Day Two - Family Myths

On my father's side of the family, we have a story that has become something of a myth.

Over forty years ago, my father's brother and his wife, lifelong Presbyterians from New Jersey, adopted three Inuit siblings from Canada.  It may have been three Eskimo siblings from Alaska, but the details were something woven into my childhood, as were the lives of my three older cousins Carol, Larry, and Vernon.  We saw each other each Christmas and Easter, and spent a week every summer in a rambling, salt-crusted house on the Jersey shore.

Over the years, it became clear the my aunt and uncle had a difficult, and charged relationship with their adopted kids.  Carol, the eldest, fought haggard and shrill with Aunt Betty; one year, when we visited, Carol showed my older sister and I her room.  The walls were covered in an angry scrawl of red and black permanent marker, a list in Betty's handwriting of the many, many things that Carol did wrong.  Two years later, we visited Carol at a short-stay mental retreat at the end of a long line of evergreen trees.  She was quieter, then, duller.  We took her to a silver-clad deli for an awkward lunch.

Day 1 - Part 2

For the record, I did write a whole passel of new words (is "passel" even a word?), and began a major revision to The Tree Museum that I'm quite excited about.  

The idea (tossing 3 characters, focusing much more closely on one character's journey, and weaving into two of the existing characters to explore what makes a family in a fractured world) feels right, and has been gestating for months. 

It came to me very clearly in Barcelona one morning, post-the wedding when FAMILY, in all its full-cap glory, was so brightly at the front of my mind.

Wish me luck.

Day 1 - Category Unknown

When she first entered the office, she was relieved by how mildly grubby it was.

-Wow.  Day one, and already, I'm having these massive misgivings about posting writing online.  The above sentence could be a re-opening of the Muriel story, but as I was writing it,  I felt, pretty powerfully, that I should not be posting these pre-writings, personal writings, fictional writings online.  

I've struggled a bit with the whole online thing of late anyway.  As lovely as it has been to connect with folks re: Facebook while in Spain (no internet in Morocco, until we found a cafe, by which time we'd decided that the disconnection was worth more than checking in), I've also been feeling as if the clutter of it all -- life -- is one of the reasons (excuses) I haven't been writing.

Should I keep these "150 words" to myself each morning?  Will I even stick to it without the potential embarrassment of a "no-show"?

Name Change, Purpose Found

As I've written fairly often, I've not been sure about the purpose behind this blog.  

Not that it even deserves the term, honestly: I've barely posted in months, and haven't been able to justify taking the time.  (Wedding, seriously busy new job, blah, blah, blah...)

But this weekend I think I've gained a sense of purpose for this space.  A reason for blogging. An actual goal.

Starting tomorrow morning, and taking a break between September 20 and October 13 (during which I'll be writing into a notebook in Barcelona, Fez, and Marakkech, far from electronic crutches like a laptop and email) I am going to use this space as my writing "home."

Every day, Monday through Friday, I will write 150 words.

They may not be good, they may not link together or inspire other ideas, but they'll be there.

And we'll see where they take me down the road.

I'm on notice. 150 words.

I'm committed to it. 150 words.

I've got to do it. 150, 150, 150 words.

Wish me luck.

Each Week

Every Wednesday at 11 a.m., the comic shop opens with a new crop of fresh-fashed, slick-covered, 32-page wonders for sale.  

Most weeks, I try to go on Wednesday evening.  If I'm busy, or distracted, I might go as much as a week. 

But as soon as a few days past "New Comics Wednesday" and I inevitably get the itch.  To flip through page after page of paneled costumes, dramas, and mighty adventure. To see what Wally is up to, or Donna, or that new girl called Armor, or Storm.  To figure out why the newest "New" X-men is so predictable and so bad. It is a visceral thirst, if too many days swim past.  What are Grace and Thunder up to?  Can Gog really be what he seems? When -- o, when -- will the Legion of Three Worlds finally debut?

The moment itself is always subtly thrilling.  The discovery of the comic shop.  The smell of paper, cardboard, insecurity, hope. What will be on the list I expected to find? Which series will have been delayed?  And (here the best of all), what surprises actually snuck through?

But that euphoria only lasts so long -- the first page through of all of them, the sorting, the choosing firsts and lasts.  And, more and more often these days, the end result --the weekly result -- is let-down.  It's almost as if the getting of comics, the imagining of the joy is far superior to the reading experience itself.

Like life? I wonder?  Wedding, new jobs, writing fiction.  Is the dream of fulfillment necessarily more rewarding than actual fulfillment itself? 

Managing

Managed to almost finish a first draft of another story this morning before work.  

I don't actually know if it's any good, but that honestly doesn't matter. What matters is that I wrote. Whether or not there's anything to it, whether or not it's any good, it does give me hope.

And a writer's hope is dearly needed right now, amidst too much of the stuff of life.

In Leslie Pietrzyk's August 7 "Work in Progress" blog, she describes the experience of a former student of hers who has committed not to a period of time, or a successful story, but to the deceptively simple task of writing 200 words a day. 200 words.

The concept resonated deep inside. I  could do 200 words a day.  Before the gym, on my lunch hour, at night before bed.  200 words.  I really could.

As I struggle with life, wedding, partnership, full-time writing job, and some small attempt to lose the 20 pounds I've gained in the past year, writing hovers like a mosquito -- a vixen-fairy -- just outside my ear.  I whine and complain, and only, occasionally, feel the gift of inspiration.  

But 200 words? 

When the 200 words are an Edinburgh church visit shared by the narrator and the best-friend's husband she knows she loves?  Now that's something to keep hope in play.

TOO CUTE

They are just too cute. I mean, what else can you say?