I've got to get up out of my armchair and get rid of that cone. Can you make it eleven reasons?

A SCRABBLE RECORD, THE TRUTH ABOUT WRITER'S ENVY AND MUCH MORE..your links for the week

Try It Tuesdays : Week 1 : 2nd try finished art, originally uploaded by traSEAlee.

Jeepers. I just start my new, convenient blogging schedule and I'm already off track. I missed my Saturday post because of a wind storm
that left us without power all day; and then on Sunday, it was Jake and
Laura's annual oyster and champagne party so I never got around to my
Sunday scribbling.

But that's okay. While I fell behind, some more great links accumulated in the comment suggestion. I love that you didn't limit yourselves to blog posts. We have a film trailor, and a couple of book recommendations in the mix, too.

Enjoy!

Peter reminded us of the quiet resonance frequently found in Steve's writing over at On the Slow Train. His latest piece on Writer's Envy particularly hit home for me.

Blue Poppy left a great link that will inspire Scrabble aficionados everywhere. (Are you around, Colleen?) And she also got me excited about
Pan's Labyrinth, the haunting fairy tale by Guillermo del Toro that will be released as a film in December.

In the book department: Anne Bauer is reading Julie Orringer's dazzling collection of short stories, How to Breathe Underwater, and thinks that if you haven't checked Orringer out, maybe you should. I agree.

And Sara recommended The Artist's Handbook, which should be particularly helpful to those of us planning to MakeArtEveryDay in November. I ordered my copy this afternoon.

In the "unique concept for a blog" category, Carmen directs us to a site that prints the kind of tongue in cheek reviews that Amazon won't.

And since both Zhoen and I are doing a Ten Things day on our blogs, she pointed me to Ten Things We Didn't Know Last Week.

NEWS FROM THE NEIGHBORHOOD

news hub, originally uploaded by Lorrie McClanahan.

Plenty of good reading on Blog Street this week. A few pieces that stuck with me:

--Jane Goodall goes to Beijing and speaks about the environment with an almost "pathological optimism". Clearly something the world needs more of.


--For the legions out there planning to participate in Nanowrimo, Patricia Highsmith's words might give you some inspiration when you're hunched over the computer trying to eke out the last words of the day.

--Jane Austen knows a thing or two about getting a novel written, too. (Note to self: it doesn't involve surfing the internet all day.)

--And for those who don't want to write a novel but don't want to be excluded from November's creative frenzy, there's the blogger version: NaBloPoMo.

--The artistically inclined--or even those like me who can't draw for beans but hope to resurrect the joy they felt when they got out the crayons and drew a house with an apple tree in the front yard, can sign on for ArtEveryDayMonth.

--And speaking of disciplined activity, Anna David writes about "exercise addiction" and has me pulling out the yoga mat to do a few crunches at one a.m.



But the Blog Discovery of the Week Award goes to Meg Fowler, writing at a Website of the same name. Not exactly sure how I found her, but I'm sure glad I did.

Now what about you? What did you read this week that excited, inspired, stimulated, made you laugh or think or cry or get up and do a little twirly dance all alone in your room? Leave a link in the comment section and I'll post it over the weekend!

"the best moment of my life..."

The best moment of my life--and I suspect of yours--isn't strictly a moment. It's an accumulation of them, a light that flashes brighter and brighter until it blinds you with its beauty.

It also can't last; and like autumn or first love or a sunrise, that evanescence is no small part of its magic.

This week on Dilbert blog, Scott Adams wrote about the return of his voice after disease had robbed him of it for eighteen months. It was, he said, the best moment of his life. But it wasn't one moment. It was the all the moments and all the years when he had taken the wonders of speaking for granted. And it was also the months when he had gone without it. It was a moment of culmination, and it was amazingly, preciously temporary. Scott couldn't be sure how long he would have the use of his voice, but he knew one thing: it wasn't forever.

For me, there have been a lot of best moments. The moments when babies were born. When love was incited as quickly and mysteriously as tossed match, the moments when shadowy stories that had lingered in my subconscious for months or years finally took on solidity. But Scott's story made me think of another kind of moment.

It was this time of year, late autumn, post harvest, the time of shortening days and increasing chill, and my father was dying. He had been in a coma for two weeks the night I found myself alone with him in his hospital room.

