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To Blog, To Fret, To Plant, Perchance to Avoid Working on the Novel…

I don’t think that’s what I’m doing.  Yet.  Here I am, retired for nearly a month.  And it’s true, I’ve written about three paragraphs on the novel, which isn’t a new novel, it’s actually been in process for quite a while.  But what I really want to do is blog.  Fret and Blog and Plant Huge Amazon-like Wisconsin Plants all over my new large yard (and mow the grass atop my riding John Deere, beer not optional). 

Is that wrong?

What are your thoughts on creating and maintaining a writer’s blog?  Are there guidelines that everyone else knows that I’ve been missing?  I know a blog isn’t exactly a diary and that it should be focused.  I’ve read a few articles on the subject, but other than that…

I used to have a Caring Bridge blog, back a couple of years.  That was much more diary-like.  And focused.  It was a way to survive, basically, and it also kept my family and friends informed about that ever changing friend of mine (forgive me for calling cancer friend– we’ve just been together so long, and I find it easier to accept than reject).  That blog was somehow easier to write.  Probably because it was semi-private, personal, and wasn’t an obvious attempt at creating anything “literary.”  The truth is though, that in all of my writing, no matter the topic, literary elements such as substance, depth, and hopefully, style, are all used to convey sensation and meaning.  The years of reading, study, and academic and creative discovery and training don’t disappear when you blog, or even when you sit down to write a thank you note.  This can be a burden.

What is the old saying?  Education is the one thing no one can ever take away from you. 

So hello from Wisconsin.  My new boggy writing place.  The bog.  A neighbor told me, “You’re livin’ in the swamp now, honey.  It’ll take some getting used to.”

From Lake Arrowhead, that heady high thin airy hideaway, to Salem, this heavy low thick hideaway, the writer in me still lives.  She’s just busy.  Getting used to the changes. 

Happy Writing, Writers!  Let me know how it’s going for you.  And, please do tell, what are you reading this summer?  Book reviews, please!

And now, the wind!  A cool, fierce, curtain blowing wind insists that I go outside in the dark, forgetting about whatever the bog was like this afternoon.  I’m not that way now, it shouts.  Am I?  Oak branches wave and threaten to crack and flatten me into the thick wet grass.  Invigorated, I return to my desk.  

February 28, 2014

Lake Arrowhead, California, USA

My sister-in-law and her husband are just celebrating their anniversary in Arizona today.  Heard they had some great Italian food.  Tomorrow, my mother and father-in-law will be celebrating their anniversary with lobster or shrimp or something-seafood in Wisconsin.  This makes me think about my marriage.  I’m a lucky girl. I will see my husband in about six weeks, after a two month work-related separation.  I look forward to his phone calls the same way I did when first we met.  “Will he call?  Does he miss me?”  But more than that, “I adore his voice and his stories.”

And then, wonderful news, California is finally getting relief from our drought.  This has arrived in a twin package–two storms, the first a mild-mannered rainstorm from the south, and the second, hitting now, a real ripper from the north.  I drove home from school today in water deeper than my tiny New Beetle tires are high.  Walked into the cabin, lit a fire, and poured a glass of wine.  Deep red.

As my dear brother used to say, “Life is wonderful, if you let it be.”

Blessings to All.

Mom’s new husband, Oz, a 5’3” tall Cuban American, was very much in the picture now. He and Mom would literally roll up the carpet and dance for hours. The music had changed. There was no more Keely Smith—now there was an astonishing variety of country, Latin, jazz, pop, even gospel—anything that caught their fancy. Oz was irrepressible, singing and dancing in his every movement. So different from my dad, so good for my mother. At 5’8” barefoot, she fairly towered over him when they danced.
They embarrassed me, but I had to smile, just as long as they didn’t keep me awake on a school night, which they often did. I became the “little warden.” They were so inconsiderate and out of control, I knew someone had to step in, and of course that would be me. They seemed to find these little upbraidings of mine quite amusing. “We really must be more civil, dear,” Oz might say, his big white teeth gleaming at Mom. “The little warden has to go to school tomorrow.” And then, of course, they would continue dancing and forget all about me. One of their favorite lectures of mine was the one that began with my charging out of my bedroom yelling at them to turn down the music and ended with me sliding all the way across the living room floor on my ass. This party involved a group of middle-aged swingers swimming in the neighbor’s pool before rolling up the rug. “Oh, if you could only have seen yourself,” I’d hear over and over afterwards, “so indignant.”
“And with her little nightie flying up in the air like a sail.” Oz couldn’t control his snorting laugh.
Okay, fine. So I guess I didn’t make much headway with them… Their music, laughter, and the occasional rip roaring argument continued to disturb my sleep for the first few years of their marriage, and this was especially hard on me, because I really liked to sleep. A lot. It was similar in an odd way to the earlier experiences I’d had of trying to sleep while Mom cried. But now she was fine, so why was I still so upset? So tired? Sad?
Often, instead of mother, now it was me lying in bed crying.

My Daughter’s Smile
I have spent a lifetime working toward that brilliant, instant, pure uplifting.
The corners of that perfect mouth, turning up to God. Never forgetting the miracle that she came in part from my own imperfect body.
I love you, Hayley Noelle. Now.
My moving is not away. This world doesn’t work that way. There is no leaving love. No closed doors. We are two women, with journeys that come together, over and over. It’s a circle, you know?
A grand circle, too.
Never forget that circles never end.
Future, past, and today, this moment, all of these are ours—to share.
My Daughter’s Smile is a miracle.

Love, Mom
January 2014