Displacement Writing

I haven't written in days. In fact I can't remember the last time I wrote. I've edited, which counts, sort of, but I haven't created anything new in a longer time than I am comfortable with.

There is more than one circumstance playing into my writer's block. One, time, which is always an issue for the workaholic me. Two, plot issues, Billy and Renie need issues, and that is when the dreaming becomes hard. Three, focus is on the book that will release October 15. Four, edits to Linger, long overdue, which I simply need to do. Five, plot resolution for books Hasten and Wait, and that in and of itself is huge, that I've actually resolved them and now just need to write and edit accordingly.

What it means is that by the middle to end of 2014, I should have five books released. And that is daunting. Daunting times ten thousand.

The final reason I haven't written is that my overall routine has been off-kilter. We have visiting family and we've travelled. Tomorrow starts a new routine, one which means I will be up and out of the house by 4:45am three mornings a week to take Frank to swim practice. I'll be back home five minutes later, but my days will begin that early because I will not go back to sleep.

I used to be at my most creative level first thing in the morning. Lately I've been settling in to write last thing at night. I don't think it matters really when I write, as long as I do. Which means I cannot allow myself to use excuses for not being able to. I don't write on a laptop. Why not? I don't write unless it is at my desk, looking out over the beauty of Colorado. Why not? I don't write unless I have large blocks during which I know no one will interrupt me. Why not? I could go on and on with my internal struggle about why I can't, when my own logic tells me I can.

I need to write. It isn't a matter of wanting, it's a need. When I don't do it, I feel as though something significant is not right in my life. Today I will write. Dammit.

Won't be able to sleep tonight giddy

I haven't been to see live music in two months. I'm having withdrawals, major ones. Frankie and I peruse the BandsinTown posts to figure out who we can go see, and we have tickets to see a lot in October and even November. But August and September, thus far, have been too quiet. Frankie went to see Fall Out Boy last week without me, so he is not empathetic.

Tomorrow night my dry spell ends with Maroon Five. I've been on the fence about this concert, but Kelly Clarkson is opening for them and, well, there is . . . Adam Levine. We're sitting in the twelfth row, not the best seats we've ever had, but close enough that I should be able to enjoy all that is . . . Adam Levine.

And I get to hang out with Frankie, my favorite thing to do, so I'm a little giddy. Christmas Eve-giddy. Won't be able to sleep tonight giddy. Very happy giddy.

Which came first? Life or Art?

While I waited for everyone else to wake up this morning, I checked my email, looked at Twitter and read Facebook, not an atypical thing for me to do while savoring my first cup of coffee.

On Twitter, this quote:  "I wish I could tell them it's harder to dream than they think it is." Which is how I feel about my writing. Sometimes it is so easy, and sometimes I cannot conjure what I know I want my characters to experience. Or I simply don't have any dreams for them at that particular moment.

This weekend we've been in Crested Butte, where the book I just finished and the one I'm working on now is set. While I know many of the places I used in the book like the back of my hand, being in them again, that feeling of home and knowing them so intimately, has been surreal, like I'm living in an alternate universe. 

Yesterday, driving around "the ranch," which plays such a huge role in both books moved me in a way I can't put words to. Which came first? I haven't seen this place before. But it's what I wrote. 

After several days of breathtakingly beautiful weather, it is raining this morning. When I was a little girl and my grandparents and I traveled somewhere, I remember my grandmother would tell me that it rained the day we left wherever it was, because the place was sad that we were leaving. 

As is so typical of Doug, there are things I don't have to explain to him, he just knows. Standing at the window, I felt a couple of tears run down my cheek, I'm not even sure why. He came up behind me, rested his chin on my shoulder and said, "Don't worry, we'll be back here before you know it."

The Most Important Connection

A few months ago Frank and I were driving somewhere, listening to a CD I put together, and a song came on. I hit the replay button, turned it up, and said, “I want you to listen to the lyrics of this song . . .” and before I could finish my sentence he asked, “is it going to make me cry?” Frank is fourteen, and while he may have been thirteen when this happened, it had still been months, maybe even more than a year, since I had seen him cry about something, so the question caught me a little bit off guard.

I suppose the melody of the song sounded a little sad, but I answered, “No, it really isn’t a sad song, just listen.”

“No Mom,” he said, “is it going to make me cry just because it’s so good?”

He gets me. I get him. It was one of those rare moments of absolute awe and appreciation that my son and I are connected in that way.

I like you too and tell you the truth, it wasn’t my chair after all.

When You Can't Explain

We’ve all been there, on the outside we’re functioning normally, no one would know anything was wrong to look at us. Meanwhile on the inside there is a dull ache, refusing to diminish, that is impossible to put words to, mainly because the cause of it is something no one else would understand, even if you could.

You say a word, or a sentence, that you say only because it makes you feel a little better to acknowledge the inexplicable pain, out loud, even though you know you are really only talking to yourself. And then, someone hears you, picks up on what was almost a murmur, not meant to be acknowledged, and you hear them say, “I understand.”

