Solace

Last weekend my dog died. It was a traumatic experience and I don't really feel like talking about it anymore right now, but an interesting thing happened to me because of it. I found myself comforted, surprisingly, by something I've never really had much interest in: Baseball.

Immediately after leaving my euthanized, gunshot dog at the emergency vet clinic, I had to rush the boys to opening day of Little League. The weather, which had been warm and sunny, turned cold, cloudy, and windy. Eventually it started blowing rain around too. But all of us parents huddled around to watch our kids play.

Tom is doing little league for the first time this year, playing t-ball, and he's loving it. It's a great way to learn the game. And it is a friggin' riot to watch. I found myself comforted by the distraction of the game, the sudden shift in focus, the pure entertainment value of watching a bunch of 5 and 6 year olds learn the rules of the game.

Then this afternoon, as I was starting to feel mopey while hanging out at home without my dog, the boys invited me to some batting practice. We used big bouncy balls and a foam bat, a great way to get used to hitting without having to focus on that tiny little ball. As I watched my 6 year old show my 4 year old how to hold the bat, I had to smile. It was a beautiful thing.

persevere

so i'm writing this pain in the ass scene that has to do with my villain, and i've been working on the damned thing for days now and getting nowhere. tonight i finally figure out what the action of the scene needs to be, which is great, progress. i get to where the action actually happens. again, progress.

then the coffee wears off and so does the goddamned inspiration, such as it is. i'm tired. brian's already in bed and i know i'm not going anywhere with this tonight; i've already missed my self-set deadline, what the fuck difference does another night make at this point?

i alt-tab to another window, i don't even know what i'm looking at anymore. then i remember my desktop wallpaper, which is a silly cartoon image of two characters from a movie-that-shall-remain-nameless with very determined looks on their faces. and i think, it's 11:30. i can do another half an hour. even if it doesn't go anywhere, i can do another half an hour.

so i alt-tab back to the file. and i keep writing. and i make yet another discovery about my villain that fits quite nicely into the assignment we had about our villains a month or two ago, and another piece of the puzzle slides into place.

this is why i stay up an extra half an hour. no, the writing's not perfect by any means; i'll tighten it up later when i'm fresh. but there's a beginning and an ending and by God it's the first three chapters. hallelujia.

~andi

p.s. i got new running shoes today and they KICK ASS.

Desert Rain

view from my breezeway, in the rain

creosote in bloom

cactus in bloom

agave in bloom

Surprises can be so very, very nice. When I went to bed last night, I knew that there was supposed to be a slight chance of rain on Friday. When I woke up, though, it was raining already! It was the typical sort of rain we get here, other than monsoon thunderstorms -- a light, intermittent rain that somehow manages to soak the hard, dusty earth and release the pungent scent of creosote.

Most of my main characters over the last few years love rain. It's not something I do on purpose, particularly -- it's more that I can't imagine a protagonist who doesn't have that love. This is probably a terrible failure of imagination for a writer. But I don't give a fuck.

rain -- Rain -- RAIN!

Treasure Hunt

I'm not at a point where I can do this, but since the two of you are doing so much fun work bouncing ideas around, I thought maybe you would find this exercise interesting. It's from, of course, Writing Begins with the Breath (Hering).

Design a treasure hunt for your characters. Start with an object that has significant meaning to the character. Allow the character to focus on that object, describing it, holding it, imagining where it came from or how it came to be in his or her possession. Then, follow the object where it leads. Let the object, say, a socket wrench, spring you forward to a Rand McNally map of Nebraska. Let the map bounce you into a laundry room off a two-lane road in the Rockies. Keep going. Let object spring to object. Be specific in your descriptions. Enjoy the process. Let curiosity be your guide.

Both of your stories have travel as a starting point (or at least a very important theme) - so this could be a neat way to explore possibilities.