As I did every night, I talked to him. I told him the old stories that bound us together. They seemed incredibly few and thin. The night we snuck out together to buy a puppy after my mother forbid it. The Saturday afternoons when he took me out for chocolate milkshakes. The beach we went to when I was little, and how he always made us walk for miles, until we had escaped the crowds found a place of solitude where we could hear nothing but the sound of the surf. Yes, they seemed few and thin, but they were anything but.

I also told him that I loved him. But on this night, he opened his eyes and spoke in a tremulous voice. "I love you, too."

I picked up the phone and called my mother.

"Someone wants to talk to you," I said. And when I handed her the phone, my father said, "Hi honey," like he had done every night when he came in from work.

But this time we all were weeping. This time we finally understood that we'd been imperviously living the happiest moment of our lives for decades.

Two weeks later my father died, but the bliss of that moment remains. And the truth of it.

Order please!

Order please!, originally uploaded by lapidim.

As I've told you before, I like to hang my clothes on the line in a feat of engineering precision, meant to maximize the use of sun
and wind and to present a pleasing and efficient picture of order. Underwear goes with underwear, socks with socks, things that will be put away downstairs do not mingle with clothes that go upstairs.

My kitchen cupboards are also maintained in strict order, and so is my dishwasher. And that, my friends, is where order ends both in my house and in my life.

And truthfully, I don't think a little happy chaos is a bad thing; in fact I advocate it. Get too orderly and the next thing you know you're pissed off at everyone in your life because they're messing with your systems. In my family, for instance, no one touches "my" dishwasher. Nor would they consider going near "my" clothesline. Not at bad deal when you think about it. For them.

In fact, I'm starting to think that they've learned from the masterful human-training my cats have accomplished. Jasper and Berlin know exactly what I don't want them to do, and whenever they want my attention, they do exactly that. Then, when I jump up from my chair, yelling and flailing my arms, they artfully lead me to the food bowl, tails pointed triumphantly upward. It's a cat technique that has never been known to fail.

You see what I mean about my disorderly mind? I start off talking about my desire to live a more orderly life and the next thing you know I'm pontificating on the feline art of human training.

Anyway, what I really was getting to was this blog. I want to make it neater. I want the socks with the socks, the underwear with the underwear. I don't want to be sitting at the computer at midnight thinking "maybe I should post something," and feeling exactly like Meg Fowler in this spot-on reflection about silly blogger angst.

So this the plan. This is the structure, the order, the system I intend to implement...starting, of course, tomorrow:

Monday: Shameless Imitation Day. I'll find an idea that a really clever and creative blogger is doing, and then--I'll do it too! Is that brilliant, or what? (With proper attribution and linkage, of course.)

Tuesday: 10 Things Day. Whether it's ten poems, ten ideas, ten complaints, ten shouts, or just ten acorns, Tuesday is going to be all about the number 10 around here.

Wednesday: The existential question of the weak (and yes, I spelled weak that way on purpose.) An idea absolutely all my own. Well, almost. Over at Litpark, Susan Henderson asks a question every Monday. But hers are really good, serious questions that never fail to provoke an chorus of thought-provoking answers. Mine, on the other hand, focus on dumb things like who uses the automatic handdryers in the rest room.

Thursday: The Best Thing that Happened all Day Day. (Love the use of day-day) Or if it's been a particularly crappy twenty-four hours, and absolutely nothing good has happened (are there ever really days that bad?), I reserve the right to make it the best thing that happend this month.

Friday: Great things I read around the blogahood day. I'll link to a few things that made me think, made me mad, made me laugh or inspired me to try something new. Then I'll invite you to do the same in the comment section.

Saturday: I'll put up the links, if any, you posted the day before.

Sunday: Well I'll be scribbling, of course!

So all right, I can already see a couple of flaws--and probably, you can, too. For one thing, there are no days off. No sick days, vacation days, too-much-to-do-days or just-don't-feel-like-it days. We all know every week contains at least a couple of those, and some weeks consist entirely of them. In that case, the rule will be iron fast: I won't do it! If the sun shines and Ted wants to go hiking on say a Wednesday, the existential question will just have to wait till the following week.

