Past Peak

I give some of my photos to a non-profit sometimes.  They use local pictures on the front of birthday cards they send out to seniors in town.  Mostly, when they need images, I pull things I’ve captured over the course of the year from my files but this time, they asked for specific locations, and early last Saturday I went out, camera in hand.  That trip opened my eyes to fall and the idea that the year is slipping away.  This week, evidence of its waning has arrived in a jumble of tree debris blanketing our yard.  

The orange tree I photographed last week now stands naked, a rumpled skirt piled around its roots.   Everywhere, it’s snowing leaves.  Almost before I caught them,  the vibrant colors of autumn gave way to gold and taupe, except for the oaks that will cling to green until November frosts force them to brown and let go.  Last week there were pops of color everywhere. 

 

 Today, the bare fingered trunks lining the pond down the street mirror water that’s steel grey.

This weekend, we cut back tomato plants and stacked wood.  The boat came out of the water.  Pignuts and acorns ping off the gutters and pop under tires as we exit the driveway.  In the woods, a carpet of yellow needles pads the ground, muffling our footsteps.  As I cut dead flowers in the garden, one lone cricket offered a muted chirp, as if inviting us into the quiet.  Reminding us that nature's quiet time is coming.  Preparing us for the winding down.

Church of the Jetty, Take Three

At seven fifteen, I whisper to my husband, “Do you want to go to the Church of the Jetty?”  By eight, we are there.  I’ve written about it here and here, but each time we go, it's worth repeating.  A dry summer morning.  The August sun, low on the horizon, forces us to squint in spite of sunglasses.  This time, the motor is broken on the dinghy so we row across, accompanied by a chorus of “Go Tell it On the Mountain” from the harbor church service on the porch of the Sailing Club.    

We anchor the boat close in, take the long walk down the barrier beach and hip-hop the jetty to the end, sweatshirts off by the time we get there.  Seagulls
 cough, and cluck at the edges of tide pools.  A lobsterman navigates the Miss Jane through the channel.  Once we drain our coffees, we fanny crawl down the low-tide rocks to the tidal flats, where baby fountains squirt up from the quahogs and razor clams beneath.  Crystal air and gleaming water.  Two herons stick walking across the flats.  Hot bugs warming up in the marsh grass. Washboard waves in the wet sand wearing three-pronged footprints. 

An hour later, we walk the long way back to the boat, to the lawn mowing, the grocery shopping, the week ahead planning, holding to a kernel.  All day long we’ll clutch the essence of this, grateful for a summer morning that had its start, surrounded  by images of prayer.  

IWSG - Exit Stage Left

This is my post for Alex Cavanaugh’s Insecure Writer’s Support Group for the month of August.  We are writers helping writers here folks.  To read more posts, click on this link.

One of the rules of good writing tells us to show characters in logical sequences of action.  If you have someone in a room one moment, they can’t appear on the street in the same scene, unless you use your words to get them there.  I learned this a long time ago.  Good news, bad news.  I know what I’m supposed to do, but my method is flawed.  Last night, in class, I read pages and received direct, actionable feedback from our teacher.  “Stop with the stage direction,” she said.

Once I understood, I met this criticism with relief.  I’ve been so busy whirling my characters around, marching them back, making them look both ways before crossing the street, I’ve been slowing my action down.  I can’t tell you how I’ve searched for other ways to say, “She turned,” or “she stepped” when I didn’t need to say it at all.

Here’s are two examples, directly from my work.  In paragraph A, you’ll find the original pokey, bla, bla, bla version.  In paragraph B, a revision.

A)     “Spinning around, she glanced toward the empty doorway to the market. Waiting for two cars to pass, she crossed the street and headed toward Waban Avenue, where the historical society stood, on the far side of the library, three doors down from the corner.”

B)      “She crossed the street and headed toward Waban Avenue.  The historical society stood on the far side of the library.  Three doors down from the corner.”

A)     “Turning, she ran from the room, ignoring the greeting offered by a black-haired woman now manning the front desk.  Pushing at the heavy door, she vaulted down the steps oblivious to the stares of a white haired man gripping the wrought iron railing as he climbed his way up.  Crossing the sidewalk, she leaned on the trunk of a maple tree, holding her pounding temples.  Uneven tree bark dug into her back.  Fighting to slow her breathing, she examined the cracks in the sidewalk in front of her.  “Keep to the program,” her therapist advised when she described how panic threatened to swamp her.  “Try not to give into it.” 