********

Based on both of your responses to my last post, I'm planning to send something out within a month. There's a small agency in NYC that will look at stuff as long as it's "in a mature stage of development" as long as you send in three complete chapters. I have my doubts about their effectiveness given their authors and publications, but it's worth a look. At the same time, there's an arts and music festival coming up over mother's day weekend in Black Mountain (www.theleaf.com) that is a very convenient deadline, plus there's no way I'm going to do a damned thing while I'm there except maybe catch up on my journal. So I'm pushing to get three chapters to readers at the earliest possible opportunity. Thanks to wise comments by my friends, my husband, and the plot monkeys, these three chapters are significantly different than what I started with. Which is fine; it's better. A lot better - or at least, it feels that way to me.

Wonder of wonders, I'm actually keeping up with the schedule. And I love it - the act of writing is so much more joyful than it was before I just accepted that there were some things that didn't belong in the story and ought to just go. Letting go has been a wonderful - if at times very painful - process.

So I hope to catch up with you both this weekend, hopefully? Until then, happy writing, happy imagining, happy running, happy baseball, happy everything, whatever you choose to do.

~Andi

Research Mania

I'm in a position kind of like Lori. I've had some interesting thoughts about where to take Valerie in her new life in Florida, but the words aren't getting set down yet because I went research-crazy (fuck the Internet! love the Internet!).

I was thinking about Valerie living in her uncle J's old trailer, and while I had fun describing it initially, I can't see her staying there permanently. I think it will be a struggle for her to let it go, in all likelihood, but she'll go eventually. Where? That's when the Internet possessed me. I decided that her little tiny town would have a row of shotgun cottages, and she will buy and perhaps renovate one of them. This led me on a delicious wild goose chase through history and floorplans and all sorts of dreamy ideas.

The upshot is that I didn't actually write anything down. None of these events would happen naturally in chapter two. But at the least, I feel like I have more pieces of the puzzle now, and that's a step in the right direction.

Life is a journey, not a destination

And goals give you something to look forward to. Is it really all about acheiving these goals at all? OK, so maybe that gives you a hint of how I did this week. It took me until Wednesday to get around to pulling out the stuff I wanted to look at, then I got sucked into it for the next couple of days. So, by Friday I had written one paragraph and had some idea of what I want to do, but really haven't acheived much that can be shown on paper.

Still, I feel good about it. There is definitely a story there, and I am looking forward to telling it, and sharing it with you. Now it's just a matter of putting it all together, one scene at a time. I started a list of scenes that I want to write, and started writing one, but I get caught up in questions like: where exactly should it begin, and where should it end? What should I name the characters?

As I said before, I want to write this story based on actual events, but at the same time call it a work of fiction. One reason for this is that everyone has their own unique perspective, and time and distance can warp memories into convenient fictions of their own accord. Of course I don't remember actual scenes exactly as they happened, and I want the freedom to make things fit together in a coherant way, as they don't always do in real life.

So I struggle with myself a little bit. I'll be writing a scene and a little voice in my head says, "that's not how it happened." And I have to stop and tell that voice to shut up, I'm the one writing this thing. One thing that is tough for me is names. I've decided to rename everyone, even though if any of the actual people involved read they thing, they will know immediately who they are and who most of the other people are. And it's sometimes hard for me to come up with names.

I also feel that I need to simplify things a bit for the story's sake, and that means eliminating some people / situations that were really important parts of my life at the time, but not really important parts of this particular story that I'm trying to tell. And it's really hard for me to cut these people out of my story, because they are not just made-up characters.

So those are some of the issues that I am struggling with. I look forward to talking to you about these issues and others soon.

Cheers

Lori

friday update

Here we are, another week gone and dear Christ, how did it go so fast? Mine's been a total blur and next week's going to be crazier.

I think, oh, hey, I've got a week to write this scene, not a problem, and then all of a sudden it's Wednesday and since I went to bed early on Tuesday there's really no choice but to stay up and write. And that's just fine with me. Kind of enjoying this deadline thing, actually; it's keeping the momentum going nicely. Too bad I can't manage to give much of a shit about them at work.

I did manage to finish the third scene, only to realize that the last bit of it needs a whole section to itself, which I started last night and am planning to finish in the next few hours.

How'd you do?

~Andi

bang head here

You know what?

I am either really screwed or at the cutting edge. I'm thinking screwed.

God, it would be so fucking easy to just give up.

Friday

I'd like to start working on my Valerie novel again (no title, but you two both have copies). I'll try to come up with five pages, ideally a chapter, by Friday afternoon.

