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Not So Drafty in Here This Morning

10/29/2012

Before I begin, a confession—

Despite my determination of last Monday's blog not to turn up the thermostat before November 1st . . . I turned up the thermostat.

It was cold. I am weak.

This morning, though, a draft of a different sort—a first draft.

I'm looking for inspiration. Oh, sure, I have a project I'm working on. I have several projects I'm working on. I have a new book I'm putting together. I have deadlines. I have commitments.

You'd think that somewhere in all of that there would be an idea or two, some new blood burbling, but you'd be wrong. The buckets are roped, ready to be dropped down into the hole. But the well is dry.

A friend of mine tells me that you can sell writers anything. She says writers are always looking for the magic, that they will forever believe that someone else is holding it. I co-host a poetry series, and one of the things we always ask our readers is to provide the audience with a note or two about their writing routines. What's their process, their magic?

I know I'm interested in process. One of the things I love most in my writerly world is to sit around with my others and jabber on about the things we do to make it happen--the pen-picking, the scribbling, the word-listing, the dog-petting, the tea-making, the candle-lighting, the on-and-on-and-on-and on-ing. But the sad news of me is that I don't have a process. Whatever fooling and futzing I might engage in are undeniably from the playbook of Procrastination 101. If there's a lit candle in the room, it's only there for me to entertain myself by running my finger through the flame.

So what to do when there's nothing to do? Oh, wait a minute! I know!!

I'd tell you, but I'm afraid I'd spoil the magic.

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Baby, It's Cold Inside

10/22/2012

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At 5-something this morning, through the haze of my post-dream stupor, I heard the TV weatherdude introduce his forecast for the day: If you hated yesterday, you'll hate today.

Well good morning to you and thanks for the cheer, I thought as I rolled over and wrapped myself in the cozy blanket of just a few minutes more.

It's not that bad. Actually it's not bad at all, and I think our weatherdude's just a tad grumpy about October meaning it's off with the Birkenstocks and back on with the socks. However belatedly it arrived, our summer lasted a long and easy while, though I will admit it's hard to wave adieu.

Here in Oregon, autumn takes its time revving up, and while some trees have already turned to sticks, others are lackadaisical about revealing their colors, the oranges and reds creeping into their leaves like trick-or-treaters sneaking up to a shadowy porch.

Now the sky is about clouds. And intermittent rain. And swirl and bluster. The temperature has taken a dip, and if you're anything like I am, refusing on principle to turn the thermostat up before November 1st, the chill can be a bit shocking to the bones.

Yesterday, on my neighborhood walk, I captured a maple leaf and brought it home to slip in a card I'll send to a California friend. It's not an easy labor, choosing just one leaf to represent an entire season. I thought of Joy Sexton, daughter of the poet Anne. Early October, 1974: Joy away at school and selecting her own such leaf, slipping it in an envelope and mailing it to her mother. By the time Joy's offering arrived, Anne was dead, lost to a turn of key and a gas-filled garage.

I've often wondered if Joy regretted sending the leaf, disintegrating symbol of all that would forever be left undone. Or did she manage to hold onto a small sort of glad—for the reaching out, for the having tried?

I'm thinking about my early morning weatherdude, assuming yesterday's script has already written today's. I'm thinking, too, that every dropped leaf presents an opportunity. Just listen to the way each one shuffles when your feet plow through.

But, by golly, I'm not turning that thermostat up for another 10 days!

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Takes 2 (or so) 2 Tango

10/15/2012

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I'm on vacation, which means you are, too!
Where do you think we should go together?

See you next time around!

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So Whatcha Gonna Do, Card Me?

10/8/2012

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Hallmark, the greeting card behemoth, is worried.

Today's Associated Press article tells me that consumers are buying a lot fewer—a billion fewer— greeting cards per year than they were a decade ago.

A number like a billion doesn't mean all that much to me. I understand numbers that come in the size of fingers on hands or eggs in a carton or dollars on an electric bill. But I get the general idea: a billion is a lot of cards and sales are going away.

It's not hard to figure this out. With so many ways—speedy ways—to communicate, who's got the inclination to take the time to choose a card, dig up an address and slap on a stamp, not to mention hunt down a mail box to drop it in?

I'm not really feeling blue about Hallmark. Big companies have a way of tacking when market conditions shift. (Though I do feel for labor when an industry's in transition.) But I do get a bit downcast thinking about what we lose when we abandon the tactile for the virtual, the plodding for the quick.

Don't get me wrong: I love speed. I love immediacy. I love that I can take care of business in almost-real-time. I love that I can type a note to a friend in a jiff, hit the send button, and by the time I've reached for my mug and taken a sip of tea, my little bit of correspondence has already arrived at its destination. Instant gratification!

But I'm convinced of the value of the old-fashioned ways of correspondence. And it's not really about the mass-produced Hallmark sentiment. I'm thinking of the love note tucked in a lunch pail, the personal invitation, the letter of condolence, the unexpected missive sent off to a friend.

I actually make a lot of my cards. Or cobble my cards from a jumble of materials I keep on hand. I thrill to the trappings: the paper and the pens and the scissors. The rulers and the glues and the razor blades. Friends sometimes tell me how pleased they are with what I've sent. But I don't really know if they at all understand where it is I'm coming from. When I collect those materials to fashion a card or choose the words to compose a note, the pleasure is entirely mine. What joy it is to offer a friend a piece of me that says, I saved this moment to think of you. Only you.

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Long Day's Journey into a Brand New Month

10/1/2012

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I have to admit, I love the first of the month.

Not just today, October 1st, but the first day of any month. It has to do with starting over, that heady feeling that old is old and new is new. That just about anything is possible.

New Year's Day is, of course, the big one. Everything clicks over—month, day, year. The holiday wrappings have been balled up and taken to the curb for the trash truck* to haul off. The dastardly leftovers** no longer hog the refrigerator shelves. And the new calendar with a fresh assortment of artwork or bird photos or comic-strip dogs*** is push-pinned to the wall. O all those blank squares yet unfilled, hopeful with promise! More than once have I found myself looking forward to that date, thinking, well, how different (i.e., better, brighter, cheerier) everything will be when the new year comes.

Remember that sticky-sweet saying from Synanon, "Today is the first day of the rest of your life"? Well, let's get real here: optimism for every day is just way too much work. Life throws its chewed shoes, its burnt potatoes. Slipped discs. Cracked mirrors.

But on the other hand . . . if winter's taking longer than usual to clear, and the gray, potato-sack skies have you eating Top Ramen raw out of the package, or if the cidery briskness of early fall has you deep-breathing for renewal, there's no reason to wait until the calendar lines up in its many austere columns. The first of any month is as good as any to begin. Again. Again.

* Yes, yes, I know all about recycling, but the trash truck makes an oh so strong image.
** Oh, of course everyone knows the leftovers are the best part.
*** Sure, go ahead and add "Cowgirl Poets of the Wild West" to the list.