Write On Wednesday-Where in the World Do You Come to the Page?

I love my back porch on summer mornings.  A soft breeze whispers through the evergreens, a chorus of birds serenade me with early morning wake up songs, no one else in the house is stirring  (not even Magic or Molly), and I can savor the solitude.  Still in pajamas and slippers, my first cup of coffee close at hand, I tuck my laptop under my arm, pile my books and notebook on a wicker side table, and settle into the chair.  It's a perfect place to write. Of course, I write in other places in the house.  I'm fortunate to have a "room of my own," with a writer's desk and large overstuffed chair (with extra wide arms perfect for propping up a laptop).  Most of the time, that's where my writing happens, seated at the desk or curled up in my chair.  There are bookstacks everywhere in that room, and though I keep cleaning them up, more seem to appear in their place.  Whether I'm writing blog posts, or book reviews, or even working on a short story, I seem to need bookstacks around. <smiles>

I'm nosy about writer's desks, aren't you?  There seems to be something magical about the places people write.   I readily admit to chills running down my spine when I stood in Virginia Woolf's study at Rodmell, and Charlotte Bronte's parlor in the parsonage at Haworth.   Every year, I purchase a copy of The Writer's Desk calendar - photographer Jill Krementz has made a study of writers and their desks, and has published a lovely coffee table sized book as well as these annual calendars. (See, I'm not the only nosy one!)  And it isn't just writer's desks that intrique me - it's all the "writuals" that are associated with the writing process. 

Stephen King wrote Carrie and Salem's Lot "in the laundry room of a double wide trailer, pounding away on my wife's portable Olivetti typewriter and balancing a child's desk on my thighs."  He advises writers to "have a space of their own," a place with a door you are "willing to shut, telling the world and yourself you mean business."  (On Writing)  Conversely, Natalie Goldberg advises leaving home occasionally, going to a cafe or public place to write.  "It's good to change the scenery from time to time," she says, "because at home there is the telephone, the laundry, the refrigerator, the dishes to be washed, a letter carrier to be greeted. If you made the effort to get to a cafe, you can't leave as easily and go do something else, the way you can in your own home."  (Writing Down the Bones)

Awareness of place is important, not just because of nosy friends like me, but to set the stage for all the writing that you do.  Before you can convincingly relate a feeling of place to your reader, you must first feel it for youself.  If you're connected to the place you write in, Julia Cameron tells us, the "accumulation of details, the willingness to be specific and precise, the willingness to 'place' a piece of writing accurately in context - all these things make for writing the reader can connect to."  (The Right to Write) 

How about you?  Last week we talked about why  we come to the page, now I want to know where  you come to the page.  What's magical about your writing spot (or spots!)  Free write about the places you put pen to paper.  Post pictures if you can  - that would be even more fun!  (I can't because the battery in my camera is dead!)

Leave a comment  with the url  linking to your blog post, and we'll all come and spy on each other. <more smiles>

By the Handful

A handful of blueberries, nestled in my open palm, small nuggets of sweetness washed and ready to sprinkle on a bowl of vanilla yogurt.  They were on sale today, and so I indulged in this rare treat, usually a dearer price than I care to pay.  As I shook them from their plastic container into my hand, I recalled another time when I held a palm full of blueberries.  These had been freshly picked, though, and I had eaten half again as many as I collected, unable to resist the allure of plucking them straight from the bush and popping them into my mouth.  It was 15 years ago this summer, I realized, shocked once again by the swift passage of time.  And I was with my mother in law at her home on the lake.

It was our first trip to the lake after my father in law's death.  His illness had prevented any of us from traveling north that summer, or from properly opening the house.  Imagine our distress when we opened the front door and saw the roof over the family room had leaked, stagnant smelly water had soaked the carpet and furniture.  My mother in law burst into tears, unable to withstand this latest blow. 

"What in the world will I do now?" she cried, and I knew she wasn't speaking just about the damage to her home.

Knowing the trip would now take longer than the weekend we had planned, I agreed to stay on and help her while Jim and Brian returned home.  So for the first time in the 20 years we had known each other, the two of us were living together, without the buffer of our respective mates.

My mother in law was never an easy person to be with.  In the best of times, she was demanding, negative, and emotionally distant.  (My husband would add illogical and self-centered to that list as well.)  When Jim and I first met, she had quite an iron grip on his life, but he quickly began prying her fingers away, and the results weren't always pretty.    I knew she considered me the interloper, corrupting her precious only son and luring him away from his family.

But we got along all right, and, especially after Brian was born, I think she cared about me in her strange, remote sort of way.  We had grown closer during my father in law's last illness, as I had spent a good deal of time with them, talking to doctor's, arranging for care givers, driving her places she needed to go.

So those few days alone in the "place up north" weren't a terrible burden.   We fell into a routine, as people will.  She always got up early, for she was a woman who was perpetually busy, and one morning after Jim left, I looked out my window and glimpsed her behind the row of blueberry bushes growing along the border between the house and garden.  Quickly plucking fruit from the branches, she had nearly filled the large plastic bowl tucked under her left arm.  I slipped into my clothes and shoes, and stepped out the back door. 