Goal for Friday?

OK, so I have a new (old) idea that I want to explore more and see what it can turn into. I need to look back through some old pictures and journals. This is part of what I need to do for Friday. I also would like to come up with a brief synopsis of the story, a sort of outline, and I think I can commit to writing 5 pages of a start by then too. Today was a total loss - in terms of this project - because I was so busy with errands, mom stuff, etc.

Andi's goal, w/e 4/16

I just went through the latest synopsis and broke it down by scenes, and by projected (ok, sort of projected) dates of completion. If I can meet the deadlines (approximately), I should be able to finish the rewrite by Thanksgiving. And here I was thinking I'd be done by the Fourth of July. Fat fucking chance.

So I finish the rewrite, I revise, I submit to readers like yourselves and some other willing and not-so-willing victims, I continue to revise, and then by Easter of next year I start querying agents.

That's fair, right? I think a year is reasonable and realistic, especially if the rewrite is the primary goal to get done before the end of November. Which will take a lot of pressure off over Christmas. Please feel free to tell me I'm out of my mind if you think so, even though I quite possibly may tell you I think you're full of shit. *wink, grin*

As for this week, I'll be writing the third scene. Goal is to be done with it by Friday.

Thank you for both understanding how important this is to me. I really super appreciate it. I'm going to haul my ass to bed now and thank God that I didn't drink coffee tonight, because it's wrecking the hell out of my nerves. (Don't I sound like my mother? Terrifying.)

~Andi

Desert Spring

Spring has come to the desert -- these pictures are from around my house.

on the way home today

cherry tree weeps pink
by sleek dark chocolate filly
on new emerald grass

OPENING NIGHT!

It's Opening Night, baby! The 2010 baseball season is here and I'm quivering in anticipation. There's nothing like the early days of spring; the season stretches out, six delicious months, and at this point in time, anything is possible. The White Sox could win the pennant! They could be World Series champs! I could end up partying like it's 2005!

Even better, tomorrow is Opening Day. Of course they arranged that just for me. How could you think otherwise? So tomorrow I plan on having a very excellent martini while I bask in the glow of my team's first game.

Fuck. I'm so excited, I can't even come up with a haiku for this shit. It's like floating in an aromatic glow of fresh-cut grass, a whiff of cold beer, and the sound of the ball smacking into a leather glove or cracking off a swift bat.

WOO HOO!

At the funeral, 15

Blood loses its power when the heart that pumped it is no longer beating. There is a scar on my – no, there was a scar, high up on my thigh where no one would notice. Horry used a very sharp knife, so sharp I barely felt it pierce the skin. Then he dug deeper, to nick the artery and get a good flow going – and that, I felt. Hearing my own blood dripping into the bowl was almost as uncomfortable as the cut itself.

I would rather spend the rest of my life spilling blood for that damnable spell than be caught up in the atrocity that this man has committed against me, against God. I trusted him, oh God, I believed him, how could I have believed him? It could have been the drugs, it could have been desperation, it could have been a particular scripture passage that he read at a vulnerable moment – I was so weak, in such misery, that I would have done anything to give my girl another chance at communion with God. I thought then that it might save her. I was wrong.

Now she goes one way and I go another – her friends, her chosen family around her, and I pray, yes, I still pray to God despite the betrayal of His priest, I pray that they can keep her safe. If I have to endure this torment then please, God, don't let me see her die. Please let me go to my rest before I witness that. Please.
And if You deliver your justice to this priest for the trap he has laid for my soul, a soul that belongs to You and always has, I vow I will not take pleasure in it. She has seduced him; she has caught him up in her false promises, just like she caught John. But Father Blackwell has no family, no human ties to the world, no one to pull him out of her grasp. I pity him, I do. But I am ashamed to admit that in this moment, trapped between this world and the next, gripped still by the agony I felt at the moment of death, I pity myself more. How I live in that endless second of the last beat of my heart, the last strangled exhalation, when my body is even now being lowered into the ground, is something I cannot understand. Some hellish magic of the fiend, no doubt.

God, please let her find me. Please, show her how to let me go.

