Nic's Novel Project - ten years and counting...

Tree House Refuge

2011-07-04T15:47:00.000-04:00

Fern Forest Tree House, Lincoln, Vermont

When I first heard about the Fern Forest Tree House (on ABC's Chronicle) it took me seconds to get online and Google for more details. This was it! The hideout I'd been yearning for was a mere six hours drive North, into the heart of the Green Mountains of Vermont.

I'd already been searching for a writer's cabin to complete the second draft of my novel, which I'd happened to find the day before. When I discovered the tree house was off the same road as the Firefly B&B cabin I felt destiny was guiding my hand to book a spring writing retreat.

As evident from my previous entry, I made the hike North and spent four glorious days in blissful isolation. I completed my second draft and even found space in my head to write some new scenes. That was back in April - it has taken me until today, July 4th, to get back here to tell my tree house tale!

I know some people are afraid to be alone. Afraid to be disconnected from the world of cell phones, email and television. To be honest, I wasn't sure how I'd cope, especially when my cell phone lost its signal on Route 17. I had the sense, however, of being accompanied by my characters. Each one babbling like an excited child, anxious to be the first voice heard once I finally opened the document that contained their lives.

As I explain below, in my Firefly cabin entries, the writer's cabin fulfilled its promise of a completed second draft. Once I arrived at the tree house, I was completely relaxed and inspired, ready to sink into the experience of sleeping thirty feet above the forest floor.

The only way to describe this experience is to show you. Like Doctor Who's trusted Tardis, the tree house felt much bigger on the inside than it looked on the outside.

A narrow 70ft ramp led to the front door that was adorned by a Frank Llyod Wright stained glass window. Fresh picked flowers invited me into the first level. Furnished with a rocking chair, foot stool, futon couch, mini fridge and radio (that was never used), the sense of space within those light wooden walls was remarkable.

I was shown how to safely climb the ladder to the loft by my host, Harrison, who had built the tree house with his son.

The idea of hauling myself onto the queen futon bed that was nestled into the roof was amusing. The reality of negotiating the bum-to-platform-to-bed routine was a little more serious as one wrong move could have been disastrous.

The bedding was super cozy; soft flannel sheets with down comforter and pillows. Windows on two sides of the loft created the feeling of sleeping in the very heart of the trees. My only anxious moments came when little feet scampered across the roof, just a couple of feet above me. But I never once thought about going to sleep in the spare guest bed of the main house.

I joined my hosts, H and Ellie, for wine in the evening. As often happens, when I'm busy doing what I love, I met the most wonderful couple. This was an unexpected gift that settled deep into my soul. It's one of things I love most about traveling alone; meeting people who instantly felt like old friends.

When I returned to my tree top refuge it was raining. I sat on the rocking chair and listened to water dripping onto the roof, running down the wooden walls and pattering against the tall windows. I felt warmed by the electric heater, soothed by dim wall lamps and candles that cast a soft orange glow into the curious space around me.

It was so peaceful that I just sat there and listened. I could almost feel my batteries recharging as I absorbed every detail of each moment. This was the solitude I'd been craving. The space to hear nothing but rain falling from the leaves above me. To think of nothing but how relaxed I felt. So simple, yet so utterly elusive.

Just writing this takes me back there, to that moment. I can smell the damp wood, taste the Pinot Noir, feel the promise of new friendships.

This is perhaps the most remarkable gift my tree house retreat gave me; a place to escape to, in my own head, during the stress of daily life. It was less about writing, more about squeezing gaps into chaos, where I can close my eyes and feel the handmade wooden structure sway on the branches of the four maple trees that support it. Not a single day has passed that I don't draw strength from these memories. I long to go back there, and plan to, in the Fall. This time I will book more nights in tree house and pack my hiking boots.

The value of taking a time-out to decompress and regroup cannot be overstated. My spring writing retreat reminded me about the urgency of self care and the need to take your art seriously enough to dedicate time to it. Without solitude, the mind collapses into overdrive and creativity is lost in the confusion.

As I celebrate this Independence Day, I look around my beautiful garden and appreciate the fact that I can embrace the freedom to sit here, on my garden swing, and write. Not everyone has such luxury, but for those of us who do, take the time to honor your art, and yourself.

Click here to read my official retreat article in the Summer issue of CapeWomenOnline: http://www.capewomenonline.com/

Inspire Me

2011-04-16T08:39:00.002-04:00

View of Mount Abraham from the Peeper Pond

“Nose to the grind stone” – how many times have you heard that phrase lately? I’d heard it last Wednesday – just after writing down directions from the B&B owner – the same ones I failed to follow to avoid the mud crisis I encountered while driving up here.

This phrase rang in my head while I was packing, while I was driving and while I was trying to talk myself out of working on one more chapter before taking a break yesterday. I can’t believe how much work I got done – keeping my nose to the grindstone.

After spending way too long trying to figure out how to upload my cell phone images to my lap top – then discovering the fabulous new world of USB Mass Storage transfer – I finally faced the 8 chapters I’d promised myself I’d edit before lunch. Did I say lunch? Bah! Try dinner!

It was easy, at first, perhaps because I’d already dropped into my novel by editing 2 chapters on Thursday night. The characters were up front and center in my mind, my belly full of fresh berries, Greek yoghurt and organic raisin bran, my little cabin quiet…too quiet.

I checked my email on the elusive wi-fi that dropped out every few seconds…that took a while…but it felt good to be contact with my “real life”, even if it was just through words on the screen. Back to editing…

Instead of taking the chapters in order, like I usually do, I decided to approach my 8 chapter goal from a new angle. As my story is told from two alternating points of view, I chose one POV and followed it through to the end of where my first draft abruptly dissolved into synopsis. This gave me the luxury of checking for timeline errors, continuity of the character’s moods and location verification. It also steeped me in the world of human trafficking, parched desert and the all-important ticking clock.

To say that my nerves were beginning to feel frayed is an understatement. I shifted my eyes from the words on the screen to my uninterrupted view of Mount Abraham. In addition to giving my eyes a break, this let me imagine that like my character, I too was gazing at the Mogollon Rim, which divides Arizona in two, and not the snow splattered peaks of the Green Mountains. When I shuffled my lap top from the shrinking walls of the cabin, to the deck off the main house, I couldn’t help but notice the large cacti guarding the sliding door to the living room. Hmmm…

This editorial marathon was, I’m happy to say, punctuated with a long walk around the neighborhood.

I started out by circling the small pond in front of the main house, snapping shots of frog spawn floating among the tall yellow reeds that rustled against a perfectly blue sky. I wasn't the only one checking out the view - a family of Peepers called to each other to protest my intrusions.

My wellies squished and squelched in the mud, being two sizes too big for me (no idea how they ended up in my basement), I found it hard to walk at a decent pace.

So I settled into a slow rhythm of brain-break over cardio workout, feasting my eyes on the details of the emerging Spring.

I found a horse paddock a few houses down the dirt road, complete with ramshackle stables, multiple trucks in the unmarked driveway, and horses grazing in a mud bath deeper than their fetlocks. I won’t expand on another homestead except to say that everything including the kitchen sink was bursting out of windows, doors and toppling over the sides of a farmer’s porch. I wanted to take a photo but was afraid I’d get busted and have to explain myself to the owner…

Not quite the wild Mustangs of the West - but close enough

I get to spend all day with horses, or rather wild mustangs, now that I’m working on the second character’s storyline. If I need inspiration, I can simply stick my head out of the cabin door and inhale the manure wafting from the stables behind me.