The weekly schedule also leaves no room for spontanaeity, for the little encounter or thought process or experience that leaves you breathless and makes for the very best blog posts. They are the grace moments, and when one lands on us or we land on it by some accident of serendipity, it would be a travesty not to go with it. Life, after all, will never as as neat as my clothesline. Nor would I want it to be.

"Be quiet, still, and solitary."

In the comment section of the last post, Laini asked a question about the origins of the name of my blog, and led me to a wonderful artist's site. The Kafka quote, which uses the words simply wait was only one of the marvels I found there. Though I hadn't read it before, I love the quote so much that if my blog didn't already refer to it, I would have to rename it in Kafka's honor.

You do not need to leave your room. Remain sitting at your table and listen. Do not even listen, simply wait, be quiet still and solitary. The world will freely offer itself to you to be unmasked, it has no choice, it will roll in ecstasy at your feet.


Franz Kafka




Interestingly enough, it was another German writer who first haunted me with the words simply wait. I have written about Goethe's "The Second Poem the Night-Walker Wrote" here before. It is a poem that confronts us rather starkly with the silence that will claim us all--and "soon". But it doesn't seem at all morbid to me. Instead, I read it as a reminder to sing now while we have a voice, to sing with gratitude and joy, to sing until the trees chant in response to the power of our voices.


Over the hilltops,
Silence,
Among all the treetops
You feel hardly
A breath moving.
The birds fall silent in the woods.
Simply wait! Soon
you too will be silent.

Goethe

THE PEOPLE COME TOGETHER

In recent years, the country where I live has been so polarized that it seemed we would never come together on anything. My despair over our disunity reached a peak a few months ago when an apolitical post about an art exhibit somehow sparked a virulent exchange of red vs. blue rhetoric in the comment section. The animosity expressed was dispiriting to say the least.

I don't want to fight that particular war.

I don't believe that squabbling in the back alleys while the real battle goes on elsewhere benefits us as individuals, the US as a nation, or the world that is impacted by a superpower, for good or for ill.

But this week, energized by Bill Moyers' special on Net Neutrality, I felt a resurgence of the idealism and energy that are and always have been this country's greatest assets.

There is still so much we disagree about; and because the stakes are so high, the disagreement is and will continue to be a passionate one. But I believe that there are at least three things that the overwhelming majority of us agree on:

1. We want a free internet where all voices can be heard, not just those who pay large sums for the privilege of entering, and ultimately controlling the conversation.

2. We want a congress that represents the people, not the corporations, special interests, and those who pay for their lunch, their junkets and their campaigns.

3. We want to know that our votes will be counted fairly and accurately.
All of them.

Can we come together? Can we get off of our couches and onto our front porches? Can we start talking to each other before it's too late?

END OF THE SEASON

sunset on the beach, originally uploaded by I, Puzzled.

The other night, we had our traditional end of the season party at work. Though I don't show up on the job anymore, I was there for the party. My friends loved pointing that out.

But the truth is I'm the kind of person who has to be dragged to a party--and then, once I start talking and laughing and drinking my beer, I'm the last to leave.

"What--so early? We were just getting started here... " I say as the door slams behind me.

The other night was no exception. I'd agreed to my friend's cajoling on one condition: we would stay no longer than an hour. A quick drink, something to eat, and we'd be out of there.

A sneaky little smile appeared on her face as she promised we'd be home before nine. Friends who know you better than you know yourself can be so annoying.

Anyway, it was great to be with my co-workers, to see them in their jeans, looking unharried by crazy kitchen stuff, beer in hand. The theatrically lit sea behind us felt like a visceral reminder of the great drama that underlies the most ordinary lives. Lives like ours, for instance.

When I first started working there, a boy of about fifteen washed dishes after school. Michael. He was quiet and polite, and in the five years, we worked together, I only penetrated that reserved exterior a few times.

A couple of years ago, he brought his younger brother in for a job. And shortly thereafter, Michael appeared in the kitchen in a Navy uniform. He looked proud and happy.

There was nothing for him on Cape Cod, he said. He was going to get a skill and begin a real career. Somewhat trepidatiously, we wished him well.

"At least, he won't be sent to Iraq," we said after he left.

I loved the younger brother from the start. He slouched perpetually, as if to deny the lanky truth of who he was becoming, and turned crimson if you said so much as hello to him.

