Sunday, September 25, 2016
When my kids were little, I honed my multi-tasking skills getting a family of five dressed, fed, and out the door every morning. Most days, there were no major disasters, and somehow I lulled myself into the belief that not only was I able to multi-task, I was quite good at it. I could watch my children's soccer games and grade my students' homework. I could pay the bills and fold the laundry in the course of one television show, never losing the plot line. Weekly menus were planned and grocery lists written during staff meetings. Cookies for the bake sale scented the house as I prepped for the next day's classes. You get the idea. I flatter myself that I can still accomplish more in one day than some people will in an entire week, and I have two published novels and a slew of short stories to prove it. Ah, but therein lies the rub.
This writing stuff can play havoc with multi-tasking. I now work from home and, perhaps because of that, doing more than one thing at a time poses an unexpected hazard. Yes, I'm fine developing characters and story arcs while scrubbing the floor, weeding the garden, or walking the dog. But I have learned I should never, ever, under any circumstances attempt to cook while I'm at my computer writing. The thing is, when I am into a story the way I need to be to understand my characters and what is happening to them, I cross a threshold. That threshold into Fictionland doesn't allow casual backward glances at reality to check what's happening in the kitchen. You're either in the story, or you're not, and crossing that threshold exacts a toll. It requires suspension of all else, including time. Equally tough is crossing back over the threshold to the real world. Deep in a story, sometimes only extreme external forces can pull me back. Like the smell of a dozen eggs boiled so hard the water in the pan evaporated. Anyone up for Green Eggs and Ham?
Thursday, August 25, 2016
It's late August. My self-imposed deadline for the first draft of the next novel is Sept. 30. I'm about 3/4 of the way there and stuck like some pre-Cambrian creature in a tar pit. Hoping to tease the Muse back, I've been wandering around in the literary toy store, playing with flash fiction and poetry. Just for kicks; no great expectations. (Yes, those last two words were deliberate.)
So here is one of the poems on which I have spent very little time, refusing to get all serious and angsty over it. I'll save that torture for the "real" writing.
Still. they stand on grocery shelves,
This Jiffy blue and white boxes
Redolent of strawberry-filled sunshine,
Thirty-three cents, then, for biscuit mix.
One egg and one cup of water
Rendered it to viscous batter,
Batter baked to golden shortcake,
A hundred sweet, sliced berries within,
Released its buttered fragrance,
A cavalcade of childhood days
Remains within those Jiffy boxes,
Now relegated to the lowest shelf, and ahlf-forgotten
Tuesday, July 26, 2016
I should be writing this deep in the middle of a dark and stormy October night instead of high noon on a lovely July day, but ghosts apparently choose their own time and place.
The story begins innocently enough. I went to a summer luncheon meeting with one of my writers' groups. Over chicken salad and iced tea, one of the original members of the group reminisced about her early writing career in New York where she worked at Mademoiselle magazine with Sylvia Plath. She remembered Sylvia as someone amusing who liked parties and wore the bright red lipstick so fashionable at that time. The conversation evolved to discussion of Plath's work. I kept quiet, certain I was the only person in the room who had not read her poetry or The Bell Jar.
Easily influenced by the mood of what I read, depressing novels and poetry aren't good for me. Back in high school, I discovered Thomas Hardy, and while I loved his prose, his stories sent me into such black swamps of depression, I vowed to avoid further relentlessly bitter literary journeys.
Still, after that summer lunch surrounded by lovely people who hadn't put their heads into ovens after reading Plath, I thought perhaps I should read her work.
This is where things get weird.
This past June, my husband retired from thirty-two years as a high school English teacher. Among his summer tasks was the clearing out of materials he would no longer need. On the very day of the luncheon with my writer friends, he sorted through several boxes of stuff, hanging on to a few items he thought I might like. I came home that afternoon to find The Bell Jar and The Collected Poems of Sylvia Plath on my desk. Coincidence?
Okay, then what about two days later when I am looking for an exercise on metaphors for another writing group, and the first example I find is a Sylvia Plath poem. Coincidence?
"Perhaps," says the phantasmal voice of Rod Serling.
I finished reading The Bell Jar last week, with no particular ill effects, though I don't seem to sleep well lately. The copy I read (see the photo above) looks as if its been to hell and back. Perhaps it is indeed a gift from a ghost.
