Go Team!

I've lately been comparing my role in this wild hootenanny we call life to a juggler. It's not an old analogy: people, especially mothers, are constantly talking about trying to juggle the demands of home and career. Some people make it look easy.

It ain't easy. And I honestly think it isn't easy for the perfect people either--perhaps they just look better in public.

These days--to stick with the juggler analogy--I look like a clown in mid-fall, all my juggling balls in the air. So far, I've been catching them on the way down. But surely this will not remain the case. Certainly, they will all come crashing down. My goal is not to let them all crash down at the same time.

In my brand new Team USA Sochi 2014 sweatshirt. I love a good sweatshirt.

Tonight is the opening ceremonies of the Winter Olympics in Sochi, Russia. I LOVE the Olympics, but I especially love the Winter Olympics. Chalk it up to being a Southerner who's dreamt of snow most her life, but winter sports have always appealed to me. Some day, I'm going to write a novel about a biathlete. Because imagine the body and brain power it takes to cross country ski your brains out--an exercise involving all the large muscles and quite a bit of adrenaline--and then to stop, focus like a laser and engage the small muscles and the intellect enough to shoot and hit a tiny target. Astounding.

The Olympics, of course, are all about teamwork. From the arenas and their building and upkeep, the food, the travel arrangements, the planning to the athletes from each individual country relying on each other in a myriad of ways we never see as spectators. And then, as the TV commercials remind us, of course, there are the athletes' families: those people who have been cheering them on since birth, driving them places and providing them with the upkeep of whatever their sport entails, supporting them in innumerable ways and making sacrifices to do so.

All of it: teamwork.

What I have to remember, as I juggle these many-colored balls in the air--husband, daughters, home, grad school, career, writing--is that I never have to go it alone. I am part of a team. My husband is my key team member, and I'm incredibly lucky to have him in my corner. His sacrifices--from handling the girls alone at least twice a week so I can go in early and stay late after my night classes to study and write, to putting up with the inevitable monthly breakdown that comes screaming out of me like a train off its tracks when my graduate packet is due--allow me to do all these things.

Let me stop you here, lest you think feeding, bathing, and getting a 4 year-old and a 9 month-old to bed is an easy job. A job that anyone could do. Well, perhaps so. But it's a whole different ballgame when you're playing man on man than when you're the only one covering. When it's you alone, it's like running the gauntlet. Except instead of medieval crazy people coming at you from both sides with swords and rocks and spikes, it's naked screaming children with honey in their hair and poo poo on their hands.

But back to teamwork.

It's my job to use my time wisely. If ever a phrase were so over-used ... and so daggum true. It's also my job to finally accept that I may not do all these things well, not all the time.
Here goes....

And Go USA!

Artist-in-Residence: The Reserve at Lake Keowee (Part I)

I've enjoyed a few artist residencies during my short time as a published writer, and they've all been different: located in different parts of the country, with varying lengths of stay, accommodations, perks, and expectations of the artist. Certainly, my own creative output during each has varied. During one artists' residency, I began a new novel; at another, I researched that novel and wrote poetry; at yet a different residency, I wrote an essay that actually won an award that ended up covering the cost of a rental car and plane fare to and from that residency.

 

At my most recent gig as the very lucky Artist-in-Residence at The Reserve at Lake Keowee in Sunset, South Carolina, where I stayed for a week, I wrote five pages of what I imagine will be the sequel to Keowee Valley.

I know what you're thinking. Five pages--only five pages--in a week's time? Let me explain: my family was there with me. Yep, the husband, the (newly-turned) 4 year-old, and the 12 week-old. Only one absent was the dog.

I know there are writers out there who can write amid professional and familial chaos, but I am not one of them. My brain spins in overdrive and my imagination is as fickle and mercurial as an afternoon thunderstorm over the Southern Appalachians. And if you know nothing about the storms we get around here, they're moody, fast-moving, completely random, and often violent.

 

the Guest House (or, as my 4 year-old says, the "castle house")

So what I'm saying is, five pages is miraculous! Especially since the 3rd trimester of pregnancy and these first few months of my infant's life have been energy-sucking. Wonderful, wouldn't-trade-it-for-the-world wild, and exhausting. To feel inspired to write again was a blessing. And the impetus for the inspiration was entirely because of our gorgeous and peaceful accommodations at the guest house of a pair of incredibly generous members. (Who also happen to be HUGE Clemson fans. Go Tigers!)
 
 

The guest house was set away from the main house across a lovely bridge spanning a little

"our" bridge (my husband's got the infant carseat; my 4 year-old's the
tiny figure sprinting ahead)

mountain cove. Bubbling and gurgling (and full-on rushing, as it was after several days in a row of rain) down the back of that tree-filled cove was a series of small waterfalls. The creek rushed beneath the bridge just below the house, emptying into the lake nearby. Inside, the home was elegant, warm and comfortable--a combination I think can be sometimes difficult to find. Designed with rich wood, stunning stone and completely outfitted with anything a guest could need, it was the perfect place to get my groove back.

