Write On Wednesday: Connectivity

Most writers would probably agree that the internet is both a blessing and a curse. The blessing is that it puts a world of information, resources, and opportunities to connect with like minded people at our fingertips.

The curse is that it puts a world of information, resources, and opportunities to connect with like minded people at our fingertips.

It requires a lot of discipline for a writer  to refrain from constantly taking a refreshing dip into the waters of the world wide web. And once you've taken that first small step, it's hard to pull back before the tide pulls you right in and you're floating happily down the current of blogs, chats, tweets, and status posts. I'm as guilty as anyone, and it's an ongoing battle to keep my mind on my work and not click on the Internet Explorer icon at the first sign of brain blockage.

But I'm wondering if the internet doesn't deprive us of more than just time. I think we're often substituting our online connections with people for the real thing, thinking that because we share our status on FB or post our opinions in pithy 140 character offerings on Twitter we've "connected" with our friends and colleagues in a meaningful way.

I'm beginning to believe that those connections aren't as meaningful as we've led ourselves to believe, and that writers especially need the kind of give and take that only can occur in real conversations with real live people. Although I'm an introvert through and through and do my best work when I'm alone in a quiet room with no distractions - human or otherwise - I've found myself recently craving the company of another writer, someone I could sit down with over a cup of coffee and "talk shop" -  brainstorm ideas about our writing projects, bemoan those days when the muse fails to call and wonder why she always does when we have nine million other things on the calendar. We could discuss the future of publishing, and dish about the way our favorite writers do what they do.

A lot of the writers I follow on Twitter carry on these kinds of conversations in their Twitter-feeds. Maybe it's my age - after all, I grew up when the only way to communicate electronically was via a rotary landline telephone - but that's just not as satisfying in any way as hearing the person's voice or catching the expression on their face.

I've never been part of a writers group, or even had one real-life writing friend, at least not since middle school when my friend Raine Beaser and I spent one summer working side by side on our respective "novels." But I've belonged to enough musical groups to know that artists working in tandem produce a lot of creative energy. There's something about the shared experience that boosts everyone's enthusiasm and inspires them to move forward.

I'm craving that experience in my writing world. I'm craving that old-school kind of connection where people sit in the same room together and talk out loud to one another. I think my writing would benefit from it, and so would my soul.

How about you? Do you find your online connections a little lacking at times? Are you able to connect on a personal level with other writers, or other artists who work in your field? If so, is this beneficial?

The Sunday Salon: Of Wind (and Windbags); Closets; and Special Places

Blustery. That's the best word to describe the general state of our weather this winter, and it seems to be carrying over into this makeshift of a spring season. This morning the wind whipped around the north side of the house like a twister, rattling the very window panes like the angriest of March lions.

But wait - it's APRIL.

I wonder what the climate change experts are making of these prevailing winds?  Perhaps we should be investing in wind turbines after all.

Today's temperatures are somewhat seasonable, but yesterday was winter redux. Thirty-seven blustery degrees for a high, with not a whimper of sunshine in sight. Nevertheless, I took a leap of faith yesterday and flipped my closet, meaning I transferred all the winter clothes to the the winter closet, discarding an entire 30 gallon plastic sackful in the process. Haven't worn it all year? Gone. Worn it but unhappy whilst wearing it? Into the sack.

Then I did the same with my spring clothes.  The remaining pieces are now hanging, color coordinated, in my closet. And if I have a moment's panic that there are only half a dozen t-shirts left instead of three dozen, I remember that for most of the winter I wore the same four shirts over and over again.

I have become ruthless - RUTHLESS, I tell you -  when it comes to paring down. I do believe my husband and dogs are frightened of me when I get into "pitch it" mode. They huddle up together on the couch, trying to disappear as if afraid they too will get tossed into the nearest bin.

Of course they're safe, but I really have completely embraced the concept of less-is-more, especially since moving into this house. We have lived here over six months now, and I figure that anything I haven't missed yet I'm not going to miss. Yes I only have one set of dishes, but that's really all I need. Instead of 30 different coffee mugs stacked precariously in the cupboard, I have six and that has been plenty. I feel lighter all over without so much stuff taking up space in every corner of my house. (Yes, Deb Smouse, you are spot-on again!)

There are two things that I have trouble tossing - one is books (although I give A LOT of books to our local library book sale) and the other is pictures. Even though nearly all of our new photographs are stored digitally, I have hundreds of old printed ones that I can't bring myself to throw away. I know I could have them digitized, but I like having them in their original format. Happily, they've all found a home inside a wicker storage chest in the basement.

