Write On Wednesday-Writing All Over the Place

"I write all over the place. I mean, I take my book along in a suitcase and write in very temporary places, in Mexico, Guatemala, India, up in my mother's house in Cold Spring, and in this funny apartment in Brooklyn. It is the opposite of fancy, a tiny room in an apartment full of grumpy roomates. I usually start in my bed with coffee and end up at my desk with rum, looking the opposite of gorgeous in every way."~Kiran Desai~
Last week, on one of several trips to the local Barnes and Noble, I picked up a datebook (on clearance for $2!!!) called "The Writer's Desk." It's filled with photographs taken by Jill Krementz, of contemporary authors and their writing "spaces" - for certainly not all of them use a conventional desks!
Memoirist and poet Mary Karr uses a stand up desk "to keep my aching back in order when my yoga schedule is undermined by literature." Monique Truong writes at her kitchen table, because she "loves to cook, and its a space where I know I've produced something good in the past." And David Henry Hwang likes to write in longhand while lying in a reclining position on his stomach, propped up on his elbows. As does the great Truman Capote, who describes himself as a "completely horizontal author," who "can't think unless I'm lying down, either in bed or stretched out on the couch."
Similar to Kiran Desai, I've lately been "writing all over the place." In my home in Florida, I have a lovely sunny den, where I like to sit and watch the sun come up.

That room also has a big desk, where I can sit in more conventional style to catch up on blogs, and do some writing of my own.

But, I'm back in Michigan now, and my little room here was once my son's bedroom, so it doubles as the guest room, the extra TV room, the place where I put things when I don't have time to put them away, and - my "study."

Another cozy chair awaits me, and I usually end up there with my coffee and morning pages notebook. Oddly enough, I can watch the sun rise through the window here as well. Here too, is my desk, where I sit in the same spot my son used to sit, staying up late into the night writing his own stories.

Sometimes, I dream about the "perfect desk," a huge, antique oak desk, with lots of drawers and a hutch over top filled with niches for some of my favorite photos, objets d'art and keepsakes. I'd have lots of room to pile books, propped open on some of their most inspirational pages. Of course, this desk would be in front of a wide open window, preferably with a view of a crystal clear lake, where the ebb and flow of the water could serve as background music to my musings.

In reality, though, I've found it doesn't much matter where I write. Last night, killing time in the airport when our flight was delayed, I ended up writing my haiku for this week's One Deep Breath. When I'm lucky enough to be "in the zone," that place where words and ideas are flowing faster than I can transfer them to the page, I'm completely unaware of my surroundings, which could easily be "the opposite of fancy" as Desai describes her apartment.

So, how about you? Where are some of the places you've been writing lately?

Sunday Scribblings-Chronicle

He was young to lead the dance, but the whole village agreed Nazar was the best, his movement and rhythm always perfect as he formed the circle, quickly pulling the other men into formation, while the women stood by clapping their hands, wide grins on their faces, their black toed shoes tapping on the dusty earth. Only 15, Nazar loved the music and dance above all else, for it filled him with a feeling of joy and freedom that helped him forget the monotony of his daily work at the loom. It would turn out that Nazar had little time for dancing that spring of 1916, for rumors were flying that the Turks were on the way, and soon the men began packing their families and leaving the sleepy little village tucked into the foothills of Mt. Aarat. Nazar's father, fearing for the life of his only son, arranged secret passage on a steamer bound for France, where some cousins had agreed to take him in.

"Father, I cannot leave you and my mother behind!" Nazar protested, his mind filled with stories of the atrocities left behind by the Turkish army, bent on "cleansing" the Ottoman Empire of the Armenian people.

"You must go," Nazar's father replied, holding his son close to his heart. "We will follow as soon as we can, I promise."

So, smuggled onto the ship in a musty smelling steamer trunk, Nazar began his voyage to the other side of the world. It was a voyage that took him first to Paris, and then to a city in the United States, a city with a French name - Detroit - but with few other similarities to the city of light he had left behind. Nazar exchanged the monotony of the loom, for the incessant hum of the automotive assembly line. There were five children in Nazar's future, but there was to be no more dancing. And he never saw his mother and father again.