Yes, I just said that. Forgive me, Stella.

For most of the days we were there, if the baby and the 4 year-old let me, I would wake at 5 a.m., brew my coffee and head out to the screened-in porch on the second story. The porch overlooked the aforementioned bridge and creek, and so when I looked out all I saw were green trees--all I heard the rush of water through the woods. Heaven.

 

Kathryn Gravely, the Director of the The Community Foundation, had pretty much the absolute perfect week planned for me: one book talk to members of a couple different book clubs in The Reserve, two informal meet-and-greets with members outside The Reserve's Market, and one history talk at Orchard House, a beautiful room with a huge fireplace located at the Clubhouse. Orchard House reminded my husband and me of an inn we'd stayed in when we'd traveled in Scotland several years ago. With a kick of Southern style, of course.

The rest of the week, Kathryn told me, I was to relax with my family at the lake and by the community's fabulous pools (let me just say that there was a grotto), enjoy the natural beauty of The Reserve (the lake, hiking trails, orchard, views, etc), and to WRITE. What a gift!

As a bonus, I met some fantastic people during the week, at the informal gatherings, by the pool, at the Market, and at both my talks. Kathryn--who is as genuine, classy, cool, and savvy as they come (not to mention very, very good at her job)--had assured me at the beginning of the week that The Reserve was home to some of the friendliest people I'd ever meet, and she was right. In addition--and she'd told me this, too--the folks there were welcoming, very casual, inclusive, and fun. This was something I'd not necessarily expected from a place as "exclusive" as The Reserve. Meeting and talking with people from all walks of life is probably, besides the actually crafting of the story, my favorite thing to do as a writer.

In addition to all the good fellowship, let me just say that this was an incredibly generous artist residencies in so many other ways. And I'm truly grateful to have received it.

 
** Next time, I'll talk about some of the other things I got to do at The Reserve, including exploring a couple of early 19th century graveyards, hiking around an "Indian cave," and answering questions about local Cherokee history and culture. I'll also share my thoughts about how to best enjoy and utilize an artists' residency like this one.

Thursday Show & Tell - The See Ya Soon Edition

Well, folks, I am 38 weeks pregnant. I am an ocean liner. A 90 year-old with permanently creaky hips and questionable navigation.

I am cranky, I am exhausted, and all I want to eat is ice cream. Right now, the only person in my house who does not annoy me is the dog.

That being said, this is my last post for a while. I’m due to have this baby in 6 days. So if you don’t hear from me for a little while, that’s why. I’ll try to at least get a good baby picture up here to share in a week or two, though.

In the mean time, here are some cool things I wanted to share before I head (God willing) into post natal bliss:

Credit: Richard Foreman/CBS

1.) My favorite show currently on television, NCIS, is finishing up its 10th season. That’s quite a long stretch for a TV drama, which means some kudos for the writers who keep viewers coming back week after week. That being said, Tuesday night’s episode ended on a cliffhanger, making me wonder if they’re going to kill off one of my favorite characters, a former Mossad officer-turned NCIS agent, Ziva David.

I can’t take this sort of drama with my pregnancy hormones raging. If they kill off Tony or Ziva–two characters playing ”will they or won’t they?” NCIS agents–I’ll lose it. Anyway, this interview with Cote de Pablo (the actress who plays Ziva) may fill in a few of the blanks. As a writer, I’m especially interested in the way she describes a choice with a certain scene in Tuesday night’s episode, and the way that she thinks Tony’s character is evolving … who he is as a man. Very cool.

Check it out here.
 

2.) I’ve talked about this book, Dirt Work: An Education in the Woods, here before, but I’ve

got to mention it again. Just published this month by Beacon Press, it’s a book of essays about life as an Alaskan “trail dog,” by my friend, the writer Christine Byl. It’s already come out to great acclaim, and has been mentioned as a “favorite Spring read” in places like O Magazine and more!

I hope you’ll check it out; it’s available in hardback and as an eBook from any independent bookstore, and of course online at places like Amazon.com.
 

3.) Today is the birthday of Ella Fitzgerald, the ”First Lady of Song.” Originally from Virginia, she entered a talent contest when she was 16, started to freeze up, and then sang. From there, it’s history.

Ella once said, “The only thing better than singing is more singing.” So in honor of Ella, and of my current physical state caused by the baby in my belly, check out “Cry Me a River.”




That’s all, folks! Happy Weekend, and I’ll catch you on the flip side.

Big Promotion Day for Keowee Valley - Deals, Free Stuff, & More!