"Are they sweet yet?" I asked.

She looked up, startled, I think, to see me up and dressed so early.  "Well," she admited, "I don't know.  I haven't tried one."

"For goodness sake," I chided her good naturedly, making my way through the thick, wet grass, "why don't you eat some?  It looks like there's plenty."  I pinched a fat navy blue berry from its stem and placed it in my mouth, letting my teeth sink into the musky flesh that somehow tastes just like the color blue should taste. 

"Mmmm," I said, quickly grabbing a few more and greedily gobbling them up.  "So good!"

Almost furtively, she placed a berry in her mouth, as if she weren't allowed to enjoy them, only pick and collect them for some future use.  She widened her eyes in surprise, and then delight, almost as a child would in discovering a surprise gift of candy.

"Oh, these are good!" she exclaimed.  "I don't think I've ever eaten them right off the bush like this." 

Such a small pleasure, denied to herself for whatever strange, perverse reason.  So we continued for a while, happily picking, eating, and occasionally tossing a few more berries into the bowl.  It became a ritual of our mornings, those moments in the berry patch, and we'd eat our fill, and then pick more to give to the neighbors.

During those few days that we spent together, cleaning things, buying new furniture and carpet, going through some of my father in law's things, the balance of power started to shift.  "Now what do you think?" she began to ask me, about everything from buying a sofa to ordering dinner at Ron's Restaurant.  And she'd take my advice, sometimes even acknowledging "what a good idea" it had been.

Today, as I taste my spoonful of store bought (alas!) blueberries, I think of her as she was earlier this afternoon when I visited her at Chestnut Village, the dementia care center where she lives.  Hunched on the sofa, legs crossed, her chin propped on prayerfully folded hands, she sits and dozes for hours.  Mary Alice, the lovely lady who leads activities, smiled at me, then came over and touched her lightly on the shoulder.

"Chris," she said, "we're taking some folks outside to play horseshoes.  Wouldn't you like to come?"

She looked over at me, eyebrows raised.  "What do you think?" she asked.

"I think you should go play," I said.  "It sounds like fun."

"Well, okay then!" she agreed readily, taking Mary Alice's hand to help her stand up.  I watched her totter unsteadily out of the room, my presence - my very existence, even - already forgotten. 

I always take a small gift when I visit, usually something sweet, like those tins of sugar cookies, or a package of Hershey Kisses. But next time,  I believe I'll take something different - perhaps a handful of blueberries would be nice.

Write on Wednesday~ Postscript

Thank you to everyone who shared their thoughts about "why in the world they come to the page."  I was enlightened and insprired by each one of you.  (A reminder that Write on Wednesday lasts all week, so if you decide to respond to the prompt with a post on your blog, or a comment here at the Byline, then feel free to do so.)

As a postscript to this week's WOW (Susan pointed out the aptness of the acronym),  here's a quote from I found this morning on Writing Time - it's from a man named Frank Smith.   I especially like the last two lines...

Writing is for stories to be read, books to be published, poems to be recited, plays to be acted, songs to be sung, newspapers to be shared, letters to be mailed, jokes to be told, notes to be passed, recipes to be cooked, messages to be exchanged, memos to be circulated, announcements to be posted, bills to be collected, posters to be displayed and diaries to be concealed.

Writing is for ideas, action, reflection, and experience. It is not for having your ignorance exposed, your sensitivity destroyed, or your ability assessed.

Happy Writing!

The Responsibility Ticker *Updated*

*24 hours have passed, and with it a noticeable slowing of the ubiquitous Responsibility Ticker.  Much was accomplished today, proving once again that if you allow yourself some breathing room, it's easier to get into gear and get things done. I did indeed clean out my closet today, and my husband's closet as well.  I've have four big bags of clothing to donate to a local charitable organization, and decided I obviously have plenty of clothes to get me through the summer. (Sad, since I love buying new clothes, but better for the pocketbook.)

The most exciting thing is this...about 11:00 this morning, a crew of six very cute young men arrived with heavy equipment and cut down all the bushes in front of my house.  (Yes, Brian, every one!)  You see, I have an old house with old landscaping, and I've been wanting to replace it for years, but always felt it would be too expensive. 

So, why finally take the plunge in a year when I really have no money to spare?

Let's just say these guys were not only incredibly cute, they were incredibly cheap.  In less than an hour, 50 years worth of overgrown bushes were history.  In a couple of days, I'll be meeting with a landscape designer to pick out a new look for my old house. 

And everyone needs a makeover once in a while, right?

Yeah, I felt a moment of sadness as my husky helpers chopped those bushes off at the roots and fed them mercilessly into their deluxe John Deere chopper.  I admit it, I'm sentimental about stuff.  After all, this is the girl that used to tuck blankets around any of her picture books that had pictures of puppies on them, in case the puppies might get cold. 

But these old bushes were long past time to die - they had overgrown the sidewalk and were blocking our view out the windows. 

And so it's on to something new - for the house, and for me. I'm starting to think about what new and different things may develop in my life over the next months...