As for books..well, even thought I have plenty of empty shelf space in the "library," there are some books I won't have any qualms about consigning to the book sale. I am reading one right now (well, I was reading it until I finally said 'enough') in which the "hero" is such a slimy, self-serving windbag that I can hardly wait to drop it into the big wooden bin for donations at the library. "Pitch it" mode, indeed.

Now I'm cleansing my mind's palate with the latest Peter Robinson mystery, featuring DI Alan Banks. If you've never read this series, I highly recommend. My husband and I both enjoy these books (which is a rare occurrence - usually our reading tastes never intersect). Watching the Dark is the 20th volume, and it's starting out to be just as well-written and compelling as the rest. Robinson masterfully weaves a lot of stories together in his books, and the narrative of Banks, his family, and his colleagues carries through from book to book which I always enjoy. Plus, they're all set in Robinson's native England - another plus for this closet Anglophile.

The thought of England brings me to thoughts of special places, which I've been contemplating this morning at the behest of my friend Bella Cirovic, and her lovely online group 30 Days in April. "Where is the place that you go outside of your home that is your special spot?" Last year that questions was easier to answer - our home in Florida was always a retreat from the world, a place where everything was pretty and clean and new. And even though I couldn't get there every day (or even every week!), just knowing it was waiting for me got me through some rough times.

Bella's right -we need "special spots" to go when the winds get too blustery and life is too cluttered. Spots where the air is calm and clean, and there is space to stretch your arms out wide and breath deeply. I've claimed that kind of space inside my house by clearing away clutter and making room to be still.

But there is value in having a place outside and away to retreat and renew, because those concepts work in tandem. And so I am on a quest now for a new place that fills my spirit with calm and peace and hope. Maybe it will be as close as the pond behind the house, or as far away as the undulating green hills of southern England.

Maybe the wind will take me there.

Mash Up

mash up

noun

[mash-uhp]

2. Slang. a creative combination or mixing of content...

Today's mash up of content is brought to you by a week where this writers thoughts and efforts have been other places besides this blog.

Such as...

Organizing myself: Thanks to the insightful and inspirational Deb Smouse, I've been working on getting my Life In General put together in a way that helps me feel less scattered and more purposeful. I've developed a series of lists for each of the activities I've involved in (Daily Living, Work, Writing, Community Theater) which I update each week. (To make it more fun, each master list gets typed on robins egg blue paper and filed in one of these bright folders.) From that list, I prepare an index card for each day of the week and schedule in the things I want/need/plan/wish to accomplish on each day. I sat down for an hour last Sunday night and updated the lists, plus filled out a weeks worth of index cards for initial planning. Also at that time I did my meal planning for the week, and updated the grocery list accordingly. Naturally things happen which upset the most carefully laid plans... but as long as they're on the list, I don't less upset about it than I would have in the past. Deb's advice about list-making was spot on. If something is written down somewhere, I feel better knowing it's "on my list" - it eliminates a good deal of the free-floating anxiety I get when I feel like there's too much going on (and when is this not true?)

Write On Wednesday: You'll notice I have a Writing List in those folders. This week I put a whole bunch of projects on that list. One thing I never lack is writing ideas. They flash in my head all the time, urgent and sometime irritating lightning strikes for essays and articles and blog posts. Lately, it's been ideas for novels...crazy, since my only efforts at novel writing were five and six years ago when I completed NaNoWriMo twice in a row and then filed the "manuscripts" away never to be seen again. My problem is getting around to actually writing this stuff I'm always thinking about. It's the motivation, the stick-to-itiveness that I lack. This weeks Write On Wednesday Epiphany? Since I never seem to have a problem writing my morning pages, I'm going to treat these creative writing ideas like morning pages. Get myself a notebook, and just start writing three pages of something about any one of them. Maybe it'll be drivel, but maybe there will be a few "diamonds in the dustheap" as Virginia Woolf called them.

Books are stacking up around here. Finished books that is. I read 10 books in March, and already have two down for April. What isn't stacking up are the commentaries. Several of these books (With Or Without You, Tomorrow There Will Be Apricots, The New Republic) were accepted as review books, and now that I've read them that obligation must be honored. For the most part they've been interesting reading, but I haven't organized my thoughts about them in a way sufficient to present to the public at large.

Today I'm not planning anything other than a trip into town for lunch, a stop at Great Harvest bread for some Honey Whole Wheat and Cinnamon Swirl, a run through Celebrity Pets for Magic and Molly's favorite chew sticks, and maybe (*wink*) a quick browse in The Next Chapter.