It’s a big day for Keowee Valley and me!

First, I’m doing a blog tour!

This means I, and Keowee Valley, will be featured on several different blogs–each of them different (and all the things I talk about different, too).

Check them out:



Keowee Valley Blog Tour:
Blog 1: Bell Bridge Books – “Writing as a Mom”
Blog 2: Riding With the Top Down – “The Beauty of Book Clubs” 
Blog 3: Michelle Ziegler Author - “Fun Fact Friday: Katherine Scott Crawford & Her Path to Publication”
Blog 4: Goodreads - "Mining for Gold"

Second, Keowee Valley is available for a special promotion price of only $1.99, today (Mar. 22) through Monday (Mar. 25) at the Amazon Kindle Store and Apple.

Third, today ONLY, I’m doing an Author Q & A on Goodreads. At my Goodreads Author Page, I’ll be answering any questions Goodreads readers, writers, and bloggers may have about my novel, history, literary agents, publishing, the writing life–basically anything and everything under the sun! I do hope you’ll take part. (If you haven’t signed up for Goodreads, it’s FREE and fun.) In addition, Goodreads is offering a free book giveaway to lucky folks who participate!

I figure this is a fun way to get through your Friday, and to get ready for the weekend. I hope to see you somewhere on “the Web” today!

In the Family Way

Maternity corset, Victorian era
(www.melissanemitz.wordpress.com)

Yes, I am "with child." I am also...

"In a delicate state."

"Carrying a child."

"Expectant." 

"Fecund," "fertile," "fraught." (Oh, boy.)

"Fruitful."

"Gestating."

"Heavy." (Yes, oh, heck yes.)

"Parturient." (Whaaat?)

"Productive."

"Prolific."

Can you tell I love my Writer's Thesarus? It keeps me warm on cold nights.

But back to the topic at hand: It's true, and at 15 weeks along there's no denying it. I am expecting Baby #2--gender yet to be revealed--on May 8, 2013.

Holy freaking moly.

To say that trying to manage all those things in my life I love to talk (or complain... cough) about has been difficult would be a massive understatement. As so many mamas know, working, parenting a young child, taking care of a house (snort), trying to promote a novel and attempting to be a reasonable spouse all take on an entirely new meaning when you are "in the family way."

Add a full graduate course load and attempting to write a second novel, and it's a circus act of massive proportions. Except, in my case, it's not snazzy, fancy Ringling Brothers, but instead one of those state fairs where the carnies running the ferris wheel look like meth-heads, all the animals in the 4-H competitions bolt for the hills, and carnival-goers all seem to look as if they'd sprouted from the same gene pool.

Nursing corset, circa Thank God NOT 2012
(www.breastfeeding.blog.motherwear.com)

Please forgive me. I'm pregnant.

What I'm trying to say is, the past 3+ months have been a doozy. And I've not done anything--parenting, wife-ing, teaching, writing, novel promoting--particularly well.

See, I'm a college English professor who just used the word "wife-ing." I should be shot.

Thankfully, I seem to have moved out of the I-want-to-die-NOW portion of pregnancy, that oh-so-lovely first trimester. (I'm writing that in a whisper, so the nausea gremlins don't get me). With this move into the Lord-be-praised second trimester, I seem to have reclaimed some of my old energy. When I was pregnant with my now 3 year-old, I used this energy to grade papers, to exercise, to hike some pretty big hills.

Somehow, this isn't the case with Number 2. There's more to do.

I don't have the antidote. The magic potion. The solution. If you do, send it to me. Please. Now. Ye shall be rewarded forthwith.

Some day, "they" tell me, I will write about all this. And I'll be calm. I'll be enlightened, helpful, humorous.

But for now, I'm just pregnant. Happily, but maddeningly, "fecund, fertile and fraught."

My Post at the Bell Bridge Books Blog

My first post at the Bell Bridge Books Blog is up this morning! It's called "And So I Did," and it's about the things that shaped me as a writer.

Enjoy!

Author Endorsements, Continued ...

Back in January, I wrote here about the process of trying to find published authors to endorse my novel. It's a tricky thing, asking someone you don't know, whose reputation is on the line, to say publicly that they think your work is worth reading.

Authors, especially the popular ones, are inundated with these requests--from their agents, their publishers, and from first-time novelists like me--on top of being on deadline for their own novels, traveling for book promotions, and taking care of their families, teaching, or doing whatever it is most of them do for a "real" (read: wage-earning) living. And I am quickly learning what these successful writers already know: there are only so many hours in the day, and if you have a life, finding time to write anything ain't easy.

My process of asking for endorsements, as I mentioned in the January post, was pretty straight-forward--mostly because I'd never done it before, and knew no other way. (In a nutshell: my agent reached out to one of his authors, the historical novelist Beverly Swerling, who offered an incredible blurb.Other than that, I did it on my own. In the post I explain my methods.)

