Riptide

Coming back to writing, and to working on something new, after a time away is akin to being a swimmer caught in a riptide: you must make many repeated attempts to get to where you want to be... and patiently, ever so patiently, hold steady.

I grew up spending quite a bit of time on the South Carolina coast, even lived on a sea island for a while, and I know all about riptides and how you're supposed to free yourself from one. I was even a lifeguard for a decade. But none of this seems to matter when it comes to my writing life, and the analogy I'm attempting to make: I am caught in a writing riptide, I have the tools and resources to set myself free, but I'm impatient and worn out from fighting my own daily life to get there. I know I should lift my feet, float on my back and let the current take me a ways first, but who has the time for that sort of release?

During the last week of April I worked like I haven't worked, writing-wise, in years, all in order to get my historical novel ready in time to be submitted to the 2011 Novello Press Award. The award is for N.C. and S.C. writers, and it's through the Charlotte Mecklenberg Library. Past winners, like Ron Rash, have gone on to publishing success--regionally and beyond. It's a great contest, and a wonderful opportunity to get your writing in front of the right eyes. Since my literary agent has been unsuccessful for the past almost three (gulp) years in finding a publisher for my novel, he gave me the go-ahead to submit. I do not think, for one moment, that I will win.

This is not an attempt at false humility: I really don't have a chance. Past winners have written, for the most part, modern fiction, the only "historical" winner a novel set in the early 20th century. Genre fiction was not allowed, "genre" including horror, romance, western, mystery, etc. And since my novel is possessed of several different "types" (which I loathe to even type)--adventure, romance, historical, literary, popular--I thought, What the heck? Maybe the judges will at least read until the end.

Finding time to write has become almost impossible. I have a 9 month old at home with me, and she is not fond of napping. If I'm lucky, I get 45 minutes to myself in the morning. (This, I know, is punishment for all the times I rolled my eyes pre-pregnancy at the mothers of one child who complained at lack of personal time. God is a woman, and She is enjoying my idiocy.) Said 45 minutes sometimes include getting my allergy shots at the doctor's office, paying bills, making a phone calls(s), doing laundry, or--but less often--cleaning the house. So, for a week while working on my manuscript, I worked and wrote new pages late into the night and many nights into the wee morning hours.

I had not, necessarily, put off getting my manuscript ready for the contest until the last minute. I only learned of it two months before the deadline, and a maelstrom of events conspired to keep me from it: an almost three-week bought with a cold/sinus infection that I thought would simply go away, several weekends out of town or with guests, and a nice little sparring match with food poisoning... plus a teething baby. I suddenly turned around and I had a week left to rework a vastly researched, painstakingly and lovingly written, 430+ page novel.

Since I wanted to make a few changes several of the big-time NYC editors who'd read my novel had mentioned to my agent, and since contest rules stated that manuscripts had to be, at most, 400 pages long, this meant much work and stress on my part. By adjusting my story, making these changes, I altered the plot quite a bit. And so the week before it was due--also the same week before my in-laws were coming for a
visit--I wore myself completely out.

I'd taken on the challenge of the contest for two reasons: 1) to get my manuscript in front of a regional publishing professionals, who are perhaps more open to a story like mine; and 2) to get myself back into a writing schedule--to work with a deadline. And as exhausted as I was with caring for a baby all day and writing all night, I was happy. (My husband, maybe not so much--as he was sadly ingnored, but he was supportive as always.) Writing again, and even getting back to this work I'd spent two and a half years researching and writing (and even more working with an agent and suffering the tightrope walk that is waiting while editors at publishing houses take a look and judge, judge) was like coming home. I felt, more than I had in a long time and in the midst of being Mama, a role I happen to love, that this was me. Well, look at that... here I am.

But now the riptide. I have no novel to rework, no deadline to meet. What I have are three unfinished novels (one historical, a far sequel to my first; one modern; the third an amalgom of past and present), one finished novel that simply CANNOT SELL, a teething baby, a sadly neglected husband, a terrifying amount of weight to lose, and a desperate, yearning need to do and work at all of these things in a way that leans heavily on perfection. In the midst of it all, I ache to be extraordinary.

Experienced swimmers, strong and able, drown in riptides each year. The urge is primal: fight. Only those with an unerring patience and sense of permanence are able to let the current take them out to sea, knowing that when the time is right, they will swim at that curving parallel, a tang of saltwater in their mouths and a burn in their eyes, the swells rising--to finally arrive at shore.