B)      “Marnie bolted.  Vaulting down the steps, she leaned on the trunk of a maple.  Fighting to slow her breathing, she examined the cracks in the sidewalk.  “Keep to the program,” her therapist advised when she described how panic threatened to swamp her.  ‘Try not to give into it.’" 

In both cases, I think you'll agree once I eliminated the “move to the right" detail, things move much faster. 

 

As writers, it’s up to us to decide on and control the pace. Sometimes, we may want to slow down our action, say, to increase the suspense.  In such cases, details may help.    But, if like me, you are tempted to show your movement, step by excruciating step, learn from my mistakes.  Unless you want to write in slow motion.

School's In for Summer - IWSG July

This is my July post for Alex Cavanaugh's Insecure Writers' Support Group.  For more posts on the subject of writers encouraging other writers, click here.

Last week, I started my Grub Street writing class: The Novel in Progress.  Other than work-related seminars and a grant-funded writing workshop offered by our library two years ago, I haven’t taken a class since college.  Since I became serious about my writing, it's been four plus years of self-education, baby--so in the hours before the class, a few spare butterflies floated around.  But call them moths, really.  For the most part, I stepped from one foot to the other in anticipation of three hours each week in a class focused on the craft I love.

Our first assignment required that we bring page one of our current work-in-progress to read in front of the group, so of course I edited my first page to death.  On Tuesday, I printed it out, slapped it into a folder and drove six miles to the class location.  Ask my husband and daughter.  Normally, when I start something new, I  morph into a panicked, pacing monster.  But Tuesday, I descended the hill and bumped over the railroad tracks on my way to the harborside office one town over, breathing easy.  I didn’t beat myself up that my writing isn’t good enough or arrive a half hour early only to take a walk, afraid to be the first one in.  I didn’t quiver that everyone in the room would be more accomplished then me.  I simply stolled in, greeted the teacher and grinned.

To be truthful, there are very good writers in the class.  But listening to these talented people share their brilliant writing inspired me to keep charging forward in my drive to improve my own.  Is there anything more enjoyable than hearing a sentence that spirals down deep, causing you to go, “Whoa. How did she think of that?”  I drove home batting words around in my head, embracing a renewed commitment, as well as solid criticism in regard to what I need to look out for when I write. 

So for the next seven Tuesdays, think of me, a kid in summer school and the big guys are letting me play with them. So far, it’s some of the most fun I’ve ever had.

Happy Fourth of July to all.  Hope you are all enjoying summer!

Self-propelled Mower

This is my June post for Alex Cavanaugh’s Insecure Writer’s Support Group.  To read other posts, click here.

Sometimes things grind to a halt.  When they do, you have to find a way to prime the choke and power up the engine. 

I’m in an ugly place.  My local writing group disbanded.  This winter, I gathered up the nerve to send my second novel out and the response has not been stellar.  I distracted myself by setting a goal to finish a first draft on my third novel and a few weeks ago, checked that off the list.  If anything, I learned enough during my second novel attempt to know I need to give this next project a good long rest, which means writing-wise, I’m not doing much these days.  Mostly, I’ve been shifting around at my desk, twiddling my thumbs, worried about finding a way to gear up again.  But on Monday life reminded me, things happen when they should.

Okay, so if it were a perfect world, I’d go back to school full-time to learn to be a better writer. But we know how that goes.  Two years ago, I took a fiction writing course in association with the Boston-based independent writing workshop, Grub Street.  The class was sponsored by a grant from our local library, held five minutes from my house and cost nothing.  How could I beat that? The six week session educated and motivated me and I give it all sorts of credit for my forward progress to date.  Mired in my current lull, I contemplated hauling my butt into Boston to take another Grub Street class, but procrastinated.  You know, time, money, distance…oh all right, let’s be honest here and call this issue what it really is…a honking lack of confidence.

Monday though, home after work and longing to write something…anything, I Googled Grub Street summer courses and TA DA…trumpets sounded.  The author who taught the class I took two years ago is offering something called The Novel in Progress, and she is holding it, not in Boston which would be a commuting nightmare for me, but one town over from where I live…at night.  To round out this little bit of synchronicity, I wrote a magazine article last September.  It was published in May…I get paid in the next few days…and guess what?  That subsidy covers close to the entire class.  One by one my excuses disappeared.  Well, except for that lack of confidence thing. Now that I've paid for the course though, my engine is humming.  It's time to mow that sucker right down.