To my amazement, it worked!

In all, I reached out to 16 authors. These are authors who, A) write historical fiction similar to mine, B) are regional/Southern writers, like me, and C) who are essentially my favorite living writers. I went big with "C." I figured, why not give it a try? Of course, all of them also have a readership I'd hope to reach.

(Quick word of advice to those of you who are seeking your own blurbs: Do it as soon as possible, even before you receive the ARCs of your novel. Like one of my publishers told me, authors are notorious for taking quite a long time to provide a quote or blurb. Some may even forget they said "yes" to you when you touch base with them months later!)

Out of those 16 authors I queried, 15 said they'd love to read my novel. One very nicely declined.

Out of the 15 who said they'd read the novel:
- 3 said they ultimately could not provide a blurb (most referred to "lack of time," and some "health issues" as their reasoning--all were very kind and apologetic)
- 8 provided wonderful blurbs/ endorsements
- 4 are still reading (and I'm crossing my fingers they meet my publisher's deadline)

It's been incredible and humbling experience, having writers I admire so much say such nice things about my work. I'm not afraid to admit it: Sometimes I look at what they've said once a day ... just to be sure it's all real.

One, or two, of these endorsements will appear on the front and back covers of my novel when it comes out in September. (My publishers will choose which.) The rest will appear inside. And now, these wonderful words are mine: I can use them, refer to them, and hug 'em like a teddy bear until I'm old and gray.

The moral of the story is, GO BIG. Reach out. You never know what will happen.

Case in point: One of my literary idols, I writer I've adored since I was 10 years old, whose novels were so important to my family it's like the man was our literary patron saint, wrote an endorsement for my novel. And left a voicemail on my cell phone. In my wildest dreams, I never thought this would happen.

More to come on this, later this week.

For now, Happy Monday. Go big, my friends!

Feels Like Home

Whenever we pull up in the driveway of our house, I turn to my daughter and say, "Home again, home again?" And she responds, "Jiggety jig!" Then she grins and shows her dimples.

Those are some killer dimples. If I didn't love them so much, I'd want them to disappear before high school so that there's no chance of a blonde hair-dimples-boobs combination happening when she'll be anywhere near 17 year-old boys.

Vermont College's Chapel Hall

But I digress. Home. Ahh. I am home after 11 days in Montpelier, Vermont, at my second residency at the MFA in Writing program at the Vermont College of Fine Arts. It was a packed 11 days, full of lectures, readings, workshops, walking around town, and talking--talking with other students and faculty members, about writing and the writing life, the residency itself, and books... books upon books. (Really, one of the best things about residency, I've found, is the reading list I end up compiling from everyone's fabulous suggestions. Now I'm trying to avoid Amazon like we're college students who kissed last night and don't want to talk about it.)

My first residency over the winter, I'll be honest, was a bit disappointing to me, mainly because the workshop experience wasn't all I'd hoped--though I loved the campus, the snow, the dorm rooms. (Kidding about that last one.) But as anyone who's had their writing workshopped before--meaning you've sat in a room, sometimes around a table, with several other writers like you all coming from various places of experience and ego, and listened to people critique your work--you know it can be a toss-up.

Connie May Fowler
(photo credit: lyceumagency.com)

This residency, I won the workshop lottery. Really, the workshop gods (hmm.. wonder what they'd wear? Argyle socks and elbow patches? A beret?) smiled on me. We're talking laid a big ol' Miss America toothy grin on me. 

How? I was assigned to a special novel workshop led by VCFA faculty members and writers Connie May Fowler and Tom Greene, who is also the president of Vermont College. Whereas last residency I spent workshop in a basement room with only casement windows (and I'm claustrophobic), this time my workshop was held in a gorgeous, white-walled, high-ceilinged room in Chapel Hall (the photo you see above), with nearly floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out onto the quad, nearby buildings, the sky. Ah. And I'm sure this had nothing to do with the fact that one of the co-leaders of the workshop is the president of the College. God bless him.

Tom Greene
(photo credit: vcfa.edu)

I won't get into the minute details of the workshop (though if anyone's interested in them, please feel free to write and ask), but I will say that it was everything a good workshop should be: well-organized, constructive, enlightening, full of participants who'd submitted high-level work and were fully invested in each piece workshopped. And, most of all, led by faculty who were engaging, honest, invested in us, and so obviously wonderful teachers. I truly couldn't have asked for a better experience.