Nior bhris focal maith fical riamh

"A good word never broke a tooth," so sayeth the Irish wise ones. And in honor of the Irish, I am sharing the following Irish blessings, poems, and adages. May the humor, joy, brewing, and luck of the Irish be in us all today.

Eirinn go Brach!

~ Katie

There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet
As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet
Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart,
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.
~ Thomas Moore, Irish songwriter (1779-1852)

I will arise and go now, for always
Night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low
Sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on
The pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.
~ W.B. Yeats, Irish writer & statesman (1865-1939)

May your glass be ever full.
May the roof over your head by always strong.
And may you be in heaven half an hour
Before the Devil knows you're dead.

May your home always be too small to hold all of your friends.

May the blessings of light be upon you,
Light without and light within.
And in all your comings and goings,
May you ever have a kindly greeting
From them you meet along the road.

She is a rich and rare land,
Oh, she's a fresh and fair land;
She is a dear and rare land,
this native land of mine.
~ Thomas Davis, Irish poet (1814-1845)

O dim delicious heaven of dreams--
The land of boyhood's dewey glow--
Again I hear your torrent streams
Through purple gorge and valley flow,
Whilst fresh the mountain breezes blow.
Above the air smites sharp and clear--
The silent lucid spring it chills
But underneath, move warm amidst
The bases of the hills.
~ John O'Donnell, Irish poet (1837-1874)

May there be a generation of children
on the children of your children.

May those who love us, love us.
And those who don't love us,
May God turn their hearts.
And if He doesn't turn their hearts,
May He turn their ankles,
So we may know them by their limping!

Deep peace of the running waves to you.
Deep peace of the flowing air to you.
Deep peace of the smiling stars to you.
Deep peace of the quiet earth to you.
Deep peace of the watching shepherds to you.
Deep peace of the Son of Peace to you.
~ Gaelic prayer

May you always have a clean shirt, a clean conscience, and a guinea in your pocket!

May the good Lord take a liking to you... but not too soon!

Throughout my journey I did not meet
Another country like the land of O'Neill;
The variegated hillsides bright with dew
The sunny smooth meadows crossed by roads.
~ Padraigin Haicead, 17th century Irish poet

May the most you wish for
Be the least you get.

An old Irish recipe for longevity:
Leave the table hungry.
Leave the bed sleepy.
Leave the table thirsty.

I am of Ireland
And of the holy land of Ireland
Good sir I pray of ye
For saintly charity
Come dance with me
In Ireland
~ Anonymous, 14th century Irish poet

St. Patrick's Breastplate:
Christ be with me,
Christ within me,
Christ behind me, Christ before me,
Christ beside me, Christ to win me,
Christ to comfort me, Christ above me,
Christ in quiet, Christ in danger,
Christ in hearts of all that love me,
Christ in mouth of friend and stranger.
~ St. Patrick, 5th century Irish cleric

Were you ever in Tipperary, where the fields are so sunny and green,
And the heath-brown Slieve-bloom and the Galtees look down with so proud a mien?
'Tis there you would see more beauty than is on all Irish ground--
God bless you, my sweet Tipperary, for where could your match be found?
~ Mary Kelly, Irish poet (1825-1910)

Health and long life to you.
Land without rent to you.
A child every year to you.
And if you can't go to heaven,
May you at least die in Ireland.

May you live as long as you want,
And never want as long as you live.

Letting Go

I used to think of myself as an easy person: easy going, easy to get to know, easily satisfied, easy on myself and on others. But the older I get--and the more wise (please, Lord)--the more I recognize my true self. She stares back at me in the mirror every day, and yet only now am I becoming honest with the reflection. Okay: as honest as I can be. Hopefully in thirty years I'll be refreshingly self-actualized.

I've written several posts about this quandry of living in the moment, of embracing life as it is: enveloping the present. I write about it in a cathartic fervor, but I have trouble following through. I say I'm going to do it--live IN my life--and yet I let life whiz by like an L train above my head, clattering the rails and screaming towards a bevy of mult-stop destinations, all neon and light, a flash of soon-forgotten faces marred by a grid of dirty windows. In truth, I'd prefer to be like the elderly couple who ride their bikes every day through my neighborhood, decked in their matching sweatsuits and bike helmets. They toodle along, sometimes shouting conversation to each other, one behind, one in front; at times they ride in silence, smoothly, bike wheels spinning leisurely as they pass bungalows with new flowers, yapping dogs. They let SUVs full of kids and DVD players and harried mothers, or hatchbacks driven by irritated teenagers short-cutting to the nearby high school, wait on them as they round corners or cross intersections. They smile at me when we pass each other, say hello. Personally, I think they've got it made.