Monday, June 27, 2016
I didn't want to go. The weather forecast called for severe thunderstorms, the venue was not a place I frequented, and my previous experience with story tellers had been total embarrassment on behalf of wide-eyed, rambling raconteurs who substituted goofiness for story substance. However, I wanted to support my friend, Bobbie, who had been performing her stories with the Short Story Theater group for several months. From the writing group we both belong to, I knew her stories were well-written, and she's the sort of capable person one can trust to do a good job with whatever she sets her mind to.
So off I went to Miramar in Highwood on a cloudy but dry Thursday evening. Parking was the first hurdle. I left my car four blocks from the restaurant, hoping I would not get a ticket if I departed the minute Bobbie's presentation was finished. Second hurdle: at the restaurant I was shown to the back room where the stage had been set up, but no one was allowed in. I and another woman who, like me, didn't think 6:45 was too early to show up for a 7:00 event, were both told to go away; rehearsals were in progress. The other woman and I stood outside on the sidewalk chatting until her husband and friend showed up. They went in the restaurant to get a table while I stayed put, feeling about as welcome as a Zika-bearing mosquito. I seriously debated ditching the whole event.
Instead, I stood on the street corner, checking my phone like a teenager. Or whatever. Two messages: both from people in our writing group who said they, too, were coming to support Bobbie. All I had to do was wait. Back in the restaurant, the waiter who had led me to the back room noticed my re-entry.
"You can sit at the bar."
If there had been any seats available, that might have been okay, but the bar was packed.
Just then, a voice behind me said, "You can sit here. I'm on my own."
The voice belong to a pleasant-looking woman about my age, and the clincher for me was her British accent. Anyone who knows me knows I miss England every day, so I figure sitting with this stranger for a few minutes might give me an auditory mini-fix for the land I love.
She introduced herself as Ruth and explained that she adores Short Story Theater and had been to multiple shows. We shared new-friend information and soon thereafter, we made our way to the back room. I was startled to see the place had filled up with at least fifty people, yet we managed to secure seats at a table near the stage. I was also startled to see several people I knew and began introducing Ruth to my other acquaintances.
Long story short--the evening blossomed. The story tellers were first and foremost very capable writers who read their work with grace and style. Bobbie shone as one of the best. Our table, comprised of new friends and people I knew from various clubs, groups, and schools in town, was lively, friendly, and full of positive energy.
The big surprise for me was seeing so many people I knew who knew each other and had shared the experience of this venue multiple times. Why had I not been here before? Here was a whole network of interesting people to whom I was connected by only the most peripheral of strands, but there were many more strands available to me should I choose to pursue them.
Much as I love the time I spend spinning stories, perhaps I've been spending a little too much time with fictional people. The real ones can be fun, too.
Thursday, May 26, 2016
Behold the lowly dandelion, scourge of gardeners everywhere. Google the poor plant's name and the first thing to show up is how to kill it. This is something I've never understood. If it weren't for the dandelions, I'd have a total of about three flowers on my property. In a good year.
Dandelions are just as cheerful and bright a harbinger of spring and summer as their fussier cousins, daisies and asters, which actually have to be purchased. Dandelions are free. Maybe they are the essence of freedom. Certainly, no one thinks grim, funereal thoughts in the presence of dandelions, as they do with lilies. Dandelions are neither demanding nor pretentious, resting contentedly on the opposite end of the snob scale from roses, irises, and dahlias.
The dandelion is easy to grow, resistant to disease, and--drum roll, please--they are edible. Soup. Salad. Wine! Our pioneer ancestors must roll in their graves at our cavalier treatment of this versatile botanic specimen.
In case the above facts are not enough to persuade you of the dandelion's importance, how about some pure sentimental stuff? For how many children is the dandelion the first plant they can identify? For how many mothers is a bouquet of dandelions the first gift their child offers them? Who hasn't made a wish while blowing away the fluff of a spent dandelion?
Yet, no florist I've ever encountered would include dandelions in an arrangement. None of the proud gardeners I know would tolerate them anywhere near their precious herbaceous beds. The average American would rather cover his lawn with poisonous chemicals than allow one Taraxacum to invade the lawn.
That seems a shame, especially when they so quickly turn to wishes.
Tuesday, April 26, 2016
You know what this is. Everyone in the world recognizes the logo in this photo. Well, practically everyone. There may be someone on the planet who communicates via jungle drums and dines on tree bark and ants who has never worshiped at the altar of St. Arbucks.