The wind’s picking up and we are expecting the remnants of that storm that sent tornadoes tearing through Georgia yesterday. Oh goodie! Let’s hope these wooden walls don’t rattle too much, or I might find myself working on a whole new novel…

Mud Monsters

2011-04-15T10:08:00.021-04:00

I must be in Vermont - Issy's horse barn, not the writing cabin!

Okay, so I should have followed the directions the B&B owner rattled off to me the night before I left for this writing adventure and NOT the route mapquest suggested! Don't ever attempt to take a Jetta up and over Quaker Street (coming from Rt 17) unless you want to start your retreat by having multiple heart attacks!

Mud Surfing anyone?

Seriously, I had to get out of my car at one point just to take a deep breath. That's when I snapped a shot of the deep gray turrets behind me, but they look far less menacing in my photo than they actually are. If you've never surfed atop a mud monster then I forgive you for not grasping the real terror of the last 3 miles of my journey to this secluded yet pretty cozy writer's cabin. I hope the under carriage of my car can forgive me.

The lavender oil worked wonders to dispel the Eau de Must hanging over the bed. Bringing my own king sized pillow, favorite soft blanket and little teddy helped me to finally relax enough to get some sleep, despite the patter of tiny feet over my head. I did have to brave the flash light walk across very soggy earth to the bathroom around 11pm, but it wasn't too bad. Rather than focus on the eerie shadows cast by the waxing moon, I listened to the frumping sound my wellies made in response to my sockless feet. Not heard that noise since I was a kid! Lovely!

I got two chapters edited last night, then discovered I'd been working in the WRONG version of my second draft when I attempted to email it to myself. Despite seeing letters floating across my lap top screen in triplicate, I managed to decipher exactly what and where to paste the new chapters into the correct manuscript. So glad I never delete anything - just rename the more recent version and work from that.

Talking of which, I have 8 chapters to get through before lunch. Then I'm off for a walk around this idyllic world of rolling hills edged by forests and framed by sloping mountain ridges. I was hoping to post some photo's of the red-roofed barn across the field to my left, the Quaker Street mud monsters and this morning's sun peeking over Mount Abraham - but I forgot my memory card adapter so can't upload them to my lap top. I'd text them to my email if my cell phone worked... Ah well, I can always post them when I get home, which, I'm happy to report, feels like a continent way from up here.

Here's a writer's tip for you - always hang mini chimes within earshot of your writing space. They help to access that part of your mind that's waiting to talk to you...no idea how they do it...they just seem to get beneath the clutter and strike a chord of clarity that helps the writing flow more easily. If you don't believe me - try it - then let me know how it works!

PS I figured out that if I go into my cell phone's Tools, select USB Mass Storage, I can upload my phone's images to my lap top :)

Tree Time!

2011-04-14T00:43:00.001-04:00

So I'm all packed and ready to head up North to Lincoln, Vermont, where the roads have gone swimming and the mud is, well, I'll let you know when I get there...

The last writing retreat I gifted myself was way back in November 2009. It's about time I dropped back into my novel to wrap up this second draft. I'm halfway there, but I just can't seem get passed a couple of chapters (at the most) without getting interrupted.

No-one told me having a Senior in high school was a full-time job: college applications (with essays and references), IB coursework (Creativity, Action, Service - C.A.S.), Theory of Knowledge essay and 4,000 word Extended Essay on Communism. And that's just the school stuff...never mind the teen angst and my looming separation anxiety.

And just in case you thought it was all over when the beautiful acceptance letters rolls in...not a chance!! Then you have the FAFSA form to complete (online - not too bad), income taxes to prep and file (at least 3 weeks of work there), financial aid applications and negotiations to pursue...and it just keeps rolling on until one day, as if by magic, you're stuffing your teddy into a carpet bag, grabbing the lavender oil and Pinot Noir and mapquesting your route to another adventure with the characters currently rioting in your head.

Wonder why I jumped into third person there...dissociation? Me? NEVER!

This isn't like the last retreat, when I only drove to the other end of Cape Cod to stay at my friend's gorgeous B&B for a couple of nights. Nah, this one is "Rustic" with a capital R! Three nights in a former writer's cabin in the woods, then a night in a real shit-you-not tree house...lots of fresh mountain air...and possibly rain if the forecast is right. But I'm prepared for the bathroom treks to the main house - black rubber wellies (should look great with my multicolored cotton skirt) and an LED flashlight bright enough to fool a rooster. I'm almost over the shock of learning there's no cell phone tower - radio silence until next Monday? Not so bad, once you get used to the idea...

Well the sooner I get some ZZZzzzzzz the sooner tomorrow will come. I love the night before traveling - full of bags, boxes and multiple hard drives! Just in case my little Jetta gets swallowed up by the mud monster slithering across the northern states. Hey, it could happen...

The Letter

2011-01-27T14:19:00.000-05:00

It came on Christmas Eve - weeks earlier than we'd expected to see it. When my son pulled an envelope out of the pile of mail he'd just dropped on the kitchen table I turned away - I couldn't look.

The Christmas tree at the other end of the room was a distraction - for all of two seconds - then I had to know.

My son's widening smile confirmed what we'd been hoping for months: he'd been accepted to MassArt. This was his dream college, his number one and ONLY choice. He knew it was a reach, but never once gave up the goal that would ultimately seduce him over the Sagamore Bridge and into a life all his own.

I'm not sure who screamed first, or who jumped the highest. It was literally a movie moment. Exactly how I'd imagined it to be: stunning, thrilling, exciting and terrifying all at once. We both felt it so loudly that my younger son flew up the basement stairs, where he'd been plugged into the X-Box all morning, to see what had happened to raise the roof off of our little home.

I was hugged so tightly I pulled a muscle in my neck. It took me three attempts to read the words through eyes that couldn't stay focused. This was it - my son was going to leave me - and soon.

I published as a blog entry (below) an article I'd written for the Fall 2010 issue of CapeWomenOnline.com about a trip I'd taken last summer to the Grand Canyon. I'm still peering over that cliff edge. Still wondering if it's okay to let my sons walk ahead, run ahead, disappear behind a rock I'm too afraid to climb over myself.

This is where I've been these last six months, and why getting back here, to write about not writing, has been impossible.

The funny thing is that I HAVE been writing, or rather rewriting the novel that I began this blog to discuss in the first place. From last June to late December, I was in a fabulous routine of driving my son to his figure drawing class (see an article about Sarah Holl in the Holiday issue of CapeWomenOnline) then heading off to the haunted back room of the Hyannis Public Library to work on my novel in a blissful silence that only exists in such a space.

I was on a roll - editing, rewriting, filling in the gaps of storylines that had eluded me for years. It was so easy to just 'show up at the page'. To drop into the lives of the characters that had begun to communicate with me on a daily basis. The light at the end of the tunnel was in sight - then the art classes ended.

My library time became lost in a blur of days stuffed with dirty dishes and laundry again, endless trips to Trader Joe's for MORE milk - how much milk can one child drink, for god sakes? Time to rearrange the kitchen - toss out old appliances and order new (red) ones online - time to open brown boxes filled with new "stuff" that would make life simpler, give me more time to write...

Time to do anything but dwell on the contents of the letter that had arrived on Christmas Eve.