And I'm excited.

As long as I can keep that old Responsibility Ticker at bay. *smiles*

~~~~~~

When we came home from Florida on Monday, I was eagerly anticipating more temperate weather.  It's been a relatively cool spring in Michigan, and after the heat and humidity that was ramping up near the equator, I was not wholly averse to returning to my Great Lake breezes.

Well, no such luck.

It's been hotter than a firecracker, as my grandmother would say.  It's 93 degrees and humid today.  Plus, the wind is blowing like crazy, so when you step outside, scalding hot air slaps you hard across the face.

Yech.

We've all been inside most of the day, because none of us likes the heat.  Our little Molly completely wilts when it's hot, and even though the house is air-conditioned to a comfortable 78 degrees, she mopes around as if she's lost her best friend (no matter that he's trailing along behind her).

I have to admit I've done nothing today.  Nothing I consider productive.  I despise days like that, and sometimes I'm afraid there's something seriously wrong with me, because I have this huge list of things that need to be done running through my head like the New York Stock Exchange ticker...clean out the closet; do the laundry; pay the bills; visit your mother in law; visit your aunt; clean the bathroom; mop the kitchen; finish the short story; clean up the car; make some dinner; an endless loop of responsibilities, none of which I can make myself do!

Yech.

So closely following the ticker tape of tasks, is the ticker tape of guilt.  Your wardrobe's a mess; the hamper is full; your credit rating is sinking; your mother in law is languishing; your aunt is needy; the bathroom is grungy; the kitchen floor is sticky; the short story stinks; the car is a mess; I'm hungry.

Now my husband, bless his heart, seems to turn his resposibility ticker to OFF on the weekends.  He can lay on that leather couch in front of that big screen tv with the ceiling fan whirring overhead and a beer on the table beside him just as happy as a clam. He can lay there for hours, days even.

So why do I get so bothered by the fact that I haven't checked anything off my list this weekend?  And where is that damn OFF switch?

I've always allowed resposibility to weigh too heavily on my shoulders.  It's battered me into the ground on more than one occasion, held me back from opportunities I wished I'd taken, and prevented me from moving away from unhealthy situations.  I allow my motivation in life to come from shoulda's instead of coulda's.  Then I feel guilty when I don't perform to my own expectations.

And sometimes I get angry about that.

It's 5:00 on a Sunday afternoon.  I'm going to stop feeling guilty, I'm going to pour myself a cold glass of wine, slice a bit of smoked Gouda cheese off that wedge, grab some plump red grapes, and settle into my chair for at least 30 minutes.

Then I'll clean out my closet.

Wild for West Wing

Let me just say - I love CJ Cregg. We've been watching The West Wing tv series for the past several years, renting one DVD after another from Netflix and viewing the whole series from start to finish. We're into the final season of as the second term of the Bartlett administration is drawing to a close. It's an election year, and the parallels between this fictional race and the current real world political drama are simply uncanny. (An upstart young Latino Congressman sweeps the Democratic nomination after duking it out with long standing party favorites and is pitted against an elder statesman Republican.) Adding to the political excitement on the show was the sudden death of John Spencer, an original, beloved cast member, whose character was Bartlett's Chief of Staff and was on the new ticket as VP...well, it's just outstanding drama in every way.

And the writing on this show is spectacular - it's sharp, and witty, and pungent. The pace is fast, and the dialogue whizzes by, meaning I don't always get what's happening, so I have to do a quick rewind (another good reason for watching it on DVD).

But the episode we watched tonight (Internal Displacement) was CJ's show. CJ ( or Claudia Jean) Cregg, played by the inimitable Allison Janney, started out as Press Secretary and is now Chief of Staff in the waning days of Jed Bartlett's regime. The episode starts out with her rushing in to join her old beau, Danny Kincannon, for a late dinner. He's a reporter, and she broke up with him long ago, citing "conflict of interest." But he's back, and he clearly wants to renew their relationship. However, as is often the case with CJ, her ideals get in the way of her emotions, and before long they're sparring in fine style.  At one point, Danny's chiding her (and the administration) for not using their last days in office to accomplish more.

"Don't you realize how much power you have?" he asks her. "Don't you want to make some impact here?"

"Of course I do!" she replies, with some desperation in her voice.  "I'm well aware that I'm living out the first line of my obituary!"

Whoa.

"I'm well aware that I'm living out the first line of my obituary."

Naturally, a line like that sets off a firestorm in my head.  What will be the first line of my obituary?  What would I want it to be?  Have I already lived it?  Am I yet to live it? 

At any rate, CJ spends the next 42 minutes kicking serious butt - from the Chinese ambassador to the  President's (cheating) son in law - no one is immune from her quest to make her mark on the world.

The show closes on the following day, with the pair of them back in the same restaurant.  Her demeanor reflects her activities over the past 24 hours, and she can now sit back and tell Danny she's "planning to suck every last  bit of meat off the bone of this experience."

I think that's what I'd like the first line of my obituary to say - or at least imply.

"She sucked every bit of meat off the bone of this experience."

Claudia Jean - you rock.