by susan | Nov 16, 2012 | Uncategorized
like most writers, I’ve written on napkins, post-its, hotel note pads, stray pieces of notepaper left on the table. journals, spiral-bound notebooks, computers, the back of my calendar. when you need to write, you need to write.
I’ve heard of writers who select a notebook and keep an entire project contained in it, neat and tidy, often organized into sections such as character development, settings, chapter outlines, dates and facts. I more often use single pages–grabbing a new sheet for a new thought–and try to file them in a folder so I can access them again when needed, while also keeping notes and writing in the notebook-or-journal-of-the-season (not to mention computer file on top of computer file). thus, pieces of three different projects can exist alongside each other in a random notebook, which doesn’t seem to be very neat and tidy.
for my latest project–as yet still undiscussable–I decided to experiment with an organizational strategy not yet tried (by me): the single journal/notebook. before heading out of town a few weeks ago I purchased a simple, black, bound notebook with an elastic strap and set out to organize myself. I usually give my projects a one-word nickname, and I wrote this (as yet unmentionable) name on one of the first pages. I followed that with a brief paragraph about what I know so far about the project. then I skipped a few pages and headed the next pages with character names, writing thoughts and ideas beneath each header. a few pages later I jotted down more ideas, possible directions, potential movement.
then I took every other note or scene or chapter beginning I’d ever written about this project–whether on a computer file or scrap of paper or in a journal–and I copied it into my shiny new black notebook so that everything in existence about my new (as yet not conversable) project was contained in a solitary place. whee! organization, meet susan! this was exciting, a brand new way for me to approach a (can’t tell you about it) project. I packed this notebook in my laptop bag and took off on vacation . . . didn’t open the notebook the entire time I was gone . . . and when I got home, realized that the notebook did not come home with me.
everything I’d worked so hard to pull together and organize and create was lost, either in the condo, on a plane, in a TSA bin, or in some airport waiting area. I wondered if perhaps the universe was trying to tell me something (not a good project idea, forget the concept of organization, be more careful with precious things, you know, one of those negative messages).
michelle branch sings a song, I write mainly on hotel paper . . . was the universe trying to tell me that I should stick to hotel paper, napkins, spare sheets of 3-hole punched paper lying around?
7 emails, 4 phone calls, and 1 fed-ex account later, my black notebook is on its way home to me from LAX, where it had landed in a “lost item recovery” bin.
so I’ve decided the universe was giving me a “be more careful with precious things” message, which is actually a good message to apply to all aspects of one’s life. whether it be a journal containing bits and pieces of a (as yet undisclosed but fabulous) new project, the people you love, or a piece of hotel paper with the beginnings of song lyrics on it. precious comes in myriad forms, and exists only as long as we remember to keep it so.
by susan | Nov 6, 2012 | what I'm reading
I’m easily won over, easily turned-off, slow-to-warm, head over heels, reluctant, skeptical, leery, gullible . . . all of these things, as a reader.
I can fall in love with a book during the first page and refuse to let go, I can pick apart a paragraph and sink my teeth into an errant word and never forgive for the rest of the book. I can begin a book and set it aside in indifference, then pick it up again the next month and devour it. I sometimes read a book because it’s good for me. I have finally learned to stop reading–put down, give away, banish–books I don’t care for.
in reading tributary, by barbara richardson, I was engrossed immediately, and the fire kept its heat–sometimes a low golden flame, sometimes a hot flash and crackle–through to the very end, when, at the last sentence, I fell completely and deeply in love.
a similar thing has happened to me before. I’ll read a book, I’ll enjoy the read, even be eager to open to my bookmark each day, but not fall in love with it until after I’ve read the final page: these are the times a book’s impact can’t be known until it’s all been absorbed.
but this was different; the last line of tributary made me emotionally swoon. now don’t go cheating and pick up her book and read the last line: you have to earn your way there. not that the work is hard. tributary, clair martin’s story, is told so perfectly, so intriguingly and with such heartfelt honesty, that the work of reading it is only that of keeping your body comfortable as your hands and eyes perform their tasks that allow your mind to play along with barbara’s tale.
I’m a spiritual girl, always looking for meaning and bigger stories, larger pictures, connection and compassion. clair martin is as matter-of-fact and I’ll-believe-it-when-I-see-it as they come. not only did barbara’s story-telling make me admire and love clair martin, it eventually allowed for clair and I to see the world similarly and cause me to fall in love.
and that’s what I want to say about reading tributary. you can go read any review you want, or go with sandra dallas’ statement that “you’ll love resolute Clair Martin, the equal of any man–or religion. Clair’s strength and survival are the heritage of western women” to give you more of an idea about the book. I’m sticking with my words about reading the book, about its impact on me . . . it was entirely worth every minute I spent reading it, and every minute that last line comes back to tug at my soul.
in fact, it would be more accurate to say the read and its impact on me was–unexpectedly–priceless. tributary is one of those books I want to keep, always, on my bookshelf.
by susan | Oct 22, 2012 | Uncategorized
I’ve always wanted a mentor.
someone who’d take me under their wing, provide guidance and wisdom and support, help me connect with those people I’m supposed to connect with. someone wiser, more established, someone who’s been there and done that. instead, my experience has been that most everyone I meet is in the same boat as I am in, using similar oars, being frustrated by the same currents and storms and periods of flat water and drifting. this isn’t to say that I’ve never had hands reach out for mine and offer assistance; it’s just to say that it’s my dream to have someone who knows more than me, who knows better than me, to be in my corner.