So, how about you? What's the mash-up of your life been this week?

The Sunday Salon: Easter Finery

When I was small, Easter meant a pretty new dress, sometimes even the proverbial bonnet (although I never much cared for wearing hats, and still don't). Easter always meant shiny black patent leather shoes, Mary Jane style, which, though delightful to look at, caused much pain to my fat little foot that bulged out over the top of the T strap in the podiatrist's version of a muffin top. In those days, Easter meant baskets with chocolate bunnies I could never bring myself to eat because I was afraid of "hurting" them if I bit the ears off.

But the best part of my Easter basket was always the book.

Yes, only I would care more about the book in the basket than the candy  - although I did make short shrift of the jelly beans hidden in the folds of that plastic Easter grass.

But it was the book that was the most rewarding.

I got my first copy of Little Women in an Easter basket.

For a few years there were Laura Ingalls Wilder books in the Easter basket.

Once I found A Wrinkle in Time tucked in amongst some gold chocolate coins, and I became lifelong "friends" with its author, Madeleine L'Engle.

Neither of my parents were children's literature aficionados.  Neither of them had read any of these books themselves. Yet somehow they knew I needed to read them, needed the exposure to different worlds through the eyes of the March sisters, the Ingalls family, and Charles and Meg Wallace.

My childhood Easter observance probably involved a dinner of country ham, scalloped potatoes and homemade southern-style biscuits (my Kentucky grandmother lived with us in those days, and she and my mother made a formidable combination in the kitchen). But the best part was when dinner was over and I could retreat to one of the big wing chairs in the living room corner and tuck into the pages of my new book.

I've been meandering through Facebook pages today, enjoying the photos and posts that allow a sneak peek at my friends Easter traditions, their family celebrations, their church services. I've spent the day in my "comfy" clothes, certainly not bothering with fancy dresses, bonnets, or uncomfortable shoes. I finished one of the books I was reading, and lolled around on the sofa with another.

Sometimes I worry that I live a little bit too vicariously through the pages of books, including the Facebook "pages" we've come to take for granted as a way of connecting with friends and family scattered across different time zones. But books have always been the way I treat myself, no matter what the holiday, and though I may have outgrown the other bits of Easter finery I'll never outgrow my love of stories and the written word.

A Perfect Day

I love it when someone asks me to describe my perfect day - Even though I'm pretty sure my answer might disappoint them. You see, my perfect days are so perfectly simple and uncomplicated and...well, boring...that it seems almost silly to fantasize about them.

Perfect days for me are a lot like yesterday, and the day before that. I've been lucky enough to have a string of nearly perfect days going on here this week.

So because Angie asked, and described her own idea of the perfect day so perfectly, I'll tell you mine.

I come awake to the sound of Chopin on my radio, come down the stairway and turn on the kitchen lights (the undercabinet ones that make such a nice warm glow). While the coffee brews, I empty the dishwasher, and then take my cup to couch were I snuggle in the corner and read in perfect silence for an hour. Pretty soon, I hear the husband and fur babies stirring upstairs. I take coffee up for Jim, throw on some clothes and take the pups outside for their morning ablutions.

Then it's a brisk 30 minutes of exercise for me, followed by breakfast (Great Harvest bakery honey whole wheat toast with peanut butter and a banana). Then it's the looooong dog walk, made better if I can cajole my husband into joining us, after which I hit the desk and write for a couple of hours. Then it's lunch - maybe with a friend, maybe all on my own at the sunny kitchen counter, while I check in with social media.

For the afternoon, since we're talking about perfect days here, I would insert something that's technically impossible. My perfect perfect day would include spending the afternoon with my grandson, watching him roll his cars across the floor, pushing him on the park swing, reading him stories.

Yes, that would make it all perfect.

But since I can't have that, I'll settle for second best in the real world of imaginary perfection.

An afternoon playing music somewhere with my friends. Love doing that.

By late afternoon I'm back in my kitchen, preparing something for dinner while soft music plays on the stereo. When Jim gets home, we plate up the food and settle in to watch a program on our DVR while we eat. After clean up, we might take a walk if weather permits, or if not I might settle in my reading chair for a while with a warm puppy beside me. Usually we'll catch another hour of TV before I head upstairs for a long soak in the garden tub.

See? I told you it was boring.

But after 57 years on the planet, I don't apologize for boring. What might seem mundane on the surface is really comforting and peaceful. And I like that.

In fact, I find it perfect.