About this same time that Nazar was leading the dance, in another little village on the other side of the world, another young man was riding his favorite young mare hot and hard across the sweet meadows of Kentucky Blue Grass. The whole town agreed that Carl was young to have raised such a fast pony, but they were sure that this was the mare that would take the prize at the State Fair this year, and perhaps even go on as a contender in the Derby. Only 17, Carl seemed to be born and bred for horses, and his lean figure and flying dark hair were a familiar sight along the pasture land of his father's farm.

As it turned out, that beautiful mare wasn't to win any races that year. One hot summer day, and against his better judgement, Carl let Mary Mattingly ride the pony, for he could never resist the beautiful young woman's pleading requests. One look into her bright blue eyes, one touch of her soft white hand on his arm, and he was helpless to deny her anything. She mounted the horse with effortless grace, and set off across the fields, her long hair quickly coming undone from its pins and flying wildly behind her as she spurred the pony into an excited gallop. If only she hadn't tried to jump the fence, if only she hadn't been galloping so fast, if only...she might not have gone sailing over the horses's head ~ almost beautiful it was, the arc she made as she sailed throught the air~ before landing on the soft blue grass, which wasn't soft enough to save her pretty neck from being broken.

Not long after Mary Mattingly's funeral, Carl left for a city in the north, a cold, grey city called Detroit, for he had heard there was work to be had in the factories, making automobilies, those motorized contraptions that everyone said would someday be the only way to get around, and you'd never have to ride a horse again.

Two young men, who ended up in the same American city, at about the same time, coming from distant parts of the world. Their stories would converge in 1940, when Nazar's son met Carl's daughter, two young people with stories of their own, who would marry and continue the chronicle into the future ~ with me.

Write On Wednesday - The Buddy System

I've been thinking a lot about friends this week, probably because one of my closest working friendships has just undergone a huge change. Monday was my friend Pat's last day as a high school teacher. I've written about my relationship with Pat before ~ I was 36 years old when we started working together, and in many ways, she educated me right along with those high school students. She was my musical mentor, the first one I'd had since my high school days. She encouraged me to shed my fears, use my talents, and believe in myself, and in the process we became close friends as well as colleagues. I was also thinking about friendships in the context of writing. I've been re-reading a biography of the poet Anne Sexton which talks about her friendship with Maxine Kumin, whom she met in a poetry workshop in 1957. The "extraordinary bond" which developed between these two women, was to become "the most important relationship in Sexton's life as a poet." Sexton, riddled with emotional problems and depression, was writing poetry as a therapeutic exercise, not a vocation. Kumin, a published poet, read Sexton's poetry and saw something "whole and quivering on the page - it was just wonderful." This validation from a "real poet," gave Sexton the impetus to consider herself a poet as well. In later years, after Sexton began to write (and publish) prolifically, she and Kumin had "special phones installed on their desks," which they used to stay connected with each other as they worked throughout the day, trying out lines and drafts across the wires. "We sometimes connected with a phone call and kept the line linked for hours at a stretch," Kumin recalled. "We whistled into the receiver for each other when we were ready to resume." This extraordinary friendship was to remain one of the few constants in Sexton's life until her death by suicide in 1974.

One of the most valuable keys to success is having someone who believes in you and your ability ~someone you admire and respect ~ to encourage you to keep working, try harder, believe in yourself. Participating in this "brave new world" of online writing gives us an opportunity to find mentors all over the world. I am fortunate to have a special blogger friend who takes the time to encourage me with emails and words of praise, sharing her thoughts about things I have written that have touched or inspired her in some way, nudging me toward future writing goals. In much the same way that my friend Pat encouraged me to overcome my stage fright and approach that big nine foot grand piano with excited anticipation rather than anxious insecurity, she has inspired me to keep writing, to try poetry and haiku, and even to dabble in other creative projects as well.

So, what about you? Do you have some creative buddies who have made a difference in your life?

BTW, I've been thinking about friendships for another reason~ later today, I'm flying to Florida with my friend Millie, another "musical mentor" who has become a close and trusted friend. For the past several years, we've taken a few days each January and gone on a "girls retreat" -lots of reading, walking by the water, movies, a spa day, good food and wine ... you get the idea. So, if you don't see too much of me here at the Byline, don't worry ~ I'm just too busy sunning myself to write!