Getting back into my groove

 

Creativity is a funny thing. Some think it’s some sort of spontaneous will o’ the wisp kind of thing, and I’m inclined to agree, at least in part. I certainly don’t believe creativity is always “turned on” at the same level in an individual. Take short stories for instance—I cannot write one to save my life unless inspiration hits, Once when asked to contribute a short story to an anthology about World War II, I dithered forever about what to write. And then, an idea came out of the blue—I clearly heard an old woman’s voice lamenting her children lost to war. I wrote the first draft in about two hours and called it, “A widow’s lament.” The same is sort of true for novels—an idea has to “hit” me. I’m sure what really happens is that an idea simmers in the back of my brain and then bursts forth in my consciousness.

I thought for instance that I was through writing about my diva faux French chef, Irene Foxglove. But then an idea struck me—as I’ve been telling it, Irene tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Ahem, we’re not through with my story yet. I have to tell about the family I’ve left behind.” My fried Fred, who advises me, says if I ever am really through with Irene, I’ll have to drive a spike through her heart. Meantime, she’s given me the idea for a new story. That doesn’t mean writing it has gone smoothly. There’s that thing called writer’s block.

Writer’s block is an even funnier thing than creativity, though not in an amusing way. The dictionary tells us writer’s block is a state of being unable to think of what to write or how to proceed with writing. It happens to me, predictably, somewhere between 20K and 40K words. I write short—I know writers whose first draft of a mystery runs up to 90K to 100K but mine are often 55K at best. A good traditional or cozy mystery should be about 70K.

When I get to that middle point, my sticking point, my instinctive thought is “There’s so much more to go! How will I ever fill those pages? I’m ready to wrap this up now.” Hank Phillippi Ryan, an author much more talented and prolific than I am, calls that point, “The muddle in the middle.” I have been known to shelve a manuscript at 20K words, go back months later, and think, “Hey, this isn’t so bad!” That has happened with at least two books in the Irene series. And it happened with the current one which I’m calling, Irene in a Ghost Kitchen.

We are told in writers’ groups that persistence is the basis for success as a writer. Classic advice: put your butt in the chair and keep it there. I guess that’s where I failed. I put this manuscript aside at 32K words and focused on my cookbook. Then a friend, whose literary knowledge I respect, commented on what a good character Irene is, and I thought, “Hmmm. Maybe I should go back and re-read that.” I did, and suddenly my head is teeming with ideas. Whereas before I had no idea how it would work out, now I can see the ending. I’m just impatient to get it all down on paper.

Last night, Sophie and I didn’t sleep well, partly because one or the other of us had to pee. But I also lay awake for great bunches of time writing in my mind. I’m not one of those who gets up in the middle of the night to make notes, so I am trusting that some—most?—of that night-time activity is tucked away in my subconscious and will surface when needed.

Excuse me. I’ve got to go now, because I left Irene in a precarious situation. But PS I am delighted that people find Irene funny, interesting, complex, all those things. I call her outrageous. But I hope the narrative voice, which belongs to a much younger chef Henny James, is as riveting with her wry sense of humor and her clear understanding of Irene—well, almost.

Want to start the series? Try Saving Irene. Amazon.com: Saving Irene: A Culinary Mystery (An Irene in Chicago Culinary Mystery) eBook : Alter, Judy: Kindle Store

The winter doldrums

 

January and February are, to me, the months of the winter doldrums. I love the way that word sounds like what it means—a period of calm, depression. It’s a seagoing term, from an area near the equator where the winds sometimes stop, marooning wind-powered sailboats for days, even weeks. It’s as though the world comes to a stop.

And that’s sometimes the way life feels in these winter months, even here in sunnier climes. Today for instance though chilly was sunny and pretty, enough to cheer the soul. But still I felt becalmed.

In the doldrums I sleep a lot—long winter naps that are both addictive and refreshing. Today, for instance, I got up, let Sophie out at her request, and when she came back inside, crawled back to my bed for another hour. I didn’t sleep, but I dozed. To my great joy, I had the glimmer of a few ideas.