Maybe it is the shared expression on your faces, or the lilt of your voice when you name the pain with words that the person picks up on. Then you say, “I know it doesn’t make sense, but this is how I’m feeling.” And they say again, “I understand.”

The next words are often, “I know it seems silly . . .” and they say “This is why I understand.” And soon you discover that yes, they do understand, and the thing you could not put words to, suddenly needs none, because they understand. And so do you.

My view, and my view

This is the view I see on my way through the parking lot when I drop Frank off at school. It's spectacular, and only one reason I love to be the one to drop him off every day.

It isn't a long drive, but it gives us both a chance to set the tone of our day, or outlook, or our view . . . we try to keep things light, fun and happy, because that is the kind of day we both want to have. We have a morning song we listen to on the way to school, usually something fun, today it was You Get What You Give by the New Radicals. If the weather is warm enough, I open the sunroof, roll down the windows, and play the music really loud (but only after we're out of our neighborhood and before we enter the school parking lot, so we don't bother anyone, which is Frank's rule, not mine).

Today when I was driving out of the parking lot, I saw someone I knew driving in, the family did not appear to be having a light, fun or happy morning. Mom appeared to be yelling about something, front seat son seemed to be the recipient of her ire. I'm not saying Frank and I have never had those mornings, or that we never have them now, but it reminded me that I don't want us to leave one another's presence under those circumstances, if it can be helped.

Sometimes after Frank gets out of the car, I drive alongside him as he walks up the sidewalk, and I turn the music back up, and I wave, and tell him I love him. He gets embarrassed, and rolls his eyes at me, but he also smiles. And I know exactly what he's thinking as he walks in that front door. He may think I'm a goofball, but I can guarantee you he also thinks I'm a fun goofball. 

I’m a Writer

I’m a writer. Officially. At least according to Facebook and Twitter. And tomorrow sometime there will be a website that proclaims it to be true as well.

On October 15, And Then You Fall, will be released. And soon after Dance Me Home will follow.

And then before you know it, Linger, Hasten and Wait will all follow.

. . . cause if you know me, you know I never do anything half-assed.

A great day for a birthday

After too many days of gray, Colorado is back to a perfectly blue sky, sunny day. And today is Doug’s birthday.

Doug and I have been married for fifteen years, and together for nearly twenty. The road here has not always been an easy one; more than once I wasn’t sure we’d make it. But we never gave up, we both kept working at it, and for the last couple of years, at least, life has become a never ending honeymoon.

The biggest thing we have going for us, other than deep and complete love, is respect for one another. I overhear sometimes how couples talk to each another and wonder, why would someone talk to the person they love above all other in a way worse than they would speak to a stranger? It is something we have to be mindful of, but it is worth it.

As I took Frank to school this morning, sunroof open, windows down, music playing, sun shining, the red rocks looking more so because everything is so green, I said a little prayer of thanks that our family lives here, we have such a good life, and so much happiness. Our thoughts are with the rest of Colorado, those devastated by the floods and hope that the sun is shining on them today too.

The Ten Thousand Word Loss

Sometimes losing something feels really good. Undertook the edit last night, thinking I would get halfway through it at best. Finished. And will read this morning to see if it worked, and what I missed. Already I feel better—better about this book, better about the next. I lost 10,000 words last night, but I’ll write it back up today, or tomorrow, or the next day.

I’m in a better place than I was just twenty-four hours ago. I love these characters, even more so now. 

And Then You Fall

Sweet beauty on steps, waiting, like me, sun masked by clouds, so free

Beautiful, if only you were able to move, 

To go, to ride, to smile, to fly, to kiss, to fall.

I know how deep your smile, if only you could fall

I know how wild your passion, if only you would fall

I know how deep your longing, if only you could fall.

I know your fear, I know your tears 

But that smile, so sweet, that longing so deep

Your eyes burn into my heart, my love, my joy, my fall.

You know my longing deep, you know my love, so hard

You know my longing deep, you know my passion, so wild

You know my fall.

To see you here then, in the midst of your fall

To know your joy, so deep, to know your passion, complete

To know your longing, my all, and then, my sweet, you fall.

The Process Sucks Sometimes

I’ve been torn up the last couple of days. Four to be exact. Something has just been off. At first I thought it was 9/11, because it always hits me hard and stays with me. I’ve been grouchy, moody, haven’t felt like talking to anyone, and haven’t been sleeping. 

Today I made some decisions about the book I just finished. And it involves a major edit. Something(s) just weren’t working, and there is nothing worse than loving your book but having that nagging feeling in the back of your mind that there are just some things that every time you read it, for the rest of your life, will bug the shit of you.