Don't get me wrong, I'm thrilled for my son. He's talked about going to MassArt for years. My struggle has been with the push-and-pull of being his mother; of celebrating his success while quietly grieving the loss of the child that is perched on the very edge of the cliff he plans to jump off.

Stepping into the shadows to get out of his way goes against every instinct in my body. I want to at least stand beside him, talk him through the jump, but he doesn't need me there. He needs me to let go.

So that's what I've been practicing...the delicate art of balancing on the edge of my own cliff, where the view from here is probably a lot scarier than the edge he is peering over. Perhaps that's because I know how it feels to fall, and to discover that sometimes, the safety net isn't there afterall.

If I've done my job, however, my son's wings will be strong enough to safely carry him forward, to wherever he decides to go, even if it's just over the Sagamore Bridge to Boston.

Grand Designs: Navigating the Amazing Trails of Motherhood

2011-01-27T12:48:00.000-05:00

Bright Angel Canyon, Arizona.

Ten years ago, I published an article titled Oh Boy! in Cape Women magazine. After being raised in a family of strong, opinionated women, I was examining the challenges of raising boys when I had so little experience with the male population.

My article concluded that if I listened to my sons, I mean REALLY LISTENED to who they are and what they needed as they matured, I would be guided along the unfamiliar path of motherhood. I am happy to report that my insight was correct and now, a decade later, my sons are becoming the young men I always hoped they could be.

Thanks to my mother, my sisters and I found our voices at a very young age and were encouraged to use them, loudly, when necessary. She also encouraged us to be independent, self-reliant and courageous. I believe I was twelve when the headmistress of our all-girls' Catholic secondary school declared that "Good Catholic girls belong at home."

It was my mother who showed me how to change draconian rules. She marched into that spinster's office and demanded that her daughters be allowed to sit the exams that would open the doors to higher education.

When my time came to leave the nest I couldn't fly off fast enough. I took a plane from Heathrow airport to JFK just three days after graduating from University and the rest, as they say, is history.

Now it's my turn to let go and see how far the wings of my own children can take them.

I say children, I still call them that, but they are young men now. And what courageous young men they are! I know I'm biased, but I made it my personal mission to raise my sons the same way my mother raised me – to find their voices at a young age and to follow their hearts to wherever there dreams may take them.

My eldest son is an artist who has his sights set on Massachusetts College of Art and Design. My younger son is a musician with plans to attend Berklee. It has been my job, as their mother, to nurture these creative aspirations and trust that if they follow their passions they will succeed at whatever they do.

I have Julia Cameron to thank for my confidence that art and music are serious career choices. Passages from her book The Artist's Way have been echoing through my head for years.

Years ago, I promised my sons that we would see the Grand Canyon before they graduated high school. It was one of those "some day" ideas that often got lost among the endless "To Do" lists of daily life. Being a single mother, I didn't relish the thought of attempting this trip as the only adult, so I let the trip keep falling to the bottom of the list.

This past summer, my sons and I found ourselves peering over the cliff edges of Bright Angel Point, on the North Rim of the Grand Canyon, into a fathomless, mysterious, ancient chasm below. Two of my sisters stood beside me. The Grand Canyon had been on their wish lists too.

Although we couldn't see it, we all knew the Colorado River was still carving its course through layers of multicolored rock that held historic details dating back over two billion years. The size, age and beauty of the canyon were breathtaking, and not just because we were struggling to breathe the extremely thin air.


My younger son listens to the voices of the Grand Canyon

The paved narrow trail that followed a steep ridge to the Bright Angel lookout point was not for the faint-of-heart, rising 8,148 feet above sea level. I tried not to acknowledge my peripheral vision as I walked forward, keeping my eyes firmly on the ground, just inches before my feet.

But my sons fooled around, as boys do, leaving the trail to climb boulders that were precariously balanced on one side of the narrow paths stretching out into the canyon's gaping abyss. I had heart attacks, as mothers do, when I imagined them hurtling to their deaths.

The only way to express my sense of terror that they could die if they lost their balance, was to leave the safety of the path and threaten to climb onto one of the protruding boulders myself. It was my eldest son who caught both my arms and begged me not to risk my life. Relieved, I returned to the trail and said, "Now you know how I feel," as I marched passed him.

The Grand Canyon surprised me. The silence that floated in the air above us was louder than anything I've ever heard before. It told me to stop. To sit. To look and to listen. It reminded me that life is a journey through many wonderful, treacherous, exciting moments, and that each second that passes is something to be felt as deeply as possible.

It asked me stop white-knuckle driving to work, to school, to appointments. It suggested that I slow down enough to smell the lavender growing in pots on my deck. It asked me to listen to the laughter of my sons playing x-box with their friends in their basement man-cave.

I hated the panic in my chest at the thought of losing my sons on that trail. But I loved the warmth of the knowledge that I got us there, to that incredible place, just as I'd promised.

I hate the thought of entering this final year of living with my eldest son before he flies the coop, but I love the strength of his commitment to his own future.

My eldest son steps onto his own Amazing Trail

I can't help the mental countdown that began with "This is our last summer as a family all living together" and will no doubt continue through every Holiday and birthday for the next twelve months.

I know this is what we mothers do and I accept that within three years, both my sons will be navigating their own journeys through lives that will no longer be lived within the safety of my arm's reach. And I love the knowledge that I helped them find their voice, their vision, their passions, just as my mother helped me to find mine.

I understand now that Nature makes teenagers challenging to live with so that we want to help them pack, to drive them to their new lives, to wave them goodbye, and then to trust that they will, despite all the fears a mother can imagine, be okay.

As I stood looking into the heart of the Grand Canyon, where so much was said in such deafening silence, my sisters stood beside me, assuring me that as our lives unfold before us, we will always have each other to share our journeys.

Celebrating Summer on Cape Cod

2010-07-18T21:45:00.002-04:00

If you've never had to carry your largest fan onto the deck before attempting to sit outside, then you've never experienced the full force of a humid, Cape Cod summer. It's been brutal this year! The only way to escape the suffocating heat is to treat yourself to lunch in an air conditioned restaurant, followed by a movie for desert. At least that's how I choose to handle it.

Today's movie was Inception. It was amazing. I won't go into the intricacies of the multilevel story lines, nor rave too much about the brilliant casting choices, I'll just say that it was two and a half hours very well spent. The AC and stadium seating were mere cherries on a very delicious Sunday afternoon treat.

My sons couldn't discuss the movie with me on the way home because they were too busy contemplating what they'd just seen. I was told they'd need a few hours to "take it all in" before they could talk about it. That left me with my own thoughts. Which led me to firing up hoses to water my very thirsty gardens, and to the deck, which was still sweltering at 8pm tonight.

I recently bought myself a deck fountain for my birthday, so I'm currently bathing in the cool sounds of the lawn sprinklers and the water pouring into the half-barrel beside me. Thankfully, the fan is keeping the green heads and the no-see-ums at bay, or it would be impossible to stay out here for more than 3 seconds. The deck is one of my favorite places to sit in the summer, but with July running into August, I can count on one hand how often I've made it out here.

It's not just the heat and humidity keeping me from my new deck chairs that recline so much that I can watch the clouds dance across the sky. It's my crazy summer schedule that has me working 7 days a week, instead of the usual 5. My hopes of napping in my hammock, reading on my garden swing and writing at the table next to the chimenea are just that; hopes of time to slow down enough to celebrate summer before it's over.