In addition to the rock star workshop, the line-up of Visiting Writers and industry professionals was outstanding--something I also appreciated about my first residency. In addition to readings given by these people, they also hold "informal talks," where they discuss their writing and professional lives, the industry, and whatever they feel like. We had the outstanding writer Richard Bausch (man could run his own theatre company, he's got so many voices in him), VCFA alum and writer Michael Hemery, writer and translator Maureen Freely (she translated the Nobel Prize-winning novel Snow, by Orhan Pamuk, and her descriptions of growing up in 1960s Istanbul were utterly captivating), and Ron Charles, book critic from The Washington Post (who, with Pres. Tom Greene sat in on a symposium event in which he discussed things vital to anyone pursuing a writing career in this country; it was called "The State of Fiction in America"). Poet Kathleen Graber also attended, though I didn't get to make it to any of her events.

The Visiting Writers series has quickly become one of my favorite things about residency. There's always a stellar line-up, and several chances to interact with and learn from these gifted, successful writers and eminently insightful industry professionals. Even when they're scary... like Charles talking about the chaotic state of the capricious publishing industry. (Still, these are things writers need to know.)

In addition to all this good stuff, I also got to meet and hang out with some fantastic new people. (The lovely, and hot, summer weather made for plenty of socializing outside.) Many of them were graduating from the program, in different stages in their writing careers and lives, and from all over the U.S. and around the world. I'm a "people person," just like my Grandaddy, so it was a pure treat to talk to these folks. What a wonder people are!

Back at home, I'm still processing my time in Vermont, this last residency.

Ha. Who am I kidding?

I'm chasing my 2 year-old, trying to plan her 3rd birthday party, begging my dog to forgive me for leaving her (and for that matter, for having a 2 year-old), trying to make plans and organize with my husband, who's just spent a week with a sick child (she contracted Strepp Throat while I was away), attempting to even get a tiny handle--even a pinky--on our family calendar for the rest of the summer, and debating whether it'd be neighborly to ask my back-door neighbor, an aging electric guitarist with a smoker's cough, to perhaps not rock out after 9 p.m.

Oh, and my first novel debuts September 15.

Heavens to Betsy.

But what I mean to impart is this: I am home. There is, as Dorothy so aptly put it, no place like it. And I return from Montpelier feeling, for the first time, that the Vermont College of Fine Arts is home, too.

Returning to Montpelier and VCFA

Our bed. In packing mode.

This is the state of my bedroom. For my Mom, this will probably bring flashbacks (or, as I like to call them, fond memories) of the state of my teenaged bedroom.

But no: this is my bed, now, as I pack for 11 days in Montpelier, Vermont, at the Vermont College of Fine Arts. I fly out Wednesday morning for my second residency, and thus the beginning of my second semester in the MFA in Writing program.

I'm looking forward to it: 10 days of lectures, readings, workshop, and just being around writerly people. I'll get a new advisor for this new semester, and I'm curious about whom it'll be. And as much as I'm a wee bit sad (and a bit anxious) about leaving my family for that long--namely my two year-old--I'm looking forward to 10 days of just thinking about myself.

Sounds supremely selfish. But it's true. Only having to worry about me, about where I need to be and what I need to do, will be heaven. It also doesn't hurt that I'm renting a house in Montpelier with friends I'd made over the last residency. I'm envisioning wine on the front porch, exchanging of book lists, lots of talk (okay, gossip).  

My first semester as an MFA in Writing student was an interesting one. It flew by, and I never truly felt like I'd a minute to slow down. Truthfully, it was a balance act--teacher/mother/wife/writer/student--with a landing I'm afraid I didn't quite stick. I'm hoping that this coming semester will be a bit more manageable, if only because I've done it before.

Running the gauntlet
(Photo credit; en.wikipedia.org)

Even as I write that--be a bit more manageable--I cringe. Because I know that won't be true. Happily, my novel comes out September 15th, which is obviously a dream quite literally coming true. But with it comes several months of promotions, some travel, and quite a bit of work. I'm also teaching classes. And, oh yeah, back being a grad student. Trying to coordinate these roles alongside navigating family life at times feels like running the gauntlet.

You know the gauntlet, right? It can be as fierce as the picture to the right--all medieval and brutal and sharp--or as ridiculous as one of those Japanese reality shows where the contestants are knocked by enormous rubber waterwheels into foaming florescent water. My life seems more like the latter--really, really funny at times. With an ouch.

It's been an exceptionally busy few weeks. Good weeks, but crazy ones. My daughter is out of school. My husband took a new job that has him traveling and working from home. (More on the two-people-in-the-house-working-from-home hootenanny in a later post.) We celebrated his birthday and our 8th anniversary with our first date in months, which was wonderful. We went to an early movie and dinner in Asheville, N.C.

My husband and me, celebrating our 8th anniversary

(The movie, Snow White and the Huntsman, which I thought I'd be ambivalent about but which I really, really enjoyed. Charlize Theron is fantastic as the evil queen, Chris Hemsworth brings surprising dimension and even tenderness to the Hunstman, and Kristin Stewart makes a darn good bad-ass. Plus, the abundance of Golden Globe, Emmy and Oscar-winning actors is a win: Ian McShane, Theron, and more.)