Full disclosure: Minus the dietary habits, I am closer to that poor clueless castaway than I am to the average American, since I never drink either of the two beverages essential to most writers (no alcohol, no caffeine--how do I survive??). I rarely set foot in a coffee shop. However, since I am a writer, and I don't live in total isolation, I'm occasionally given a Starbucks gift card. In fact, there have been several of them floating in the detritus of my handbag for years.
Not long ago, I found myself stuck waiting for the groomer to finish with Woki. (Yes, I spend more on his haircuts than I do on my own.) With time to kill on a frigid winter morning, I wandered into the Starbucks next door to the groomer. It seemed like a good morning for a nice cup of tea, so after determining what elaborate tea-based concoction to request, I got in line with the cool people who know the drill. I figured if I watched closely, I could manage to place my order without making too much of a fool of myself.
Here among the beautiful ones, I was so out of my depth. The three men in line all sported designer stubble, ear buds, and distracted expressions. I imagined they were fretting over sports teams, the financial markets or, less likely, the car that had been parked in the handicapped spot outside. Of the eight or ten women in line, seven wore their blonde hair in a ponytail, four had perfectly applied makeup, all of them wore Lulu Lemon yoga pants, and not one of them weighed more than 100 pounds.
So the line crept forward, and I listened to the patois of Starbucks: half-caf double venti latte with hazelnut; grande, iced, with soy; triple half-sweet carmel macchiato. And as if that wasn't confusing enough, why does tall = small?
With increasing alarm, I saw the two people ahead of me pay not with money or gift cards, but by holding their phones to the credit card device (at least I think that's what it was). Hey, I've got a phone. It's even a smart phone. Trouble is, I'm not cool enough to tell it how to pay for my tea.
It became MY TURN.
I ordered a drink by the name printed on the overhead menu, not entirely sure what it would be. "May I please have a London Fog?"
Server--oh, pardon me--barista's reply, "What? What do you want?" Like I was speaking Hurro-Uratian.
I pointed to the menu and repeated my order slowly. She nodded, scribbled something on a cup which she handed off to a co-worker. I, in turn, handed her a grimy gift card. She took it carefully, as if it might be contaminated. Okay, maybe that wasn't unreasonable.
I sauntered casually to the little counter where drinks appeared and recognized mine easily enough, even though it was now called a "tea latte" rather than the much cooler sounding London Fog. Settling into a corner with what proved to be a delicious beverage, I surveyed the shop, content to be sitting amongst the young and caffeinated with my iconic paper cup. I might not be cool these days, but once upon a time, I could have given everyone in the place a run for their money . . . or their phones.
Thursday, March 17, 2016
Last night, I took this shot of an unusual golden cloud formation over the south end of Forest Park. There are all sorts of cheesy metaphors that I could spin (mostly to justify using this photo, which I find pleasing), but I think instead I'll simply tie it to a quote one of my fellow writers shared with me last week. The quote resonated because I don't often come across musings on the word that forms the basis for this blog title. I've lost track of the number of people who have told me Liminalesque is a terrible title for a blog--and I agree with every one of them, but I'm sufficiently stubborn and enamored of the word to ignore the good advice. The passage below appears on page 244 of The Practice of Happiness: Political Economy, Religion, and Wellbeing edited by John R. Atherton, Elaine Graham, and Ian Steedman.
"'Limen' is the Latin term which translates as threshold . . . There are those from within the spiritual traditions who perceive the liminal space to be the location for growth and change, the space betwixt and between where God is often leading be where we feel uncomfortable and insecure. The tried and tested has to be left behind and we have to be willing to live with the not knowing and not being in control . . .The temptation is always to return from this scary place too quickly, to retreat from this 'cloud of unknowing' . . . by resorting to quick-fix solutions and interpretations. Few of us know how to stay on the thresholds or to remain in the liminal spaces. . ."
Now, while I don't agree with every notion stated or implied here (the title alone makes me want to hide under my desk), I have to admit that I wholeheartedly endorse the idea that the liminal space is equally scary and full of potential. Like everything else I commit to written language and put out in the world, this blog takes a toll on my courage. Yet, I'm compelled to wander in my "cloud of unknowing" with the hope of . . . well, I'm not even sure about that.