How often have I walked through the front door with a firm plan to keep walking until I'm out the back door and in my garden? I don't recall a single day when I haven't held that dream. I typically make it three steps into the living room before picking up stray t-shirts, socks or yes, smelly undies off the floor, then it's into the kitchen to clear up breakfast dishes, or off to the bathroom to hang wet towels left straddling the shower stall. I'm not sure why teenagers have such a hard time cleaning up after themselves, but it doesn't take Inspector Morse to figure out who went where, what they ate and when they ate it.

Nor will this craziness last forever. Like the summer, my years hosting teenage boys are going much too fast. Three years from now my home will be nothing more than a stopping-off point in my sons' lives. I'm sure by then I will probably welcome their abandoned clothes, dirty dishes and damp towels.

My youngest son turned 15 last week so we had a beach bonfire party to celebrate. It was a wonderful combination of swimming, volley ball, pizza, s'mores and music blaring from an iLuv that was loud enough to clear the less adventurous souls from our party zone. On the way home, my eldest son announced that it was the best party he'd ever been to. That's saying something considering the fact that parents were present! I'd worked a full week and felt so tired that I could have fallen asleep in the trunk of my car, but his words made all the effort worth it. My younger son thanked me with a giant hug, which, coming from 15-year-old, is a miracle.

As the summer spins out of control with chaotic schedules and relentless demands for rides and sleepovers, I try to remember how fleeting the seasons are with these time-sucking teenage boys. I try to listen for the spaces between the noise. To find the moments I'll treasure long after they've moved on to their busy lives beyond these Cape Cod walls.

We followed today's movie with treats from Dairy Queen. I pretended that I thought it might cool us all down. My real motivation was to see, once again, that childish grin that always comes when you hand someone something you know they love.

Afterall, you can't have summer without ice cream!

Sunshine, Swans and Springtime!

2010-04-15T10:25:00.001-04:00

Well it's finally here - the sound of the woodpecker that returns to my little corner of the Cape has replaced my alarm clock once again. It must be Spring.

The knocking of beak against bark begins as a distant tapping in late March, as the bird debugs my neighbors' trees. But by mid April, this beautiful creature has flown into my garden and announces itself with a jack-hammering on my chimney cap so loud that it makes the bedroom wall vibrate. A startling wake-up call that always makes me smile, once I've recovered from the hammering of my heart within my chest.

With spring come swans on the Herring River, sunrise peeping though my kitchen windows as I put the kettle on for tea, and those earthy smells of life pushing through the soil as we all greet another season of growth.

After many weeks of thinking up themes, gathering stories, editing and formatting pages, the Spring issue of CapeWomenOnline.com has been launched!

This is our 5th issue since I took on the Publisher's role and I am delighted with the growth of our little venture. We just added embedded video clips to some of the article pages, which add a whole new dimension to our storytelling, and we've joined the ranks of the Twitter and Facebook generation.

The T&F links are perplexing to me as I have to conquer my fear of yet another form of electronic communication. I barely get back here to update this blog - god knows how I'm going to add Tweeting and Facebook chat to my super busy world, but I am willing to give it a try.

I remember the very first time I went on the world wide web, as we used to call it back then. I was standing in the back office of a restaurant I used to work at, watching an image of the earth circle in the center of a black computer screen. I had no idea what to expect other than the totally unfamiliar and fantastic.

When the Netscape browser opened up to reveal a website page I was completely flummoxed and struggled to connect the images on the screen to my physical reality. What the hell was this internet thingy, anyway? And why should I care?

I laugh at my ignorance now because I go online as much as anyone. Even when I'm not near a computer I can check my email on my cell phone, or look up the menu for the pizza place that just moved into town. It's a wonderful, curious, addicting phenomenon that has weaved its way into the lives of everyone I know. I can't imagine life without it.

This is why I knew I had to continue working with CapeWomenOnline magazine. Although I couldn't see where this might take me a year ago, I've learned so much from the interactions I've had with our writers, artists, editor and web princess (yes, she really does live in a princess palace) and the countless people who have just wanted to talk to me about the content we've published. It has widened my horizons on all levels and I feel so blessed to be a part of its continued growth.

I have to admit that I've been so busy with the magazine that my poor old novel has been shoved to the back of my mind for several months now. I miss talking to my characters and have so many details I want to add to the rewrite. Since January I have collected a slew of yellow sticky notes, scribblings on the backs of anything I could write on, thoughts added to the 'Notebook' in my cell phone and long rambling narrative downloaded into the parts of my brain that wake up when it's novel-writing time.

With the new issue online and already receiving rave reviews, I hope to carve out some time to dust off those manila files and get back to work on my rewrite. I still have the summer as my 2nd draft goal, because I need a deadline, so I will have to resist the urge to spend long hours in the garden weeding, planting and pruning, and settle for just sitting on my garden swing with my lap top on my knees instead.

Check out the new issue of CapeWomenOnline.com and let me know how you like it.

Happy Spring!

Tools of the Trade

2010-03-05T23:20:00.003-05:00

It's been over a month since my last confession...I mean entry (flashback to being a Catholic there) and my excuse is simple - I've just been too damn busy to get back here!

Ridiculous, isn't it?

After giving myself the gift of finishing my first draft I let myself get buried, once again, beneath the many layers of my life. I feel like a million tiny fingers are tugging at my skin; wanting, pulling, demanding, needing. It's exhausting.

It's also validating and rewarding, to some extent. These fingers belong to my teenage sons, my students, my family in England, my pets, my friends and yes, some of them belong to me. These fingers remind me that I am surrounded by people who make my life worth waking up to. While some days feel heavier than others, some are brightened by surprises that leap out of the darkest of shadows.

One such surprise came last week, when my high school friend called to tell me she had found a house. After years of struggling to raise her three children in rented accommodations, she finally has a place she can count on. When she emailed me a link to the realtor's virtual tour I found myself surfing around the rooms of her new home. It was magical! I felt like I was there, walking through those wonderful rooms, right beside her.

It doesn't matter that she lives on the other side of the Atlantic. I've seen her new place and it rocks!

A second ray of light came in the form of a phone call from another high school friend. She wants to come and visit me in July. As I've not seen her in over 6, maybe 7 years, that's absolutely fabulous news. I'm so glad we refused listen to those god-fearing teachers who said our friendship was "a terrible thing" because we got busted for writing notes to each other in French class.

Okay, so there were a few creative comments about our class mates. And perhaps we made a snide remark or two about the frustrated old prune that was our headmistress. But nothing we wrote at age twelve was bad enough to dedicate an entire assembly to shaming us publicly for our "wicked words".

I like to blame Ms H. for my writer's block, on occasion, although I don't believe that our "evil notes" really had the power to condemn our souls into eternal damnation. Nor do I believe that it was necessary for Ms H. to hurl our writing into the flames of the sanitary towel incinerator.

Wouldn't she just turn in her grave (she MUST be dead by now) to know that this friend, whom she thought was such a bad influence on me, is now the inspiration for one of the lead characters of my novel?

Okay, back to that novel. Well, I've been reading my first draft and it's a very interesting experience.

The characters feel so much more, what's the word? Full? I don't remember writing the words that gave them their color, their accents and my god, what attitudes! Who are these people? Where do their voices come from? It's so strange to listen to them chatting back and forth, to hear what they have to say about the world that we created, together.

Talk about flashbacks! I wonder if all that magic mushroom tea, from my university days, can be credited for opening up my mind enough to let these characters in? I'm sure they weren't always in there....