People who have the talent of "letting go" are always recognizable. They claim an aura of peace and satiation: there's an otherwordly quality to them that attracts some and leaves others suspicious. At times they are aliens--like they've sold their souls for a chance at figuring it all out. At others, they are angels--forgiving, sweet, present. There was a boy I went to high school with who was like this. His name was Gary, and he was beloved by all. I hope the world hasn't changed him too much.

I'd prefer to be more like these people. Sadly, I don't think I have the goods. I am tempestuous, analytical, sensitive, erratic. I long to be patient, thick-skinned, even-keeled. I don't want to one day realize that I've lived a life of length but not of width: that I wasted time wanting more and forgot to notice that I really had everything.

I want to, instead of worrying over finding work, making money, "contributing," recognize (and be completely satisfied and happy with the fact) that my current job is Mama. My husband is happy with this state of affairs; in fact, he's constantly encouraging me to do less--to let caring for our infant daughter and taking care of things at home be who I am right now. Inately, I know this is a huge contribution to our lives, and I'd like to be happy in it and with it. Instead, I scramble to teach random classes that pay me next to nothing and make my husband rush home from work to take care of our daughter, simply to feel that I'm doing something MORE.

Contentment. That's what I seek. That's what we all seek, isn't it? But I'm coming to realize that being content just might not be who I am. Part of me never wants to be satisfied with everything in my life and in my person. To be satisfied, completely satisfied, is to stop the search. For me, ending the search would be akin to death. Maybe I can find contentment without complete satisfaction--or, perhaps, allow contentment, peace, to seep into my life in little ways: a cool fog sweeping across a mountain trail, refreshing the sweating, aching body, but still allowing glimpses of the view ahead.

Hibernation

Currently, many things about me are in hibernation:

- My naturally blonde hair (which turned much darker while pregnant and is now waiting for the sun to lighten it back up),
- My pre-pregnancy (hell, for that matter, my pre-pre pregnancy) body (which is taking forEVER to return... die, you women who re-morph to a size-freaking-four in two months, or the ones whose nursing just burned that old fat right off in no time),
- My can-do attitude (lately I've felt like I CAN'T have it all. Why would Oprah lie to me?),
- My education (as proven in everything I've just written in crazy Southern-woman speak),
- My writing and/or creativity "muse."

Surely, this hibernation will be like that of a bear's: fruitful and restoring. Right? 'Cause something's gotta give. Writing with a baby on your lap trying to gleefully slap every key, or said baby nearby, crying/laughing/babbling with multiple toys going off at once, just isn't going to cut it.

I find something incredible in every season, and winter is no exception. I love the cold, crisp air--the chance to see breath materialize before my face, proof I am a creation, alive in this world--the way the light is incandescent and unflinching, the bare branches of trees, the blue sky. I find it a time even more important than Spring: a chance to cozy up, talk, drink wine (not that I actually need it to be winter to do that), melt into home, regroup with old friends, write letters, and--internally, at least--a time in which to make anew myself, to make promises to myself and to reevaluate my life in a way that speaks more of renovation than resolution.

In addition to being the most humbling experience of my life, new motherhood, and the attempt to be a creative writer alongside it, is teaching me that though life is short, it's essential to sometimes slow oneself. To accept the moment the way it is, and to be in that moment. "Wherever you are, be there." This is a new challenge for me, because I'm always looking ahead, dreaming of better and of more. But I want to truly live in my life. So we'll see.

Questions

Lately I've been wondering about what makes a life. In considering my own, and this very complicated and wonderful new place to which I've come--read: mother of a four month-old--I've been caught in a sort of eddy. Held still with questions, some doubt, anchored by business and life-speed, I look forward to the future with fragile hope. I do feel that that future is the river before me, whitewater churning, hidden with hydraulics--with rapids easy and stern. Can I (will I, and when?) dip paddle to the cold rush, slide forward into the wild?

If there's one thing I know at what some would call the tender age of almost-thirty-two, it's that life is unbearingly and heartbreakingly short. How can it be stretched in order to contemplate and live in and around each moment? Is it even possible? Or does a human being become a selfish thing when she attempts living fully--are there people and places left behind?

The novelist Eugenia Price famously said that "The great doing of little things makes the great life." The little things, I believe, can be the more profound. But if a soul yearns for the "big things," how to make it all come to pass in a way that not only avoids hurting loved ones, but elevates them?