When people gathered in the "break area," which consists of a picnic table by the dumpster, the younger brother was always standing at the periphery, looking uncomfortable.

His was a stance, a way of being in the world, that I understood all too well. I would always go over and try to pull him into the conversation. When he reddened and fled, I understood that too.

By this year, however, the younger brother had taken possession of both himself and who he was in the work place. He joked. He initiated conversations. He loved to give hugs.

It was great to see him the other night on the dance floor, flailing his arms and legs wildly in flagrant celebration of the cliche "white men can't dance" .

When I ran into him near the bar, he gave me one of his famous hugs.

"Thanks for being so friendly to me when I first came here," he said. "My first couple of weeks, you were the only one who talked to me."

I asked him if he'd seen the "free hugs" video, and told me it always made me think of him. He hadn't, but promised to check it out.

Then the talk drifted to the subject of his brother. By then, we all knew that enlisting in the Navy was no protection from being sent to Iraq.

Michael is now in his second tour. People at work have written to him regularly, sending him goofy pictures of the antics that go on in the kitchen, cartons of Cape Cod Potato Chips, and socks. He always seems to need socks.

"We haven't heard from him in over a month," the brother said. "We don't even know where he is."

"Your parents must be so worried," the mother in me blurted out. It was probably the wrong thing to say.

The younger brother's eyes changed, but he didn't look away. "It's all they think about. Really, it's all any of us think about."

Then he hugged me again. But this time the hug felt different. This time I could feel the anxiety that this high school senior lives with every day.

It was still with me when the party ended. Sometimes the war in Iraq is not what you hear about in the news, not a bumper sticker sentiment, not a political sound bite. It's one kid, who hasn't been heard from in a month. One worried family.

SADIE J. ON AMAZON!

A while back I told you about Sadie J, the character I came to love so much that I grieved, seriously grieved, after I wrote the last story about her.

Now that story, "My Women", is available on Amazon for a price not seen since the days when Woolworth's flourished--49 Cents!


Out of that 49 cents, I think I get about a dime. So please, read it--because it takes a lot of dimes to buy a cup of coffee these days...and I have a kid in college...and because someone just told me that oversized acorns like the ones I pictured yesterday mean it's going to be a cold winter. But mostly I hope you read it because Sadie J is a woman you're going to want to know.

When I first sent the story to my agent, this was her emailed response:

" Rip my heart out and tear it to shreds... this is so powerful!"

Yes, I know--she's my agent; it's her job to love me. But it's also her job to tell me when I'm off the mark. And believe me, she's not afraid to do so.

All right, now that I've given you my pitch and maybe even earned myself a shiny dime toward the college fund, on to other breaking news:
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Swirly Girl has a secret project going on over at her house, and she needs you to answer a question on a subject that's dear to all of our hearts. If you haven't entered her world before, prepare to be captivated,
delighted--and to leave a better person than you were when you arrived.

Susan Henderson, who likes to get things started with a great discussion every Monday, also has a question. This week she wants to know what you do when the art you create doesn't fit within a particular commercial label. It happens to be an issue I struggled with for years.

Meanwhile, I'm about 100 pages from the end of Half of a Yellow Sun, the book that the Third Day book Club will be blogging about on November 3rd. It's been a long time since I've read a book that I really don't want to end, but this is one of them. And by the little hints I've gotten from other Third day-ers, I think they feel the same way. So if you haven't yet begun the book, don't despair. The book may be 400 + pages, but once you start, you will FLY through them.

I've also designed a banner for the Book Club, and the generous and kind, not to mention brilliant Melly from All Kinds of Writing has been helping me to get it onto my sidebar where it should appear soon.

MY UNBELIEVABLY EXCITING LIFE

DSCN1874, originally uploaded by patryfrancis.

A week or two ago, the wonderful and amazing blogger known as Blue Poppy announced that she might have to take a break from blogstreet. Real life was full and happy, and the virtual life threatened to encroach.

I sat there in my little office nodding in agreement and understanding. Then I joined the rest of the commenters who begged her to reconsider. She was part of a circle that had gathered around an ephemeral fire. She couldn't just leave!

I wasn't surprised when Blue Poppy returned a few days later to report that she had underestimated the urge to relay the details of her day, accompanied by photographs.

