On process

This is not an attractive photo, but to me, it's an exciting photo. It's also an example of the less-than-romantic process of writing. (Those who believe writers wander through the fields of creativity, picking idea-flowers, sorry to disabuse you.)

This is a picture of three large (like 2 x 2) sheets of sketch paper, with brief statements of chapter content for a mostly-finished ms (crossed fingers not included.) This is also a picture of my own markings all over that taped-together list, figuring out (ibid "crossed fingers") what's wrong with the way the plot flows and how to amend it.

At least one pass. My intent is to pace this with a waltz time signature, so will have to pace it again with a 3/4 rhythm in mind. Maybe.

What's your process like?

A Million Reasons to Volunteer...

A million reasons to volunteer at Vox , but here's my current favorite. The group-signed, photo-bedecked thank you card.

On being an amateur

From a conversation this weekend with good, smart friends... being an amateur is making art that you love. The word amateur comes from the Latin verb amat, 'to love,' so go proudly, fellow amateurs!

Hey, nonfictionistas, look what's back from summer hiatus!

Yep, True Story! is back at Kavarna, starting August 19th. You know you want to drop by for a night of nonfiction reading with artifacts, some hilarity, some awe, some camaraderie, and oh yes, good beer, wine, food, seeing as how it's held at a very friendly restaurant and bar in Oakhurst, and they have these things.

A pending blog post will be called "Food Crimes," and will fill you all in on the VERY FIRST visit by me to "that Scottish restaurant," the one with the clown (do they even still have the clown?) and the arches and a very whole lot of sausage, which I don't eat. I had coffee, orange juice, and a breakfasty thing with too much sugar and hot air. Because I was staaarving and I needed coffee really alot and I was in between small towns with more small towns coming at me, and it was dawn.

When I was done, I was still staarving, and alarmed at the amount of sausage people consume.

(Because all plots are driven by conflict, I do have to say that while I do not eat their food, their residential facilities at childrens' hospitals, to allow parents to stay nearby for extended periods, are truly valuable. Makes up for the sausage?)

Appetizing

Smoked dates stuffed with manchego cheese at The National in Athens, Ga.

That is all.

A being-home pleasure

Coconut-jalapeno ice cream from Morelli's.

A "hooray I'm home let's go out and celebrate" treat. Child-sized cone, because it is ice cream, after all.

Now I have a syllabus to write, and I want to finish this pass of edits on a manuscript, and am having fun showing myself the through-lines. What metaphor? How many metaphors? What did I really mean by all this, I ask myself, as I slash across the pages with a yellow marker.

Somewhere in all those mixed up metaphors and overwriting is a through-line image, the hardest part for me to bring out and polish, the goal being making the manuscript into something more coherently like a book.

Do you know about the Oracle at Wi-Fi?

Do you know about the Oracle at Wi-Fi ? You should!



(photo fm Oracle at Wi-Fi/Beth Lilly)

Ellis Island

Some of my friends have prevailed upon me to write a little bit about Ellis Island, which M. and I visited while in NY last week. I'd never been, although I've been in and out of Manhattan most of my life. I'm glad I went.

The photos above are of physical materials collected from the restoration of Ellis Island, and displayed on the 3rd floor of the main building, and it's those things that spoke loudest to me. A hospital sign, a wrecked piano, a mural for a children's ward, cafeteria trays... the evidence left behind. The 2nd photo here is of a visual recognition test given to incoming immigrants. Match the pictures in a certain number of seconds, and we'll determine if you're mentally competent to proceed to the next step. Of course I tried to do it, and I failed. I failed because I was nervous, because I was timing myself, because the images didn't match exactly , and if I failed, would I be chalk-marked "E" for eyesight, or "X" for mentally ill, and would those be wrong, and would I be turned back on the next boat and returned to Czarist Russia?

Instead, I wandered into the next display room, but I was rattled. In one of the display rooms, we saw this top image, in a section of contemporary graffiti. It's a bird. We felt like we were looking at Lascaux cave paintings. We felt like we were watching a bored, tense person busy themselves during what were surely hours of waiting for one official after another.

My maternal grandfather and M's paternal grandfather both came over on the last civilian sailing of the Lusitania, before she was enlisted in WWI and ultimately sunk.

Did our grandfathers - in Yiddish, our Zaydes - ever meet? It's likely, but who's to know, now? Did they take these tests, buy sandwiches or sardines or sausages or lemonade from the vendors at Ellis Island? They were teenagers, M's g'father older than mine.

To see stunning, photos of the Ellis Island building restoration, go here.

Where I've Been, or, It's Good to Forget What Day It Is

This is where I've been. For two weeks. You can see why, upon returning, I have forgotten three different passwords to three different accounts (including this one), could not remember the day of the week as recently as this morning (a large New York Times reminded me that it was Sunday), and am rarin' to go on not one, but three (!) writing projects; the novel I nearly finished at above-indicated bucolic hideout, the nonfiction book that's currently making the rounds, and a potential companion volume about which I will ruminate while I drive to Murray State University , where I'm thrilled to be lecturing and reading later this week!

What I learned on retreat? Make time every day to listen to your work. Your real work - writing, painting, drawing, yoga practice - whatever you do that's creative.