I've yet to figure out how to successfully navigate life as a fully-functioning (read successful) workingwritingMomwifefriend. I've read dozens of books and blogs on the subject, hoping that one would hold the magic key. Most say the same thing: get organized, schedule, enlist help, make time for yourself.  

Time for yourself. Bah ha ha ha ha.

Kidding, kidding. It is possible. It can be done. Just maybe not this week....



* I may post while at VCFA, I may not. I hope you all have a wonderful end of June!

Summertime, Summertime

I wonder what it would be like to live in a world where it was always June.

~ L. M. Montgomgery

Summer is here, summer is here, summer is here! For me, there is no real dilineation of the season except for the letting-out of school, the thick mist low on the bottomlands, the emergence of green corn, and the appearance of the lightening bugs. I still feel summer like a child does, like a glow low in my abdomen, spread out to the edges of my appendages, sparking at the fingertips and bare feet. It is, as it always was, a gorgeous, magic, infinite time of year, no matter how old I get or how my life changes.

This past week I abandoned the Internet for a week at my family's lakehouse in the South Carolina foothills. This, and my willful, lazy embrace of summer, are the reasons for my not writing in a while, here. I don't have a good excuse.

The lakehouse is a special place for me, with a honing beacon that pings and lights no matter how long or far away I go from it. I could fill a book with the memories made there. But this past week, I was there because my husband was out of town on business, my daughter is out of preschool, and I'd just finished the last packet of my first grad school semester--30 pages plus 20 more for my summer residency mailed off--and for the first time in several months, my reading material was my own.

I packed an extra bag full of novels, biographies, new magazines, and DVDs, certain I'd wake early and stay up late, just to soak it all in. I took my laptop, thinking I'd be so inspired by sunrise over the lake and blue mountains that I'd be up every morning long before anyone else, typing away as I used to there as a teenager, so easily inspired. 

My soon-to-be three year-old, whom I was solo-parenting for the week, obviously didn't get the memo that Mama was going to be reading. And writing. She woke every night between 3 and 5 a.m., and only took a nap on the first and last day we were there. I spent days chasing her up and down steps, pushing her on the swing her Grandaddy installed at his Tiki Bar, just for her, and funneling her away from the edge of the dock. It also rained for three days straight. At the end of the week I looked about ten years older, and not tan. So not tan.

But still, it was a good week away from my house, my desk, my work worries. Sometimes you simply have to physically remove yourself from those things to disconnect. And, I had good friends visit, time with them and their kids, time--even if only snippets of it--to talk, to share, to laugh, to simply be. And this is priceless.

Photo credit: www.runwildadventures.com

Navigating motherhood alongside being a writer (and now, again a student) has been nothing but a challenge: an obstacle course like one of those mud runs, where you get to leap over fire and scale slippery walls and climb under barbed wire. You know the ones: where you come up utterly exhausted, your clothes trashed, with muck in your mouth and in your nose but a huge grin on your face.  Yep: motherhood is like this.

Thank God I like to get muddy.

Since it is summer, and the ferns are green in the woods, the crickets sounding their thrum at night, I vow to soak it in. To breathe. To go barefoot, eat a popsicle, ride a bike, and get dirty. I may be doing all these things with an almost three year-old in tow, and on very little sleep, but they'll happen. For it is summer (my, what a word!), and it doesn't get much better than this.  

 

Happy Readers, and the Writing of Friend



Image credit: serc.carlton.edu

Some days the sun just chooses to shine. In reality, in Western North Carolina today our weather's been cloudy and stormy. But the sun is shining in my Inbox. And for that I am thankful.

This morning I woke to two fabulous messages in my email Inbox, which I happened to catch as I was racing through the house trying to get myself and my two year-old ready to head to the Forest with a friend. I was literally skating through our living room in my river sandals, dodging Trigger (my daughter's rocking horse) and Scout (our real dog, who decided she'd be a third leg and make me feel especially guilty that I wasn't taking her with us) when a particular email address on my laptop screen caught my eye.

Here's why: Last night after I'd just finished the new release of a bestselling author I particularly admire--her novels are gorgeous and fabulous and lovely and soulful and with an awesome little Southern (as in the Southern U.S.) - Italian kick--I decided to write to this same author, asking if she'd be willing to read my novel, KEOWEE VALLEY, and if she liked it, to offer a blurb.

Well, she'd written back by this morning, not only graciously agreeing (wooohoooo!) but also congratulating me and encouraging me to "enjoy the moment." Her email was genuine and kind, and I'm still glowing from it.