Once again, I nodded in recognition. Ah, the blogging life. Like the nunnery or a chocolate factory, once you enter the gate, it's not all that easy to get out.

Take yesterday. I had just returned from my weekend in Western Massachusetts and I was bursting with good feeling, the centered calm that two solid days of relaxation brings--and nascent blog posts.

I had collected another ten things--this time (drum roll please) acorns! I couldn't wait to begin my project. Before I'd even taken the suitcase upstairs or fixed my afternoon cup of tea, I was arranging my treasures on
a piece of blank paper.

The only time I ever thought much about acorns in the past was when the neighborhood boys had an acorn fight, and my son Gabe got hit in the eye with one. But now I was all about the acorns. I had acorn theories, and lines of acorn poetry; if I were more musically inclined, I might have even written the world's first acorn song. Or what about a video? Was there anything on You tube about the secret life of acorns? If not, there should be.

I wanted to know what they tasted like; and thinking of Robin Andrea, who recently suggested that we should all be aware of what's edible in our native environment, I wondered how to cook them.

A little internet research produced a recipe for acorn soup, that still is used by some Native Americans. Labor intensive and consisting of nothing but, well, acorns, it didn't sound all that appetizing. But still, you never know until you try it!

For my first Very Scientific Study Ever, I set out to prove that acorns in Western Massachusetts were both much larger and more abundant than they are on Cape Cod. For evidence, I had to look no further than my own yard. Though we have many oak trees on the property, there were scant acorns on the ground--probably because so many of my neighbors have cleared their land of trees in a quest for a more spacious yard.

After I had compiled the photographic evidence for my comparison and made the necessary diagrams, I decided to treat the Cape Cod squirrels and jays to the fruits of my experiment.

"I bet these acorns will be gone within a week," I told my beleaguered family, as I dragged them away from homework and other Sunday afternoon activities to look at the cache of acorns I'd strategically placed in the dirt. I hoped to lure them into a wager on how long it would take for the acorns to disappear.



"See!" I said, excitedly.

"You've really lost it now, Mom," my son said, not interested in joining the acorn pool.

Even my mother, who'd just arrived for dinner, was no help.
"Actually, she was always like that," she confided, as she, too, slipped inside.

This morning I got up earlier than usual. Even before I had my coffee, I went outside in my pajamas to see how many acorns were left. Unfortunately, no one was around to witness the outcome but the dogs, who never miss an opportunity to go outside and sniff around. They were the only ones to hear my whoop when I found there was nothing left but an empty acorn hat, and the little unripened green one.



Of course, now I want to know how the who took them--squirrels or birds, where they stored them, and how the hell they get the damn things open without a nutcracker in sight. Honestly, I haven't had this much autumn fun since second grade when we used to collect leaves and press them in wax paper. Who says my life isn't exciting?

FIRST DATE

DSCN0003_1, originally uploaded by patryfrancis.

Twenty-five years ago this Saturday, Ted and I went on our first date.
It was a bright blue day when he picked me up in his old Ford Falcon. He told me proudly that he'd paid twenty-five dollars for it.

Ted still loves to tell people I wasn't sure I liked him--at least not in that way.

He was right. But it was just a mountain hike and lunch, and he was clearly a sweet guy. What did I have to lose?

Rattling along in the twenty-five dollar car, I wondered if we'd make it to the mountain. But we did. At the top, we sat on a rocky ledge,
and looked out over the Connecticut River, the patchwork of fields, the blazing trees of autumn.

We talked about the books that had influenced us most, and our deepest beliefs, our all-time favorite bands, and the number of children we hoped to have (separately, of course.)

Ted also loves to tell people that despite our pleasant afternoon, I thought the hike was the end of our story. He claims to have known better, even then.

Though I'd lived in the area for many years, I'd never been to that mountain before. And in the intervening years, I've never returned--until Saturday, exactly twenty-five years later.

By then, we'd not only forgotten the way, we could no longer recall the name of the park or the mountain. We had driven all over the valley and were about to give up when we saw a farmer loading pumpkins onto a truck.

We bought a pumpkin for 75 cents and asked directions.

"That sounds like Mt. Holyoke in Skinner Park," the farmer said, happy to solve our personal mystery.