At the funeral, 14

more than twenty years it could have been yesterday when i saw you last i have changed underground you would hardly know me it was my fault my fault you should have known about john before you married him i swear i thought it was over he was done he did too he would not have dragged you into it nor paxton never her it’s time i can’t bring myself to do it catherine she’s innocent of our world she knows nothing no matter how experienced jaded she thinks she is experienced in the ways of magic we know better better and worse i’m so sorry so sorry so wish you were still here you could have told her yourself sent her to me you drag me into the light who will guard while i am gone you know what happened last time i must have her blood now that you are gone there’s no one else it must be hers to mend the lock and now now i must speak to her not the right time not any right time was months ago when you knew you were dying catherine why didn’t you tell her say something do you expect her to believe it coming from a madman she won’t remember me you would hardly know me i am so changed my reflection i reach out to touch the man is broken and starved of life love it was my fault my fault catherine why have you gone why didn’t you why is that you shining from my mind’s shadow are you here can i go back to the darkness should i should i can’t breathe are you speaking are you screaming can you hear me catherine you should have passed on you should be beyond there is your daughter she would listen if you spoke there is a ghost woman who will hear you what’s wrong with catherine please stop it hurts please ah no does he have you catherine does he know his mistress has she seduced tricked offered him the world like the devil she would make the devil weep don’t leave me here catherine please don’t go please don’t please


Weeping solves nothing. The girl is leaving and there’s no better time than now. She’ll feel safe with her friends and that big son of a bitch she was with is gone. If she gets in that car and drives away I’m fucked. The only thing I’m good for anyway is making sure no one else gets to the end of the tunnel because if they do, I can’t do a goddamned thing to keep them out of her hands. The bitch. The whore. The foul stinking hell-cunt. If I ever meet John Hollister in another life, he’ll die by inches for this living nightmare, bosom friend or not.

One step after another after another. Not that hard after all, and each step brings me closer to some small measure of relief. I can’t be the only one to keep her locked up. I’m not enough. Catherine's daughter has to help.

A large hand grabs my arm to stop me and I shake it off, no more hesitation, absit reverentia vero, by God, but the hand clamps down again and squeezes. I turn and raise my eyes to another big son of a bitch and wish not for the first time that my father had been as tall as John Hollister.

“Do I know you?” he says, and I recognize the voice of Authority. He's a cop.

“I doubt it,” I say, not meeting his eyes.

“Did you know Mrs. Hollister?”

“Yes,” I say, then “No. Not really.”

“Then what are you doing here, if I can ask?”

“You can't,” I say. The girl is leaving the tent now, surrounded by her friends and going to the long silver limousine that waits to take her wherever she's going from here. I wish to hell I knew where that was.

“Hey, look. I just need to ask you a couple of questions. You're not in trouble.”

“I have to go,” I say, and start away towards the group. The girl disappears into the car, followed by two more, but the older ones head towards the parking lot. If I run I can catch them, but I doubt they'll stop the car to talk to a dirty bum, no matter how calm I am, and I'm not feeling calm at the moment. I'm feeling that if I could, I'd knock this big fuck's block off.

Still, I try. I break into a lope that triggers piercing pain in my knees but I don't stop. The man is behind me, keeping up, but not stopping me. When I was young, I ran cross-country, but that body has disappeared into the tunnels and there's only this poor specimen left. I am fighting for breath in a matter of seconds. I am not surprised that I fall on my face, but I am surprised that the cop helps me up.

“Hey,” he says in a tone that doesn't sound like it comes from a cop's mouth, “No need for that. Here,” he says, and hands me a soft old-fashioned handkerchief. I clean the snot and tears off my face, and he says, “Keep it.”

“Thank you,” I say, watching the limousine drive slowly towards the cemetery gates.

“How do you know Paxton?” the cop says, suspicion creeping in the back door of his voice.

“I don't,” I say, with perfect honesty.

“Then what -”

“Thanks for the handkerchief,” I say, and walk away, to the footpath that leads to the pedestrian gate on Booth Avenue. There's a subway stop there, and just now I am longing to sit on a train, close my eyes, and, more than anything, pretend that I don't exist.

He doesn't follow. I don't care why.