I’ve read several posts from writers in recent days complaining about writer’s block, the inability to make themselves write—anything. The traditional cure of course is to write—anything, something, just write. It is of course easier said than done. But recently I’ve seen other advice which essentially advises “get yourself out of the way.” The more you worry about what to write, the less likely you are to have a clue. If you relax, stop fixing your mind frantically on the problem, and get out of the way, you might just find ideas coming your way. I think that’s part of the virtue of napping and dozing a lot—you kind of turn off your mind and thereby open it to ideas.

Not that I’m had a brainstorm—just a glimmer. But it’s enough to make me face the coming week with a tad more enthusiasm. Perhaps I can take that glimmer and twist and turn it into a plot—oh, oops, there I go again, getting in my own way.

In the cycle of life, I’m sure the doldrums have a purpose. They are not aimless, drifting, empty periods, but times of life designed to help us pull back, regroup, refresh. All that napping is healing, curative, ultimately stimulating.

It’s easy to feel guilt about doing nothing. I’m a past master at that. IF I’m not doing something productive what am I doing? And yet that very thought is as self-defeating as getting in your own way.

I guess it all comes back to those naps, that ability to be becalmed and accept it because it is a phase that will pass. The best advice is to get out of the way.

Gratitude

I had a friend who started a habit of posting one statement of gratitude each day. She always found something she was grateful for. I thought that was a terrific idea and tried to follow it, but I didn’t do so well. Some days I forgot, and some days the only things I could come up with were pretty trite. I mean, how many days can I tell you that I’m grateful for my kids, my grandkids, my dog?

But tonight, my heart is full of gratitude. First, for all of you who rejoiced with me on the news of my new book contracts. It’s a wonderful feeling to know that friends share your joy and are happy for you. Some of the messages I got praised my record as an author and said this was due recognition. Made my heart sing.

Today with a great feeling of happiness, I went to the post office and slipped that fat envelope of contracts into the remote slot. Pray God it doesn’t get lost in the mail.

I am also grateful for generous neighbors, who have been gifting me with food. One was leaving on vacation and brought me a bounty of strawberries (with real home-made whipping cream—what a treat!), blueberries, and half a cantaloupe. I’m always a bit wary of cantaloupe—it’s either sweet and good or tasteless, but this was just right. When Jamie was here, I told him I had whipped cream, knowing he loves it. He replied, “Naw, I like the kind in the squirt can.” What am I to do with a grown child like that?

Another neighbor sent a message that she had made too much cucumber soup for the two of them and did I like it? I love it and answered accordingly, although I declined the shrimp she said she served on it. Being allergic to shrimp is a real pain. But I had delicious bowls of cold cucumber soup two days for lunch and loved it. One day I had the soup, a deviled egg, and strawberries and cream. What better summer meal could one ask for?

Also I am grateful to whatever writing gods here may be. I have been stuck at a certain point in the manuscript I am working on. There was a thought there, a connection, that just wasn’t coming clear to me, and the result was a mild form of writer’s block. So today, I skipped the place where that elusive thought should go and went on with the part of the story I knew should come next. So it was a really productive day—I sent a summer newsletter to my webmaster and I wrote almost  thousand words.

Finally, I got drafts of the cover for So Far from Paradise. I really like the basic idea, but it needs a bit of tweaking. I’ll share when it’s in final form.

So to all of you who have brightened my days, a deep and grateful thank you.

Gratitude

Another day to be grateful for friends. If I don’t get out much, I still don’t lack for friends. They come to me, and I am so thankful. Today, Jean came for coffee, but she had remembered a doctor’s appointment that cut her visit short. Still she bought the perfect small plant to replace one that died from lack of water while I was in the hospital a month or so ago. Jordan and I had searched for the perfect small, low plant until she finally threw her hands up in defeat. But Jean knew exactly what I was talking about and where to get it.

After she left, Jordan, who is a wonderful friend as well as a good daughter, called, said she was headed to Central Market and would get me in five minutes if I wanted to go. Of course, I did, though it was one time I didn’t have a Central Market wish list. Just on the principle of it I got smoked salmon, sourdough bread, chocolate, and some good Irish cheddar. Major discovery: Central market does have motorized shopping carts. They’re hidden away in a corner in the entryway but they are available. I got one today that needed some loving attention—the only way to start it was to put it in reverse and then back to neutral, at which point it would take off without my giving it any power. But it wouldn’t stop, and even though it was going slow that was a problem. The only way to stop it—and keep from booting Jordan from behind—was to turn it off.