Then, next to this message was another fabulous little ray of sunshine: A message from blogger Michelle Griep, a writer and reviewer who has an advance review copy of KEOWEE VALLEY. She loves the novel, she said, so much so that she mentioned it in her blog today. She'll be formally reviewing KEOWEE VALLEY for Novel Reviews when it's published late this summer.

Happiness!

Bascially, it's been a good day. Even the dog has forgiven me.

Henry David Thoreau
(photo from Wikipedia)

But before I forget, please check out my writer-friend Christine Byl's blog post at Beacon Broadside, in celebration of the 150th anniversary of Henry David Thoreau's Walden. Christine's debut, DIRT WORK, is forthcoming from Beacon Press in 2013. If you've ever wanted to head off into the woods, or to the beach, or to anywhere, alone, to sit and examine the natural world and your place in it... heck, if you've ever wanted to simplify, Thoreau is to be thanked.

May there be more sunny days ahead for us all.

Poetry as Prayer and Parenting on the Fly

This week has been a doozy.

On top of the normal--you know, all those things I signed up to do because I imagine myself Lynda Carter in shiny red go-go boots: teach classes, be a grad student, write a new novel--my husband and I have had a shake-up in our work worlds. And to top it off, our 2 and 3/4s year-old has decided that life would be much more fun if she did the following:

From lasplash.com

1. Wake up every morning at 4 or 5 a.m., bright-eyed and bushy-tailed (I love that metaphor--it makes me think of Big Bird), shouting our names and being sure to enunciate every syllable.

Ma-Ma? Ma-Ma! Da-Dee! I. want. out.
I. want. some. orange. juice.
Ma-Ma? Da-Dee! I'm. thirsty!
Can you tell me a story? How about Wylie and Winnie the Pooh and Christopher Robin and Piglet and Eeyore and Kanga and Baby Roo and Rabbit and Owl go to the PLAYGROUND! And swing on the bouncy swings?
Ma-Ma? Dah-dee?

2. Shorten her naps to about 30 - 45 minutes, when only last week she was taking two to (sometimes) three hour naps. This is not cool to do to the Mama. Not when the Mama is in the midst of final exams.

Portrait of Cate the Great taken from Goodreads

3. Channel her favorite alternate ego: the Russian despot. You've probably heard of her, if you've been reading here. Well, she and the Orlov Trotters she rode in on are back.

This week alone, the Czarina resorted to physical violence with her sainted mother and father, shrieked at her loyal dog, mopped the floor with her flailing body, practiced her ninja skills (okay, so moving away from the Russian metaphor) on various objects around the house--including the sofa, her books, and her loyal stuffed animal subjects--and screamed, "No! Off with his head!" when offered her usual favored blueberry yogurt.

In addition to the Czarina's royal moodiness, our faithful family dog has decided that anything making a noise outside the family compound is a threat, and must be eliminated. This includes the mailman, the small dog in the yard behind ours, the screened door, the neighbors having a conversation outside in their own driveway, the recycling truck, joggers, road bikers, planes flying overhead, the wind, the birds, etc.

I make light. But it has been stressful. All of it. And I've lost my temper. Of which I am not proud.

Some people, in situations like these, find solace in prayer. Or talking on the phone to their friends. I certainly pray, and I sometimes talk on the phone to my friends... when I can find my phone. And when I've remembered to charge it.

And though I'm no poet, I have always found solace, relief, inspiration, peace... in poetry. Through the years I've come to think of poetry as prayer--of poets as writers winging out their best hopes, their most gorgeously realized dreams to the universe, and hoping somebody picks up on it. Mostly, I get my poems from my daily dose of The Writer's Almanac. This morning did not disappoint.

There it was, "Eagle Poem," by Joy Harjo. And in its first lines I found my relief: "To pray you open your whole self/ To sky, to earth, to sun, to moon/ To one whole voice that is you./ And know there is more/ That you can't see, can't hear/ Can't know except in moments/ Steadily growing, and in languages/ That aren't always sound but other/ Circles of motion."

Because isn't that the very definition of our daily lives as we stride--sometimes muddle along--through the universe? We are constantly moving in "circles of motion," and it is so very easy to close. To put up our personal blinders, our make-it-through-the-day sunglasses that shade the side roads, the inessentials. But isn't part of prayer, prayer to whomever and whatever we choose, to release, to "open your whole self"?

My Grandmama Jean was convinced by the power of prayer. That, in itself, would be enough for me. But I've always been certain that words have power, and that by putting those words out into the universe we are pleading for our own release, hoping in our darkest places that the Mystery will answer back, in one way or another.

My parental prayers change on a daily basis. They move along the lines of, "Let the world be kind to my daughter," to "Let my daughter be kind to the world." Mostly they sound more like, "Grant me patience."

And sometimes I pray simply that there is blueberry yogurt in the refrigerator.