At the funeral, 13

Jillian’s on her way up to the tent already. Sara is lagging behind with me, and Shen is – oh, there he is, with that attractive young lady with the notebook. I’m not in a hurry. We’ll get to Paxton eventually and I’d rather wait for all the other well-wishers to go so we can get a real moment with her. We may not see her again until Beltane in May. The business of death, tidying up the loose ends of a live well-lived; it can be all-consuming.

Jillian’s talking with her now. Their heads are together and their hands are on each other’s shoulders. I can see Paxton’s shoulders shaking, but she could be crying or laughing. When Jillian’s around, there’s no telling. As I get closer, I see that it’s a bit of both. Sara squeezes my arm and glances over to the side of the tent. Apparently she wants me to wait. I think we’ll be walking Paxton out to her car. In another moment, Shen catches up to us.

I see now why we’re waiting. Paxton is standing by the casket, her stillness unnerving, and so pale that she could be a cemetery statue herself. It doesn’t look like she’s planning to leave anytime soon. Jillian glances at the man standing a few feet away from Paxton but says nothing, for once. I share a look with Sara, who blinks in affirmation. That’s the one she met, then. The angel.

I am more than a little curious. Anecdotal evidence tells of angels appearing to one human being at a time, and otherwise invisible, unless, of course, said angels are about to smite a large number of sinners, in which case they like to make a dramatic entrance. To have an angel here among us looking, acting like a human – it’s hardly what I would have expected. For once, I wish I could see auras like Jillian. On a purely energetic level, I'm sure he's fascinating. And I can’t help but wonder how Paxton met him. What he’s doing here, on the other hand, is fairly obvious.

Well, it wouldn't be the first time a man gave up a holy calling for a woman. I should know.

Shen, Sara and I come closer to the casket. Paxton raises her eyes to us and gives us a wry half-smile – she's somber, but surviving.

"Thank you," she says, embracing each of us in turn. "Thank you for being here."

"We would have kept you company during the church service --"

"Shen, hush," Sara says.

"But I was late," he finishes, grinning at Sara.

Paxton's eyebrows shoot up and her smile grows. "You didn't go to church! Did you really?"

"For you, baby, I'd do about anything," Shen says. Paxton hugs him again, this time with fierce affection. The man behind her looks on with respectful amusement. I cough quietly and he looks to me, his face suddenly guarded. He could be hiding thousands of years of secrets behind those clear blue eyes and no one would know it – no one but me, that is.

I could try it – I've Found things on the spur of the moment more times than I can remember right now – but I doubt Paxton would appreciate it, it's almost impossible to Find a thing without knowing what I'm looking for, and it would be rude, besides. I'd prefer to start off an acquaintance with a celestial being on a good note.

Paxton sees who I'm looking at and she flushes pink. "I'm sorry," she says. "I should introduce you. Robert, this is -"

"Gabriel," the man says, and nods to me, but doesn't extend his hand.

She introduces the rest of us, and Shen is more or less well-behaved. I wonder if he notices anything unusual about Paxton's companion; I'll have to ask him later. Jillian can't take her eyes off the man, and Sara digs her elbow into Jillian's side to break the trance.

Paxton's attention has returned to the casket. During our brief exchange, the funeral director has discreetly removed the casket spray. Paxton touches the gleaming white of the coffin lid and for a moment it looks like she wants to lean down and kiss it. She doesn't, but she doesn't move, either. Sara looks at me, her meaning clear. Do something, Robert.

"Paxton," I say, and put my arm around her. "It's time to go, darling." Jillian has started to sniffle but is making an admirable effort to contain herself.

"I just want a few more minutes," she says, and I can hear the voice of a young girl in her words, maybe ten or eleven.

"No whining," Shen says sternly, and gives her a rude little shake. "C'mon, Pax. Let's get out of here." She jerks her shoulder away, but he doesn't let her go. Gabriel's posture changes slightly but it's enough to make me realize just how big he is. Shen notices, too, and he has the nerve to actually glare at Gabriel. There's a lot of history in that look, and I think Gabriel knows it, even if he doesn't know exactly what the history is.