I didn't mean to digress so completely from the title of this entry - I bought a new lap top last month. Yep. Got an email from Staples advertising President's Day specials. So, in the spirit of honoring Obama's stimulus efforts, I invested in an HP Pavilion. I really wanted to buy a Mac, but that will have to wait for more affluent times. The HP is fine, for now.

Instead of rewriting my novel I've been learning how to use Windows 7 and discovering that Microsoft 7 is actually a very intuitive program that thinks very much like a Mac...I know, weird, isn't it? This new distraction was so delicious that I lost myself in online tutorials for days. I also spent endless hours copying all my files from my beloved, aging iBook to the HP.

Not to keep harping on the magic mushrooms, but I swear my iBook knew there was an intruder in the house because after 7 years of flawless service it started freaking out the very day I bought the new lap top home. My screen began freezing then it refused to reboot altogether. I did the usual rescue routine: drew a couple of Reiki symbols over the keyboard, slapped the screen a few times, then yanked out the cord and the battery. That worked.

Now I have to spend 20 minutes convincing my iBook that I still think it's amazing before it will deign to boot up for me, then it lets me save a few files to my thumb drive before throwing another hissy fit. We seem to have fallen into a pretty workable routine. It just takes hours to accomplish what used to take seconds.

I don't think I'll ever have the heart to permanently unplug it...even if it does need an ethernet cable to get online.

Now if I could only figure out how to transfer my Quicktime version of "Here's to the Crazy Ones" Apple ad. from my iBook to the HP. The Mac to Pc files just won't translate and it was so easy to download it back in '97!

Hang on - I just found it on YouTube. If you haven't seen the ad here it is:
Think Different Apple Ad - Original version

It's such a great reminder that round pegs in square holes are good things...and that "the people who are crazy enough to think they can change the world are the ones who do."

Cheers to you, if you're crazy :-)

I did it :-) !!!

2010-01-24T22:46:00.001-05:00

That's right - I completed the first draft of my novel.

To be honest, it was a bit of a non-event. I was so busy shoveling snow and clearing out the basement in preparation for a teen-packed New Year's Eve party that I didn't fully appreciate the fact that I'd met a goal I'd been chasing for a decade.

Of course, after the snow stopped falling, the earth began to shake and all eyes turned to Haiti, especially mine.

For several days I felt paralyzed by the devastation and horror of the high definition images sweeping into my home. Absorbing each gory detail with a writer's eye, I downloaded the unfolding events, holding my breath each time a possible survivor was located.

It took me until now to sift through the files that have crystallized in my brain. A dead baby lies on top of an endless pile of rotting corpses. Parents scream at the concrete rubble in the hopes of hearing their child's cry. Sounds of anger, frustration and desperation.

I wasn't prepared for the eruption of emotion this earthquake resurrected in me. I was unable to leave my couch, turn off the television or just turn away. I couldn't pretend it wasn't happening.

Yesterday I poured my anxiety onto the page and wrote a poem about it. I had to do something other than text a donation.

I will publish this poem in the Winter issue of CapeWomenOnline.com and ask the readers to continue donating to the ClintonBushHaitiFund long after the reporters have left town. This is all I can do. I know it's not enough. But it's better than doing nothing.

Today I finished writing an article about completing my novel. It felt so good to think about something inspiring and I was reminded that I'd met the challenge I'd set myself at the beginning of this blog.

It also prompted me to set myself a new goal - to complete my first rewrite by the end of the summer.

I've had almost a month to let my first draft simmer in the back of my mind. It's time to get back to work and face the new journey that lies ahead.

"Only when it's dark enough can you see the stars"

Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.

Please click on this link to make a donation to the ClintonBushHaitiFund

Dreaming of a White Christmas

2009-12-20T15:10:00.025-05:00

There was less than an inch of snow on the ground when I went to bed last night - when I woke up the entire neighborhood was buried beneath a flawless white blanket over twelve inches thick.

The weather teams haven't decided if they can officially call it the "Blizzard of '09" ( how the love their fancy names) but it would be impossible to venture out until after the roads are plowed.

Until then, I am happy to stay warm and toasty in my pajamas and watch the wind whip the white powder across my gardens.

I should be writing. I am so close to reaching my goal of 100,000 words by December 31st, but here I am, in full procrastination mode. Why? Where do I start?

Prior to this last week I was in a wonderful rhythm of working, writing and sleeping.

The usual avoidance techniques had been well and truly defeated by my determination to complete this single goal that I set for myself. My fingers were flying across my newly acquired wireless keyboard (thank you Logitech) as my characters dictated their stories at breakneck speed.

My eyes had abandoned their protest of the tiny text on my iBook screen since I installed a large monitor that made it possible for me to write without having my lap top anywhere near my lap. No more hot legs or nauseating vibrations.

So what's the problem?

I'm not sure, and I don't think I should waste time trying to figure it out.

There are the usual culprits to blame:

- over-scheduling myself to make up for the upcoming Holiday break when I'll have two 4-day weekends in a row! What luxury!

- the incessant "nipping to the store" on my way to and from work to buy gifts, cards, wrapping supplies.

- deciding who to cross off my Christmas card list and which new names to add.

- baking pumpkin muffins, cookies and stick-to-your-ribs dinners to help pile on the internal layers that mother nature thinks we need during the cold winter months - maybe someone should tell her we have fleece blankets and furnaces nowadays?

- then there's the real creative monster - the finish-line-is-finally-in-sight monster that lunges into your path just when you think you are going to make it

Yeah, that's the one I suspect I'm dancing with as I watch another episode of House, CSI Miami, or Masterpiece Theater. I have all these shows saved to my DVR so I could watch them AFTER I complete my first draft. But I still find myself snuggling into my over-sized chair with my super soft blanket and glass of Pinot Noir for yet another few hours of staring at the flat screen, instead of the monitor.

I don't know if we'll have a snow day tomorrow. I guess that depends upon whether or not I dig out my car before it gets dark.

The snow pants, gloves, jackets and boots are piled by the door next to the shovels. There's at least 2 hours worth of shoveling to do just to clear the driveway.

I could pretend that it's okay to ignore the fact that I'm wasting a perfect opportunity to get my novel written this afternoon, but my characters are sitting on my shoulders and literally whining like children, telling me to JUST WRITE.

They've been at it since I woke up to this winter wonderland, when they squealed their delight at the picture perfect scenes lying just beyond my snow framed windows. Their unconstrained excitement reminded me of my children on Christmas Eve, thrilled by the magic surrounding them in the form of fairy lights, candy canes and mysterious colorful gifts tucked under the tree. I guess I've never spent the Holidays with my characters before. They were probably buried beneath my endless To Do lists and the uncompromising "I'm way too busy to write" mantra that usually accompanies me in December.

But here we are, on a gorgeous snowy afternoon, talking to each other.

If I could ask Santa for a special gift this year it would be the gift of completion. I want to cross the finish line, once and for all, and leave my creative monsters in the dust behind me.

That said, I'm off to write - after I bribe my sons with Egg Nog and cookies to go out there and dig out my car!

A Room of My Own

2009-11-24T03:53:00.061-05:00

I chose the Chatham Room of the Beach Rose Inn as the location for my mini writer's retreat because of the little seating area in the corner of the bedroom. Little did I know how pivotal a role this beautiful room would play when I finally decided that I was ready to blast through years of writer's block.