Tonight, I expected Sue for happy hour but Jean also called and was at loose ends for an hour. Turns out Sue and Jean knew each other at church long before I ever introduced them. And I thought I was friendship central! We feasted on good Irish cheddar and smoked salmon and had a most pleasant evening.

I have for some reason been reluctant to work on my novel-in-progress. I finished the first draft last night—with a whimper, not a bang. Did a little revision on one part I knew I wanted to change, but have been drawn more and more into reading other mysteries and ignoring mine. I guess that’s okay for a while, if it doesn’t become a permanent habit. It may be relief at reaching the end, no matter how much work remains to be done on that new project—and, believe me, it’s a lot. And maybe it’s a bit of disappointment that Pigface isn’t flying off the shelves and garnering tons of Amazon reviews. But I know those risks only too well. I suppose I could go on analyzing and excusing forever without learning much. Instead, this weekend, I’m really going to dig in on revisions.

I’ve been reading the Molly Murphy series by Rhys Bowen, about a young Irish immigrant girl in New York Century at the turn of the last century. I started these once and don’t remember being enthralled, but I am now. Bowen has done extensive research on historical events, the character of the city, living and working conditions. So far Molly, as a fictional character, has been on the edges of the shooting of President McKinley and involved in a shirtwaist factory fire that, fortunately, has a happier ending than the Triangle fire. Fascinating stuff, but there are at least ten or twelve books in the series and, having read three, I need to pull my nose out of New York and read other things. Then again, my new reading addiction proves a point I like to make about series: if readers like the characters, they’ll read all the books in a series. I’m already thinking about the next adventure of Kelly O’Connell, even though I’m still working on a Blue Plate Café mystery with Kate Chambers. Such is life, and I’m enjoying it.

Walk this way....

I seem to have hit some sort of blogger writer's block. Maybe it's summer doldrums, which set in quickly, but when I think about my days all I can think is I'd end up blogging "And then I did this, and then I did that." On the national scene, there are political thoughts I could comment on like the Republican who wants to destroy the ACA but thinks it's a shame so many people will lose their benefits--bit of logic lacking there, but one can only carp on politics so much. I'm saving my ammunition for bigger battles. Locally, there's the trouble at the McKinney swimming pool. I doubt we'll ever hear the full story--all we hear now are biased reports from both sides and media hype. It's been done to death and no matter how appalled I am at it, I'm tired of reading about it. Or talking about it.
So about the most interesting thing I did today was go to physical therapy. I've been going for several weeks now, at the behest of a doctor who was worried about my falling, which I do from time to time. Knock on wood, no serious damage so far but one fall in the driveway left me badly bruised and with a reluctance to walk down the driveway again. I'm in a program designed to keep the elderly from falling. I really resent being called elderly, but a much younger friend said to me last night, "Let's face it. We are elderly!"
What intrigues me about the PT program is the way they make use of ordinary objects. Today I sat on a rolling stool and propelled myself around a huge square workout table (accommodates probably four people) first forward, then backward--two times each. You'd be surprised at the muscles it works. Another exercise has me stepping over cone-shaped paper cups--the kind you find in an ordinary water dispenser. Not easy--I kept swinging my foot behind them when the point is to go over them. Sometimes I do an exercise that looks like the one they ask suspected drunks to do--walk a straight line, one foot in front of the other. I used to have to hold on; today I only occasionally touched the table and chairs that were on either side of me for security.
Today I got lots of praise, which pleased me. The therapist and the aide both said I was walking so much better. I'm grateful for the praise, but it amuses me--I've been walking all my life. Have I been doing it wrong? Apparently so. They've taught me to bend my knees and lift my feet off the ground--I shuffled before. And the therapist tells me he can feel a difference in my low back--less stiff, more flexible.
Some days I think I'd just rather keep going there than have to find an exercise program after I leave. Maybe I'll go back to yoga. But physical therapy is an interesting experience...and not as unpleasant as I feared. Really nice people make a difference.