The good news is, once I made the decision, I felt so much better. Markedly. Lighter. I suppose it could have something to do with everyone I ran into at the grocery store tonight . . . Tri-Lakes firefighters (always good-mood inducing), a couple cowboys from out at the ranch (goes without saying really), and one of my best friends (who always makes me happy when I see her).

So, the process sucks sometimes. And it is a process. A long one. A long process that I honestly love, but I only love it when I clearly see the way I’m supposed to go. 

Friday Night Ride to the Football Game

Tonight’s music selection: Wild Ones by Flo Rida

Last week’s backseat friend got a ride again this week. On the way there he said, “Frank it’s a good thing so-and-so is your girlfriend cuz the dance after homecoming is the snowball dance and it’s girl’s choice.” I wasn’t sure how the two things connected exactly but then he went on.

“I mean, you can’t say no.” Wait. You can say no, thank you. Just like if a guy asked a girl to homecoming and she was already going with someone else, or had a boyfriend, or whatever, she could say no. Backseat friend was greatly relieved to hear it. 

Then he said, “I told so-and-so she couldn’t wear peach to homecoming. I hate peach. She can't wear peach.”

Wait a minute, again. As nicely as I could, I explained that it is much harder for a girl to decide what she’s going to wear than it is for a boy, and to never (ever, ever) tell a girl what she should or shouldn't wear. 

PTSD of a guy I went out with a few times in my early twenties. He lasted about two weeks, which was how long it took him to start telling me I should wear something other than what I was wearing. I think it happened once, and I showed him the door.

“But she asked my opinion.”

I turned around and gave him the eyebrow.

“So I guess giving her my opinion was the wrong answer. So I should just tell her to wear whatever she wants.” Basically, but then perhaps add that you’re sure whatever she chooses she'll look beautiful in.

Mmm, hmm. I got an enthusiastic “Thanks Mrs. Buchman,” as he got out of the car.

Boys. 

Exquisite Tension, Character Reverence

Yesterday was a very long day. I had a meeting first thing in the morning and at ten last night, I was still at it, without any sort of break in the middle. I love days like that, because when they’re over I have such a sense of accomplishment.

The downside is that I didn’t have any time to write. Sitting at my computer, getting ready to put it to sleep, I decided to write a couple of paragraphs. Three thousand words later, I made myself go to bed. 

The tone and pace of this book is so different from the others I’ve written. Time is moving very slowly, the detail is in the minutes rather than in the days, weeks or months. What I like about this is how deep I can go into the characters. They’re an interesting couple, one who isn’t one yet. ;-) But the tension is exquisite.

With each book I write, there is at least one character whose voice I hear distinctly. With the last book, it was the main male. This book is the main female. She is based on someone who has been a friend of mine forever, although we lost touch for thirty years. It was the one friendship of my life I mourned. I hated that lost connection and with each passing year, I missed her more. Wondered more whatever happened to her, and celebrated the memories because they were some of the best ever.

We all have that friend, the one who makes us laugh more than anyone else, the one we speak in shorthand with, because so often more than a couple of words aren’t necessary. Just uttering one or two can lead to rolling on the floor belly laughs, that you both share.

Thanks to Facebook, my friend and I have been back in touch for a couple of years. And when I was in California, we got together. If there is anything I’m thankful for this year, that is it. 

It is with great reverence I base a character on someone. It means I think the world of them. It also means I get to spend lots and lots of time with them, which is such a gift to me. 

It is a sad day in Colorado. The rains continue with no end in sight. Roads are washed away and worse, lives have been lost. 

When I was growing up, my grandparents and I spent summers at our camp on Canada Lake in the Adirondacks. Every year on our five-hour drive home, it rained. I have vivid memories of being on the New York State thruway, the rain coming down so hard we could barely see. My grandfather would pull off at the next rest stop and we'd wait it out. My grandmother would say, “Canada Lake is crying because it’s going to miss you so much.”

I wish whatever it is that is making the Colorado skies cry so many days in a row, would fine comfort. 

Back Again, September 11

I haven’t written on this blog for over three years. I'm not sure why I stopped, I just did. When I logged on this morning, I thought about deleting all of the old posts and starting over. And then I started reading. 

Posts on this blog include quotes that moved me in a particular way, that when I read back over them, moved me again. I found the post about the first book I wrote, and how I was feeling about it. And I found posts about funny things the boys either said or did. There are many posts about the wine bar, those are the hardest for me to read, but it was a part of our life, so deleting them would be inappropriate, although it may be years before I want to read them.

Today is September 11, and each year I find myself compelled to write something about how I’m feeling. Today, for obvious reasons, I'm all about memories. Keeping them and making them.

Life is good for me, for our family. But I am reminded that can all change in an instant, as it did for so many all those years ago. I remember it all as though it happened yesterday. The pain I feel is still as raw. I cannot imagine the pain felt by those who lost someone they loved that day. 

I wake up every morning thankful for the freedom we have, the opportunities Doug and I have had, and those our boys will have. We stand on the shoulders of those who have gone before us, in every way.