"Sister," Shen says, more gently now. "Your mother is not attached to this place, to this body. She's attached to you. Wherever you go, she'll be there. There's no point hanging out here. And I'm hungry, so let's go get some Indian food and get drunk already."

Paxton slaps him, laughing. "Asshole," she says. Sara has kept her distance up to now, but she comes up to join us, as does Jillian. We stand together around Paxton, sharing the choice she has to make now. She knows it's time. The question is, how stubborn is she going to be about it?

Finally she nods, sniffs, and takes her hand off the casket. She wriggles out of our tight group with impressive diplomacy and goes to Gabriel. She slips off the coat she's wearing and hands it to him, but he just wraps it around her again, saying something that makes her laugh. She murmers something to him in response, and while I can't hear what she's saying, his reaction is very interesting. Except for a subtle line between his brows, his expression doesn't change, but his eyes do – while I watch, their color changes. They fade from limpid ocean blue to the turquoise of a Caribbean lagoon, and I glance over at Sara to see if she's noticed. When I look back at the angel, he is gazing at Paxton with eyes the color of opals, white and shimmering. There is a dangerous power behind them, and I can tell it's pulling at the reins of Gabriel's will. I don't think I'd want to be around if that power ever broke free.

"Jesus," Shen whispers, and while he doesn't look over, the line between Gabriel's eyes deepens. "Sorry," Shen says immediately. "No offense intended, man."

Still focused on Paxton, Gabriel shakes his head in response to a question she asks, then looks at us, his eyes still glowing with that disconcerting iridescence.

"It was good to meet you," he says to us. "Take care of her." It's not a request; it's an order, and we all know it. He turns and ducks under the tent, disappearing to whatever destination is calling him away. We may be the only people who notice him leave.

"Hey," Shen says, once Gabriel is gone. "Will we all fit in that limo, do you think?"

Saturday Night at Smitty's, part 12

I’d still have a job if it weren’t for those goddamn environmentalists. Fucking tree-hugging hippie shits. Aint I part of the environment? What about me and my family? I worked at that mill for thirty some-odd years, ever since I graduated from high school, and I expected to retire with a big fat pension. But then they go and claim bankruptcy and leave us poor working class Joes to fend for ourselves.


I was planning my retirement, and now I have to go looking for another job. I know those environmentalist were behind it, with all their protesting against the new logging roads. Company couldn’t survive if it weren’t allowed to cut down more trees. There’s plenty of fucking trees out there. Plus with those new roads we could enjoy the great outdoors even better on our snowmobiles and ATVs.

I swear there’s more of them people around here these days, driving their little rice-burners, opening up foofy little coffee shops. Complaining about our way of living. Aint this America? If they don’t like it they should go move to some other country.

So yeah, me and my buddies had our eyes on those folks and were just lookin’ for any excuse to take out our frustrations on their socialist-environmentalist asses. Looked like a bunch of pussies over in that booth, hell they were probably faggots too. I was starin’ at ‘em, givin’ em the old get-the-fuck-out-of-town eye, and I notice that two of them are actually women. It took me that long to notice. Musta been a couple a butch dykes, short hair and leather jackets. They looked pretty tough though.

I knew they could see me but they were tryin’ to ignore us, till I walked by em and knocked their drinks across the table. Skinny guy stands up and says, “you got a problem buddy?” and I says, “yeah, you.” It was loud in there but I thought I heard other people yellin,’ thought they were cheering me on, so I push the little faggot right across the table. One of the dykes comes up behind me and jumps on my back, trying to choke me, and the guy on the table is kicking at me, so I start punching him. My buddies jumped in and the whole place just turned into a cluster fuck of fists and feet and elbows, blood and beer.

finally gave in to the great snot monster

I have been dealing with an incredible illness for nearly two weeks now - its going around both the elementary and the preschool and both the kids had it. Some of their classmates missed a lot of school, and one even came down with pneumonia. My kids got it but didn't even miss a day of school. I, however, was wishing that stay-at-home moms could take sick days, but, unfortunately for me, that is just not the case. So I skipped writing yesterday. Plus, I'm just getting bored with this assignment. Here's a little haiku for y'all.

Head filled with green snot
bass drum pounding in my ears
virus takes over