(I’ve recently had someone come into my life who is, in a way, playing this role . . . it is early, there is much still unknown, but it’s possible we may move more into the mentor-mentee relationship. I am grateful for what he and his wife have shared with me so far, and want to acknowledge this . . . thanks mark and kirsten.)
thus, in the spirit of mahatma gandhi who encourages us to be the change we wish to see in the world, I am working to share what I know, what I possess, who I am, with those who are trying to paddle through waters similar to those I choose to travel.
I have a friend who has written a manuscript–with her daughter as co-author–that is languishing in a cobwebbed computer file. it needs attention: reviewing, tweaking, possibly editing . . . it needs to be read by someone else, someone who has some experience with writing and editing. thus I offered to read it, to give my opinion of what might need to happen next, where it might go. it happens to be a YA (young adult) book . . . I happen to know someone with multiple connections in that area. I will do everything I can to help this friend and her daughter move forward with this manuscript, hopefully all the way to publication.
I have another friend who’s written a manuscript which I reviewed, offering suggestions and fixing errors and typos. she’s leaning toward self-publication, and I offered to do anything I can to help her in that process, including formatting it.
I do these things because I’m able, because I receive some internal fulfillment from doing them, and, ultimately, because these are the things I myself wish to receive. some say that the universe will respond, which would be fantastic. but even if it doesn’t, I am deeply gratified by being even a small part of the creation of a book, whether it’s my own or someone else’s. I’m quite certain mahatma would have felt the same.
by susan | Oct 8, 2012 | what I'm reading
I don’t usually read a book when it’s newly published, hot, on the best-sellers list. I rarely pay attention to or hear about those books, and I guess if I’m perfectly honest about it, I almost have an internal prejudice against them just because everybody (and their pet alligator) is reading them. (I’m often wrong: I, too, can be remarkably plebeian in my taste. I often like what “everybody else” likes.)
but more often than not, I “discover” great books a good year or two after they were on the best-sellers list, and then feel quite ignorant for not having known about them sooner. I console myself with the belief that good books will come to me at the right time…. like the lotus eaters, which just came my way a few weeks ago.
now if you–like the rest of the world–have already read this book, then you can congratulate yourself for being more aware than I apparently am. or perhaps someone directed you to it, or you bumped into it and liked the cover, or something else about this book drew you in.
I found it because someone on a writing website had re-posted a blog post of the author’s in honor of the release of the author’s second book, the forgetting tree. the author–tatjana soli–mentioned her first book, I liked the post, and there I went. what happened next is that I fell in love.
the lotus eaters is one of those books so beautifully, thoughtfully, and artfully done that I am tempted to throw in the towel and stop calling myself a writer. ms. soli draws pictures with far less than thousands of words; sometimes it takes her but a dozen. I lived in vietnam, I traveled in the jeep with her characters, I flew in their helicopter. I watched one die, I wanted to slap another, and throughout the entire novel I was as a silent observer in every scene. ms. soli holds an MFA–a degree which often portends a laborious read–and although I’m certain she’s naturally gifted, this book is a rare example of how such a degree can contribute to the ability to beautifully craft a story. the lotus eaters is superbly designed, woven, and presented to all who are willing to disappear inside another world for the duration of the story.
as with each truly magnificent book I read, I am simultaneously eager to devour it while desperately reluctant to see the remaining pages dwindle from forty, to twenty-five, to eight, to, oh, one.
so if you, like the me of a month ago, haven’t yet read the lotus eaters, do. borrow it from the library, order it online, go buy it from your favorite local bookstore. but read it. do.
by susan | Oct 1, 2012 | Uncategorized
two weeks ago I stole a sign.
it’s now propped by my desk, reminding me to hold firm, be tenacious, keep on my path. it doesn’t bother me that I stole this sign, abandoned as it was, and it brings a smile to my face each time I look at it; I therefore think I did the right thing.
background: I first saw this sign 5 or 6 weeks ago while I was riding my bike. it was attached to a traffic cone, posted there by organizers of a cycling event called Wildflower Pedalfest, a women-only (I’ll delve into this topic another time) organized ride. riding with friends, I happened to be on the same road as this ride, and encountered this bright pink, boldly lettered sign a scant mile from the top of a steep climb:
1 Mile to Go
underneath the words was an outline of a female riding a bike, the wheels 12-petaled flowers.
my clairvoyant, clairaudient friend kat has, at times, described the place I am in my life as being a spot where I’ve come 999 miles, with just 1 mile left to go. this last, final mile often feels as difficult as the first 999, but it’s a time to hang in there, be tenacious and determined, and not give up.
so . . . four weeks post-wildflower-pedalfest, the sign still sitting there on its traffic cone, I decided to clean up the environment and bring this sign home with me. I un-duct-taped it, slipped it under the back of my jersey (yes, it stuck out a bit and was slightly uncomfortable), and rode the next 18 miles home with my prize.
which is now propped above my desk, encouraging me. telling me not to give up. letting me know the top of the hill is coming, that I just need to stay on track and keep pedaling. the even-better part of this story, the part that makes me grin, is that this sign was placed only a half-mile from the top of the climb. a sign might tell you there’s a mile to go, but sometimes it’s really only half that distance. which makes the victory of reaching the top a surprising delight.
1 mile to go. that’s it. guess we’d all better keep pedaling.
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