It wasn't the plug-in fireplace, or the Victorian styled lamp that captured my imagination - it was the idea of having somewhere to write that looked comfortable and private.

What I didn't tell you in my previous entry was how I created the perfect nest to nurture the writing child within me. I had packed my tool kit with all the ammunition I could find to do battle with my creative monsters. These tools were set up around my room within an hour of my arrival.

My printer was plugged into the socket behind my chair and the ream of recycled paper was opened.

The box containing years of novel notes
(both scribbled and printed) was organized with small post-it stickies. My word count color chart was placed on top of the pretend wood stove. It clearly showed me that I was only half way to my goal of 100,000 words.

My blue writing candle was set on one of the nesting tables opposite my wing back chair, along with a DVD about a mustang sanctuary and copy of Writer's Digest telling me to "Write Your Novel in 2009".

I cleared the antique hair brush and comb set from the top of the dresser (which concealed a TV that I never used) and laid out a display of crystals, wine, water and a photograph of John Cusack - hey, with his eyes on you all day you'd want to stay on task too!

Let's review: a hot tub in the garden, red wine, home made chocolate, my trusted iBook (with thumb drive to back up all files) and one of my favorite actors playing guardian to my writing schedule - what more could a girl possibly ask for?

John Cusack in person perhaps?

I felt like a child as I arranged my favorite writing tools around me, allowing myself the glorious privilege of unreserved indulgence.

I sat in the chair, then got up again to stuff a pillow behind my back. Moments after I began the unfamiliar task of moving my fingers around the yellowing keys of my lap top I decided I needed to pee.

It took me some time to settle into a rhythm of writing that did not include jumping up and down every five seconds for a pencil, my fluffy slippers, a glass of water, or a prolonged conversation with my ten inch teddy bear, who was also witnessing my evasion techniques from the seat of a wooden stool by the window.

Any fantasy that I may have had about writing brand new pages was soon dispelled by the reality of the continual review then edit cycle. I found myself reading over chapters I had written so long ago that I didn't even recognize the writing as my own. It was almost 4pm before I realized that I was hungry for lunch.

I must have been a girl scout in a past life because I'd packed whole wheat bread, peanut butter, banana's and hot chocolate packets for Wednesday and Thursday's lunch. I ate in my chair with my lap top opened on my knee.

I was officially in the flow of writing, communicating with characters who had hounded me relentlessly to just show up and listen to what they had to say. Their voices grew louder as my fingers became used to flying over the keys. I was honestly startled when I did a word count. I found a pencil and shaded in the space between 50 and 60,000 words.

I hit a wall when I had to write a new chapter that takes place in Sedona. Having been there several years ago, I realized that memory alone wasn't going to give me the color and texture I needed to complete my scenes. I closed my iBook and left the lap top fan running to cool down its hot little hardrive.

The wooden floorboards creaked under my weight as I crept down the corridor of the old Inn and down the stairs leading into the dining area and study, where a guest computer was set up.

I made hot chocolate in my favorite china cup (which I had also packed) and settled in for a web surfing session that turned into two hours of copious note-taking and photograph reviews.

By the time I was done with my research, my friend and hostess had set out a bowl of salad and homemade pizza on the dining table for supper. I continued taking notes as I ate.

It was hard to return to my room because I knew I'd have to get right back to my story. I felt tired and wanted to watch crap on television, but I also knew that the TV was one of my strongest writer's blocks. I promised myself a nice glass of wine if I wrote just one more paragraph from the research I had completed.

I soon became lost in a jumble of old and new pages because I was weaving a developing sub plot into the text I had already written. Piles of papers sprang up around me as I tried to straighten up the growing chaos in my mind.

I scribbled notes and partial sentences on the back of my synopsis, then on the back of anything that was not an official 'page' of my novel. Once again I lost all sense of time. Three hours later I closed my lap top and gave myself permission to call it a night.

Before crawling into bed, I updated my writing journal and discovered that I had written for a total of 11 hours between 7:00am and 11:30pm. I drew smiley faces and stuck colored foil stars next to each entry for that day. I don't remember how long it took me to fall asleep.

Sweet Escape

2009-11-11T11:06:00.005-05:00

Just Keep Writing...

It's been over 16 years since I gave myself the luxury of a writer's retreat. What a mistake!

I've only been here since yesterday afternoon - here being a friend's B&B in Falmouth - and I've already written 1,200 words. I would have written a lot more, but I had an article to complete about local chocolatiers, which took me close to 4 hours by the time I'd written the copy and designed the page for my online magazine. As I was writing the "must do" article, which was already well past deadline, I found the rusted doors of my creative mind begin to creak open, one millimeter at a time. Yeah, it was that slow!

The whole point in coming here was to step out of my usual routine and do nothing but work on my manuscript for 3 days. No animals to feed at 6am, no sons to negotiate with during the mad scramble to get out the door to school/work by 7:30am, no emails to reply to, no phone calls to answer, no classes to teach, no bills to pay, no leaves to rake and no mail to open...nothing to do but write, eat and sleep.

I have less than 2 months to get to 'THE END' and this was the only way I could think of to jump start my creative engine, which totally crapped out a few weeks ago. The more I tried to show up for my writing, the louder and more dramatic the distractions became. I won't list them here, but let's just say they run the gamut from personal, work and family issues, all claiming priority over one another.

'Nuff about that - I'm here now and that's all that matters.

It took a 10 minute drive into Falmouth to help me unwind after I emailed the Chocolatier's story to my editor. I felt frustrated that I'd spent so much time not writing my novel, but I was hungry and craving some of the home made chocolate I had spent all afternoon writing about.

I grabbed a buffalo chicken wrap (to go) and headed for Ghelfi's, on Main Street. As I'd predicted in my article, the woman behind the counter was delighted to chat about the history of the store and invited me to take a tour of where they made all the chocolate and candies.

It was amazing to see the giant copper kettles and collection of wooden stirring paddles in the kitchen. She showed me the family photo's of 3 generations of chocolate makers, and as I stood in the back office, absorbing the heart and soul of the chocolate world I had only imagined hours earlier, I felt my time writing about our local Chocolatiers was worth it.

I do believe in buying local, and supporting the small businesses who have been serving our community for years. I want to do whatever I can to help them keep their doors open, and if writing an article about them can help do that, even in a small way, it's worth the effort.

I left with a box of assorted samplings - chocolate covered brittle, milk chocolate turtles, dark chocolate cranberry bark, orange creams...in my rush back to my room I missed my turn and wandered around Rte 28A in the dark, singing my heart out to Robbie Williams.

By the time I found the road where I was staying I'd talked myself into NOT taking advantage of the hot tub that was nestled into one corner of the English styled landscaped gardens because I was "too tired"...silly me. How can anyone be too tired for a hot tub?

Ten minutes later I was about to drop my robe and climb into the hot tub when I realized I'd forgotten to put on my bathing suite - I laughed all the way back to my room, kept laughing as I squeezed into my bathing suit and was still laughing as I surrendered to the jets that were churning the water around me. That would have been an epic disaster if my friend had found me wallowing in her spa completely naked - it's okay if it's your own tub, but not at a B&B for god sakes! Get a grip Nic!! I guess I was more tired than I realized...

Tired or not, I poured myself a glass of Pinot Noir, lit my blue "writing candle" and flipped open the lid of my trusted iBook. There was my manuscript, staring right back at me, asking me where the hell I had been all night? I took a deep breath and replied with two hours of non-stop writing.