Once again, it was a perfect day when we ascended the mountain, and found the ledge where we'd talked, really talked, for the first time. But this time, taking in the spectacular view, everything looked different. Twenty-five years ago, gazing out over the valley, I didn't know what I was seeing; I had no idea that the marvels spread so abundantly before us were nothing less than the future.

**********************************************************************************

The other day I asked if anyone had read a blog or post that demanded to be shared:

C-love directed me to Quiero Round Egg a post that reveals the amazingly simple secret of getting what you want.

Meanwhile RDL mentioned the writerly inspiration she finds on a regular basis at Just Write, a site I frequently visit myself.

And Swirly reminded me that I was overdue for a trip to La Vie En Rose.

10 THINGS: LITTER by Susan Messer

litter 001/susan messer, originally uploaded by patryfrancis.

I'll be away for a couple of days to celebrate a particular anniversary. (More on that when I return.) While I'm gone, I leave you with my guest blogger and co-creator of the Literary Blues Pie, Susan Messer, who takes on the assignment of collecting ten things that are alike, but different. In an interesting and illuminating choice, Susan chose litter.

"It is estimated that 40% of the litter in the Borough is smoking related, be it wrappers, cartons or cigarette ends."
-- Gedling Borough Council, England



“Studies show that areas which are allowed to remain dirty are prone to becoming more dirty, i.e., litter gives ‘permission’ to litter.”

--Wikipedia

Well, I can’t confirm the 40% (I wasn’t that scientific), but I can confirm that once you start paying attention, a lot of the litter you’ll see as you go about your business has something to do with cigarettes, and an awful lot has to do with eating and drinking. I can also confirm that litter gives permission to litter, because I’ve now started to notice that these pesky discards tend to occur in clusters, sometimes in extremely heavy clusters.



I can confirm, too, that as soon as I got the idea from Patry’s blog to collect litter while strolling, I started to see litter everywhere: Right on my front lawn, a Hostess snack cake wrapper. At the corner, a Kool cigarette butt.. Across the street, a cluster—a turquoise plastic cup, a Red Bull can, and a Nestle’s Crunch wrapper. All along my way, tucked into bushes, lying in parkway grass, bunched up in gutters, I saw litter: water bottles, soda cans, candy wrappers, potato chip bags, Styrofoam cups. Cigarette packs, more cigarette butts. Scrunched-up newspaper pages. Pens and pencils. Coffee cup tops. A high-heeled boot.



It didn’t take long to see that I couldn’t pick up everything I saw, so I set limits, established guidelines: (1) nothing too gross, (2) nothing too big or heavy to fit in my bag (no car parts, for example; no rain-soaked shirts or jackets), (3) nothing that would require me to step into mud puddles or walk across a stranger’s lawn, and (4) no duplicates (e.g., one Aquafina was enough).



At home, I took my collection down the basement, divided it into two arrangements, and went back to work, slightly forgetting that I’d left it all there, and not bothering to check whether the photos were any good. A few days later, my husband asked me how long I was going to leave those things lying around in the basement, so I said "I'm throwing them out right now," and I did—sorting the garbage from the recycling and disposing of them properly.

Another thing I can confirm: Once you start noticing, it’s hard to turn the noticing off, which can be kind of sad when the thing you’re noticing is litter.

ELEPHANT GRIEF...and some other things I read this week

Elefante / Elephant, originally uploaded by Omar Junior.

The elephants seriously broke my heart this week when I read about
how their loving society and nurturing family life is breaking down due to habitat loss and human poaching.

What struck me most was the way these once gentle beasts grieve for one another. They carry out elaborate funeral-type rituals, and often return to the site of the bones for many years, displaying behavior associated with mourning.

Since it remained one of the New York Times most emailed articles all week, apparently a lot of other people were thinking about and sorrowing for these marvelous animals. It's a long article, but well worth your time and reflection if you haven't seen it.

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Other things that caught this reader's eye on line this week:

A piece in the Washington Post by Stephen King, revealing the secrets of the writing life, which I found through Jennifer Weiner's blog. It was published almost two weeks ago and probably everyone who's vaguely interested in it has already read it, but I tend to be late to the party. Anyway, it was worth showing up after everyone's gone home for this line alone:

"Dig this: The so-called writing life is basically sitting on your ass."

Yup. I dig it.