Searching for Wonder Woman

Wonder Woman. My hero (ine).

I have been not-so-secretly obsessed with Wonder Woman since I was four years old, when I got to be her for Halloween. It remains my favorite of many wildly creative Halloween costumes (man, my Mom could sew), and included red rainboots, stars-and-stripes Underoos, and aluminum foil magic bracelets. I felt powerful. At four years old. I never wanted to take it off.

It didn't matter that I was a tiny towhead better suited for a Heidi costume: Wonder Woman was my girl. I loved her.

Wonder Woman has followed me throughout my life, and once lived on a huge poster on the screened-in porch of a cabin in the North Carolina mountains that I shared with six other 20s-ish women. We were outdoor educators (basically a fancy way of saying camp counselors and trip leaders), most just out of college, working through the Fall and early Winter on group programs for middle and high schoolers--in hiking, biking, team-building, paddling, climbing, you name it. The cabin wasn't insulated (in fact, the windows were covered with screens, which is interesting in October in the mountains), and we slept in our sleeping bags in a row of bunkbeds, tobaggons on our (sometimes wet) heads and double layers of socks on our feet. On the other side of the cabin lived the male counselors, and though they were a bit smellier than we were (only a bit), we were a big, happy family, silly and raucous and entirely invested in working with kids and teenagers and living an outdoor life.

I have to pause a moment. Man, I loved that life.

Okay. So, Wonder Woman. One of my buddies in the cabin stuck the poster up on our screened porch, so we could see it every time we left and entered the cabin. Wonder Woman began to feel like a welcoming committee, after sometimes days of being out with 6th or 7th graders, or high schoolers, trekking through the Appalachian backcountry. I started imaginging that she smiled at me, that she'd give me imaginary high-fives when I'd return sweaty and dirty and happily exhausted.

Today, as a 30s-ish woman, I've got Wonder Woman magnets on my fridge, and a ridiculously cool Wonder Woman mug (I'm actually drinking out of it as I write this). It says, in bold, slanting black letters, that "This Amazon Princess Will Not Bow to Any Man!" Awesome.

I'm even teaching my two year-old daughter to say "WONder WOman!" with the same inflection as the '70s TV show theme song. And if you ask her who her favorite superhero is, she'll tell you, just like that.

I am so proud.

But lately, I find myself reaching for my Wonder Woman mug far more often (I used to just drink from her on Friday mornings, when I was feeling especially sassy). I need her magic bracelets, her gold headband, and certainly her invisible plane, now more than ever.

Every modern woman, I think, attempts to be Wonder Woman. Most of us have jobs, families, avocations, homes, and some of us have kids. Though the balancing act of being a modern woman has become a sort of cliche, especially in modern media, we're juggling all these aspects of our lives like a Ringling Brothers' clown riding a unicycle center stage and tossing up tomatoes. The spotlights are blaring and hot, and beyond the ring of light the bleachers are filled with the faces of our family members and friends. We don't want to drop anything.

I don't have a solution for this. If I did I'd sell it on t-shirts. At the moment I'm caught up in my own wonderful but bone-tiring roles of writer, teacher, mother, wife, student--and I don't feel that I'm doing anything well.

And so, for the thousandth time in my life--including senior year of college, when in order to graduate, I desperately needed to pass a math test that looked like hieroglyphics; or, for that matter, when I was in labor with my daughter for 20 hours--I am calling on Wonder Woman. I need her back in my life, go-go boots, booty shorts, bustier and all.

Because she's my favorite superhero. Because she deflects bullets with her wrists. Because, I think, she gets me.

6 Reasons Why Writing a New Novel is Like Trying to Get In Shape

1. You have to actually do something in order to make things happen.

(You know, write, walk, run, fast like a Hollywood ingenue before the Teen Choice Awards.)


2. You have to let go of the past.

(But in my old novel.... But in my old pants' size....)


3. You have to resist temptation.
(Why not another teen vampire novel? Why not another Reese's Peanut Butter Egg?)


4. You have to be a bit selfish with your time.

(Mama can't make Play-Doh cakes with you this afternoon because she'll be writing, dear heart. Mama can't visit the tadpoles in your classroom on Tuesday, sugar-roo, because if she doesn't get to the forest she'll look like Play-Doh. The white kind.)


5. You have to recognize that, for the most part, the process will sucketh mightily.

(I'm staring at my blank, dusty computer screen wishing I'd decided to join the Peace Corps. Or the circus. I'm staring at my muddy trail runners wishing I'd decided to take up water aerobics. With my elderly neighbor.)


6. Sometimes, you have to take a break.

(Step away from the computer, Quasimodo. Step away from that story line, because it's giving you hives. Drive directly past the trailhead and pull over, sit on the riverbank for a while. Or turn the car around and head to the gelato shop.)