I don't know how half the bottle of wine disappeared, but by midnight I was ready to crawl into bed and let my characters regroup. They woke me up at 6:30am wanting my attention. For the first time in forever I gave them exactly what they were asking for. I carried my lap top over to the bed, grabbed a bottle of water and started writing again.

Two and a half hours later and I was ready for breakfast. My friend had already set the table for me. I didn't have to do a thing except pour my coffee and juice and fill my bowl with fresh fruit, yogurt and granola.

Now that's a wonderful way to start the day!! I get to repeat this new routine tomorrow :-)

I didn't mean for this to turn into a whole chapter, so I'd best get going...

Even the sun has a schedule!

2009-10-22T12:28:00.003-04:00

"Is there anything more loyal than the sun?"

The poet Mary Oliver said that.

I felt like she was talking directly to me. Like I was the only member of the audience who really mattered to her. I'm sure I was the only one in the crowd to scribble these words onto the front cover of my program titled "An Evening With Mary Oliver."

And to think that I almost didn't go.

You know the routine - driving home, dreaming about doing nothing but shaking off the cobwebs of a day that slowly smothers the soul. Hoping that peeling off the 'work clothes' and climbing into those soft pj's could create enough space around the body to finally let it breathe again.

I googled my favorite Mary Oliver poem and printed out two copies. I read and reread the lines that had walked beside me through my divorce as I struggled to rebuild a new life with my sons: "...and you felt the old tug at your ankles. "Mend my life!" each voice cried..."

I had followed Mary's advice and just kept walking until I could hear my own voice rising above the chaos and clatter around me. I "strode deeper and deeper into the world," until I had saved "the only life I could save."

My sister had sent me that poem in an email - she said it reminded her of me. I recognized myself immediately and felt so much relief to know that I wasn't the only person in the world walking away to save my life. I felt a sense of community with a writer I had never met, until last week.

Mary refused to sign my copies of the poem, citing something about potential copyright issues. (I'd wanted to send my sister a signed copy for Christmas.) Mary happily signed an official collection of poems for me instead. As I watched her hand guide her pen across the page, it struck me how easy it was for a writer to create magic with words. How simple it is to construct sentences that can help people in ways the writer could never imagine.

I didn't tell her why I loved The Journey.

The sun waited about thirty minutes after I got up the next morning before rising over the Atlantic. I brewed the tea, packed my lunch and hurried back into my work schedule.

I was driving home as the sun set in my rear view mirror. I felt frustrated because I wanted to hurry home to write my novel, but I was teaching instead. I was helping others to birth their own novels. How ironic is that?

Since my last entry I've been unable to crawl back into my writing schedule. I could blame it on the pc virus that took me 14 hours to locate then destroy, but I write my novel on my iBook, so that's not a valid excuse. I could also try to blame it on the one year anniversary of the death of my neighbor, who was like my surrogate mother. This had sent me into my kitchen to roast a turkey and potatoes the exact same way my nieghbor and my mum had roasted them for me.

But there are no excuses for blowing off my writing schedule. There is just the plain fact that I have been wading though emotional molasses these last two weeks and it's time to haul my boots back onto solid ground.

If the sun can show up for her schedule every day, for thousands and thousands of years, then I think I can try to show up for mine.

No Elelphants Allowed

2009-10-09T07:37:00.000-04:00

I'm not anti-elephant. In fact, I love them.

But whenever I think about sitting down to write my novel I feel a giant weight plop onto that already aching area at the back of my neck. This weight is HUGE!!! It presses down on my shoulders and pushes my whole body into the ground until I feel like I am stuck in mud. I try to shake it off, do a few neck rolls, take a deep breath or two, but once that enormous mass of guilt has settled its rump on my back it just won't budge.

So, I have a new policy when it comes to elephants.

They are no longer invited into my writing space. The lavender and blue room in the right hand corner of my little house is officially off-limits to the grumpy old elephant that has been following me around for years.

There's simply not enough room for me, my characters and a great big lump of "You shouldn't be wasting your time in here talking to people in your head when there are REALLY IMPORTANT JOBS to do!" Nope. That little writing room of mine is just too small for anyone but my novel and the writing candle I recently bought that signals the beginning and end of my writing sessions.

My writing room is gorgeous - it's my play room - filled with all the creative touch stones I learned to collect when I was teaching the Artist's Way. There is not one inch of that room that says "You shouldn't be in here - you should be doing...blah blah blah". My writing room is comfy, calm and safe for me to open up my lap top and just sink into the world that lives in my head every single waking hour.

Now that I've got used to closing the door I don't feel bad about leaving my elephant outside. It's always waiting for me. Silently, patiently waiting to remind me of all the things I have yet to do before I can even think about writing again.

Funny thing is, I don't worry about when I'm going to get the chance to write again. I have given myself the luxury of a writing schedule - something I have never been able to stick to before. I don't know why this time is different. But it is.

When my writing time arrives, which is six days a week, and twice on Tuesdays (!!) I stop whatever I am doing, head down the hall to my study, shut my door, light my candle and take a deep breath. The silence is wonderful. No impatient nudging at my shoulders, no bumping heads against my door, no annoyed stomping of feet - my elephant has learned to give it up - to let me have this sacred writing time all to myself,

Today is Friday, the only day on my weekly schedule that does NOT include a writing session.

I want to write today, but I don't know if I will. I don't know, yet, if my elephant will revolt if I don't follow my schedule, and if it does can I blame it? After a week of telling it to behave, to wait outside, to stop bugging me, this beast has stepped aside for 2-3 hours a day because it knows it will have plenty of time to chase me around my life as soon as my writing session is over. Perhaps I have to hold up my end of this bargain and stick to the schedule. Perhaps not.

I'll let you know tomorrow.

Time Travel

2009-10-02T07:30:00.001-04:00

My eldest son turned 17 yesterday - I couldn't believe it! Memories of holding him in one hand kept creeping into my mind as I drove to the dentist, as I lay in the chair while he drilled, filled and pressed against my numb jaw, as I drove home again, wondering how long I'd have to wait before I could finally make myself a coffee, without burning my lips off. The distance between 1992 and 2009 had completely dissolved as I found myself back in Dallas, Texas, reliving every moment of that long, long, long day.

Of all the events that transpired, the most vivid memory to resurface was the one that was born a week after his delivery, when I was posing for a photograph with my new son lying in my right palm. I couldn't believe that I was holding a human being in my hand. He felt light and fragile and I was afraid. I remember the camera clicking its confirmation that this moment was now held in eternity and as I lay my son down in my lap I wondered who he would become. I wondered how the hell I was going to adjust to having this new person in my life and if, by some miracle, I would learn how to raise him.

I can still feel the soft, thin skin of his bowed legs. Still smell the baby powder I had dusted all over his belly. Still see the knowing gaze of a new soul that says "I chose you as my mother". Despite the 17 years between then and now, the mind's ability to flood the heart with memories that feel like current reality is astonishing to me. It is a gift that I reopen regularly, not just on birthdays. If only all the memories that resurface were as beautiful as this one.

There was another celebration yesterday - my friend became an author :-)

Another birth that I had the honor to witness. How cool is that?

As the memories of back labor subside into the growing list of things to do before I return home with 6, yes 6 teenage boys for what could be a long night tonight, I realize that the birth process is simply the period at the end of a sentence. It is the final letting go of the baby we have protected and nurtured for so long.