This post is filled with question marks, and for that I half-heartedly apologize. The season now is one filled with an unflinching bareness and an awesome light, and I am left ever humbled.

The swift passage of time has always been tough for me to take. Suddenly, with the birth of my first child, I am even more cognizant of its mercurial nature, and I feel a twinning fear and joy because of it: fear that my life will pass by without my having truly lived it the way I wish, and joy that I have a precious daughter and family, a child to watch grow and change.

Suddenly, it is November. In Brevard, the peak of Fall has come and is almost gone: yellow and orange and red are leaving us with browns, bare branches, and frosted windshields in the mornings. The heat has officially been turned on in our house, our fleece clothes pulled from attic bins, my black labrador's coat growing thicker--making her look a bit like an adolescent bear.

We spent the weekend at my family's lakehouse in the South Carolina Blue Ridge. My sister, her husband, and most of his family flew in from Memphis, Tennessee for a Halloween respite, and it was good. We watched football at the Tiki Bar, ate candy and homecooked meals, took boat rides, drank wine, laughed a lot, and were thoroughly entertained by my three month-old daughter. I never knew how thrilling, how special it would be to watch my beloved "little" sister holding and playing with my child. Several times I found myself just watching them, smiling.

The holidays are only weeks away, and another year will soon pass in a bittersweet flash of familiar faces and voices, car rides, Christmas carols, decadent treats, wrapping paper, wood fires, rush and hustle, and exhaustion. I wonder if I'll ever understand the mysterious necesity of this--that relentless pace of time--but watching my daughter with my family under a Halloween sky and in a place we all love, it stood still if only for a moment.

Apple Pickin', Autumn in the Air, the Muse Emerging

Autumn, or "Fall" as we like to say in the South, has come in wet to Western North Carolina. After a series of rainy weeks the colors have begun to change seemingly overnight, and up in Pisgah National Forest and out on the Blue Ridge Parkway the reds are brightening, and soon it will be peak season. When it is clear, the atmosphere changes, and the sky crystallizes with an October blue unlike any other. I am so ready for fires in the fireplace, hot cider, and hiking that I can barely stand it. Now, if it will only stop raining....

Lately I've been feeling as if I woke up and suddenly it was October. Indeed, I've lived in a sort of postpartum cave the past couple of months, and it's been warm and cozy and inhabited by the cutest creature on the planet, and I haven't been too proactive about crawling out of it. But my Wylie is only days away from turning 11 weeks old, my favorite of all the seasons has appeared in golds and oranges and reds, and I'm ansty with wanting to be outside and soaking up all of it. My greatest fear is that time is passing too quickly--that I'll miss it. And I don't want to miss anything.

If I can conquer this new-baby thing, I can rule the world... of that I am convinced. Anyone who can take care of an infant, get everything done in their day needed, and continue to produce interesting and entertaining art deserves to lauded as a superhero--or at least be given a big, fat ice cream cone. I am in awe of those writers, like Nora Roberts (yes, I am a Nora Roberts fan, and I don't care if she's the queen of romance: she writes like a dream) who pen bestselling novels at the breakfast table while their kids scarf down cereal or nap in the playpen. Mayhap I will get to that point. I sure as hell hope so. I want so.

Currently, it has been over a year since my novel has been "out" with editors at the major publishing houses, and so far nothing. I do not have my hopes up at this point, but I am ready to be writing again, and perhaps my current project can one day find a home... once it gets written, of course.

I dream about writing at night; about my novels and their plotlines and protagonists and crux moments. I woke up at 3 a.m. a couple of weeks ago yearning to write, with ideas twinkling across my brain like faulty Christmas lights, only to have them fizzle and disappear as soon as I lay my head. And I would've gotten up and padded to my desk and my laptop--I would've!--if it weren't for the fact that a crying, hungry infant would be waking me up only an hour or so later. And yes, that is a darn good excuse for avoiding inspiration... at least for now.

As October, that most glorious of months in the Southern Appalachians, slips towards bare, chilly November with a relentless swiftness, I'm trying to live in the moment. I'm walking my daughter and my dog down leaf-lined streets, admiring harvest decorations in Brevard's downtown, apple picking at the gorgeous Stepp Family Orchard in Edneyville, N.C. with great friends, wishing for cooler weather--and the ability to fit back into my pre-pregnancy sweaters--and being thankful, or at least trying to, every day, for this life. It is unbearingly sweet and terrifyingly short, and there is so much to be done.