And then I discovered Neil Kramer's blog--a site that was so good, so laugh out loud funny, so all round fantabulous, that I lost a day of my life in his archives. Then I went out and told everyone I knew about it--only to find that they'd all been reading Neil for years. What was I saying about being late to the party?

What about you? Has anyone discovered a blog or read a post or an article on line that knocked your socks off, that made you laugh, or mourn, or opened up a previously dormant pathway in your brain? If you did, leave a note in the comment section and I will link to it, and of course, to you.

INSOMNIA

Moon Rising in Grasses, originally uploaded by MontanaRaven.

On the cover of Sunday's New York Times Book Review, William Kennedy wrote about Cormac McCarthy's new appocalyptic novel.


"McCarthy has said that death is the major issue in the world and that writers who don't address it aren't serious."

I'm thinking about that.

I'm also thinking a lot about The Road, a novel that takes on the end of civilization in McCarthy's blade-sharp, unflinching prose. Basically, I'm of two minds about it: some days I think everyone should read it so that we'll work harder for peace. Other days I think the vivid post-nuclear war world McCarthy creates so vividly is just too dark and terrifying a vision.

A few weeks ago I put in a request at the library for it. But Ted got his hands on a copy first.

Every night he's been reading it in bed wearing my reading glasses and his own furrowed brows.

Occasionally, I look up from Half of a Yellow Sun, the novel I'm reading for the Third Day book club, and say, "How is it?"

Then, before he gets a word out, I put my hand up. "No, don't tell me. I'll never sleep."

"Okay, I won't," he says, but he does anyway. Then he rolls over and falls into a deep and immediate slumber while I stay up worrying about things like where we'd get food if nothing was growing from the earth, if the sea was empty and the animals all dead.

Fortunately, Ted whipped through The Road quickly because by the third day, I was strung out and exhausted from a book I hadn't even opened.

Tonight, he brought it downstairs and to put it in our library return basket.

"Well?" I said. "Should I read it?"

"It's a great book; sure to get some major awards" Ted said, hesitating, the book still in hand. "But should you read it? Probably not." He tossed it in the basket conclusively

"Why? What could possibly be worse than the parts you already read to me?" I asked, slightly offended, and ready to go right over and dig that book out.

Then, realizing it was almost bedtime, I stopped myself. "Nevermind. Don't tell me."

But of course, he did. Looks like it's going to be a long night...

"something to do with the blog"

DSCN1844, originally uploaded by patryfrancis.

The other day, I lay in my bed staring at the ceiling and listening to my family as they moved around downstairs. Now that I don't have to jump out of bed at 5 a.m. and go serve breakfast somewhere, I enjoy spending a few extra moments lying among the tousled sheets. Thinking. Contemplating. Listening.

"Did you happen to notice that Mom's waitress shoes are hanging in the garden?" Nellie asked.

I pictured her standing by the window in her tank top and shorts--the summer uniform she's reluctant to abandon. But the air was already feeling cooler. There was the sound of a spoon clinking in a coffee cup.

"Yup," Ted said.

I pictured him, setting up for his morning routine. Opening the paper. Looking around for a pair of glasses, then when he couldn't find his, reaching for mine. The ones he calls the "goofy red ones," though he wears them when no one's looking.

"What's that about?" Nellie asked, still focused on the Sketchers hanging in the garden.

"I don't know," her father replied, already distracted by the front page. "Must be something to do with the blog."

And it was. Something to do with the blog.

And I thought to myself, this is peace. Smiling to myself as my family talks to each other below. Knowing that anytime I want to, I can go downstairs, pour my own coffee and join them. I can sit at the table on one of the most perfect, golden days of the year and read the paper and allow myself to be teased about the shoes in the garden.

Yes, this is peace and it is the most sacred and holy thing on this earth. It is also what I was thinking about before I was called back to my life by the voices in the kitchen. I was thinking of the wonder and fragility of peace. And of all the people in the world who don't have it. And how today, with yet another member in the nuclear weapon club, it seems a little more imperiled for all of us.

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In today's obituaries, I was inspired by Buck O'Neil, who died at 94, the last survivor of America's segregated baseball leagues. "It never occurred to him to be bitter," someone said.

For the rest of the day, I thought of Buck whenever it might have occurred to me to be afraid. Or angry. Or envious. I thought of Buck, and didn't let it occur.