Our babies, whether they be human, or literary, are not ours to hang on to forever. They belong out there, alone and vulnerable, in the world we are working so hard to change.

I have been working my own novel, despite my silence here. I am fitting sentences in between the busy moments of my life. I printed everything out the other day and it felt good to hold it in my hands. It reminded me of the time I held my infant son; the time when I was so afraid I'd fail to be the mother he was hoping for.

My novel is now my baby and I have work to do.

Discursive thoughts be damned!

2009-08-27T23:16:00.022-04:00

I've been working like a bee on speed since my last posting - buzzing from one delicious distraction to another.

I'm still struggling with Block#2. If it's not the dwindling supply of blackberries calling me into my garden, it's the newly ripening raspberries. Did you know that raspberries literally tip their boughs toward you when they need to be relieved of their fruit? Seriously, I've been watching them ripen and lean into the lawn so there's no possibility of my ignoring them.

Last night I made my first blackberry crumble in twenty-something years. I'd bought vanilla bean ice cream well ahead if time so I'd be sure to have something creamy to drown it in. As I said, delicious distractions...

I can't claim to be derailed by Block#3 since the 'hazy, hot & humid' days of summer have been kicked offshore by a wave of gloriously cool weather. It felt like Fall today. My favorite season. It's so pretty here once the tourists leave and the Fall colors begin to creep into the trees.

Back to the writing - I finished editing that novel and gave it back to the author - one down, one left to edit.

The page layouts for the magazine are taking me forever - I spent 10 hours working on just two sections (of seven) last Sunday. I completely lost track of time. This is a good and a bad thing - good because I lost myself in the creative process - bad because I forgot to shower, get dressed or feed myself. We won't even talk about what it did to my back...

Once I realized there was a potential for this blog to become Block#4 I made myself a promise that I wouldn't blog unless I'd written at least one paragraph of my novel first. That's why I've been silent for the last 11 days. No novel writing - no blogging! I admit it.

Actually, I did spend several hours writing a whole new chapter for my novel last Thursday. I was so excited to have completed something useful that I got busy doing god knows what and completely forgot to blog about it.

I suspect my new morning routine had something to do with clearing some room in my brain to write.

After years of stumbling out of bed to head straight for the coffee I am now taking 10 minutes to literally stop and pay attention to my discursive thoughts. This is the verbal dairrhea that begins rattling through my mind the very moment I wake up - and sometimes never stops until I fall asleep. The constant chatter can grow to a deafening roar that wakes me up in the night and feels like a freight train running through my chest. My morning mindfulness meditation seems to be easing this noise.

My goal isn't to silence my thoughts, but to become more aware of them. I have already learned some of the tricks my mind plays to distract me from doing what I really want to do. The "must do's" and "should be's" are quite insistent that they are more important than the "maybe it would be fun to do's". I am consciously paying more attention to the fun thoughts, the ones borne from creative desire, as opposed to a sense of martyrdom and duty. Hence the blackberry crumble last night. Yum!

In case you're wondering, I also wrote today - just a little. Not as much as I'd like to write, but it's better than nothing at all. I know this process is going to take a while to get used to. I've been so deliriously blocked for so long now that I can't expect to be unblocked overnight.

And that's okay with me.

Sunday's Shit List

2009-08-16T10:38:00.006-04:00

Aha! I just discovered Block#1: it's impossible to write on the PC in the dining/kitchen area when my sons are hunting for breakfast and hovering over my shoulders like gnats, wanting to see what I'm doing on a blog site.

Mothers aren't supposed to have anything interesting to say, right?

I can't tell you how many times I reduced the page, feigned interest in the toasting bagels and jumped from my seat for more than one hug to steer prying eyes away from the few words I was trying to write.

That's when Block#2 reared it's happy head and lured me into my back garden to pick blackberries, over thirty of them, and two small but perfectly round tomatoes. Now I have to soak the berries, for at least an hour, because last week I found a tick walking around my cereal bowl - big yeuch!

It's a gorgeous day. Perfect blue sky and a slight ocean breeze, although the weather woman is promising horrendous humidity later on - that could be Block#3 - too hot to write...

I gave up the PC and skulked into my study to see if my 5 year old iBook could handle the blog site. So far so good.

Resolution#1 Don't try to write on the PC when the boys are home.
Resolotuion#2 Head outside AFTER scheduled writing has been done, unless I'm taking the iBook with me.
Resoltion#3 Write in front of or beneath a fan, on full power if necessary.

Okay, so those excuses have been neutralized. But what about the really big ones?

Here's my shit list for today:

1. Finish editing the manuscript I've been carrying around with me for months - I only have one chapter to go and, to be honest, I am quite hooked to see how it all wraps up.

2. Begin editing and formating the manuscript I received a week ago (it's only 50 pages) and get it back to the author so I can have room in my head to think about my own novel.

Hmm. Something stinks. My attitude perhaps? Why am I putting everyone else's manuscript before my own? I wonder which button is being pressed here - why is my work less important than "what is expected" of me? Could this be Catholic guilt still steering the ship after how many years? I've not been to church in decades...go figure!

The list continues:

3. I have to begin designing the pages of my online magazine so the web princess can start building the new issue - scheduled to upload September 1st. Nothing like a little deadline to fuel the fires of total panic after weeks of, you guessed it, procrastination.

4. Did I mention the house hasn't been cleaned in two weeks? (Except for the toilets, which need a good scrub almost every day - teenage boys have exploding bottoms on a daily basis!)

5. Then there's the laundry to finish - the whites have been awaiting the Ping of the Start button since Friday morning.

6. I must get all those winter clothes off of the floor of my closet before the weather cools down and I need to wear them again.

7. Despite my goal to have all my magazine articles submitted by July 15th I am missing a few lead stories...writers! Oh, did I mention that one of those stories was the one I'm writing about how the Catholic church recently labeled Reiki as mere "superstition" and has no validation in the scientific or medical fields? I'll be sure to write about my experience doing Reiki on a client in the operating room with a renowned New England sports surgeon. What was it he said after the surgery? "I don't know what you were doing in there, but that Reiki made me look good. I've never seen a patient so stable, especially once we started grinding the bone ."

So you see my list is long, and each item is important, in its own way. I just reviewed it and guess what? I forgot something:

8. Write at least one sentence of MY NOVEL!!!

So the story begins here...

2009-08-15T21:25:00.002-04:00

When I say 'ten years...and counting' I'm not joking. That's how blocked I am.

It's ridiculous because I teach writers how to complete their manuscripts. Seriously, I've been doing it for over twelve years now. But I have yet to complete my own novel. Talk about teaching what you most need to learn...

My excuse is simple - I'm just too damn busy to do the one thing I want to do most in all the world - sit and write - no distractions, no endless To Do list sitting on my shoulder, yelling at me to stop writing.

If only the characters I left dangling in the corners of my mind weren't so good at haunting me, begging me to give them something to do, to say, to feel, anything other than an endless waiting for me to show back up at the page (or iBook screen) to move their stories forward, even if it's just with a sentence or two.

My journey out of the shadows of the blocked creative mind and into the light of productivity begins here.

This blog is my personal challenge to write myself out of my procrastinations, justifications and bloody minded stubbornness that has kept me from my goal of completing my half-finished novel.

I challenge myself to complete the second half of my novel by January 1st 2010. That's 20 weeks from yesterday.

Can I do it? All I need is one Catholic nun to tell me that I can't and I will move heaven and earth to prove her wrong...anyone know any nuns?