Sense Memory

Autumn.

Pumpkin spice everything, leaves, Halloween candy, and the cozy clothes we all packed away in the spring. Except for you Florida folks as you have neither spring nor fall. The time of year when we all pick up a few pounds because the food is so good and so plentiful at the same time the weather becomes less friendly. It's so much easier to curl up on the couch.

So I took my dog for an extra long walk the last few days. We went a few blocks farther, exploring new streets. B loves it. SO many new smells, new neighborhood dogs, new squirrels, new places bunnies might hide. I also like exploring new places and feeling less guilty about the cookies I had instead of a real breakfast. (They were freshly baked and warm and hey - am I made of stone? Clearly not.)

Earlier this year, I spent a semester working with the wonderful Jennifer Vanderbes.  She encouraged the use of particular details to tie a scene to reality for the reader. A color or some other sensory image that gives the reader enough to fill in their own imagination around it without doubting the scene's authenticity. For me, the sensory detail isn't the beautiful colors, although they are breathtaking. I've included some images so my Florida friends can follow along since this is completely foreign.

Right?  So this is breathtaking and all, but it's not my detail of choice. This weekend, my neighbors were out in their yards raking leaves, mulching, getting in one last lawn mow, and edging before winter comes. (I really need to do all that stuff too, better get on that) Anyway, one of my favorite smells is freshly cut grass.  The grass here and the soil it grows in smell completely different from anywhere else I've lived. There's the damp earth, with a little clay, and the wild onions that permeate the lawn. I am reminded of my childhood years here, of basements and their exterior access steps with iron railings, of brick houses, of Japanese maples, of flagstone patios, and of my grandparents.

It's distinct and rich and immediate.

Florida grass is completely different, although also pleasant. The grass is often the very coarse St. Augustine, springy and dense, and excellent cover for ants. It surrounds the swimming pools of my youth and brings to mind summer (nine months of the year), the smell of chlorine, the breezes on screened porches, and citrus and pine trees.

North Carolina has rich red clay, the smell of Lake Gaston which is always mixed with a bit of boat engine exhaust (not as unpleasant as it might seem, it reminds of summers water skiing, and lazy afternoons sipping wine on the pontoon boat in a slow tour of the lake), horseshoe pits, and barbecue chicken, ever so slightly overcooked.

Back to Maryland. At the first hint of chilly weather, the scent of wood burning fireplaces joins the symphony of outdoor aromas. Cinnamon brooms and pine cones decorate, apple and cranberry candles burn, my neighbors and I bake as it is now cool enough to justify the oven time, and we are just breaths from the scent of Christmas trees.

So as I wrap up the final chapters of my WIP knowing that I will just start again at the beginning to refine, solidify, rearrange, and complete with those sensory details, I think about which details bring my own world to life so that I can gift that same richness to my characters.

May your holiday season be full of rich, sensory details of your own. May you be able to transport back to this season with warm, nostalgic feelings tied to tastes sweet and savory, delicious aromas, the textures worn, the beautiful leaves and seasonal decorations, and the sounds of close friends and family unique to your experience.

Happy Holidays!

Sex and the Single Girl

I'm no Helen Gurley Brown - not even a Natalie Wood for those of you who saw the film, but I have spent many years navigating relationships, both real and fictional, as a single woman. And I've written about relationships for single female characters.  The writing part is just as hard as the  real-life dating part. And, if you can believe it, sometimes way more awkward. So I decided to do some research.

My MFA program requires a third term essay - twenty five pages on some aspect of craft that should assist my literary efforts. I chose as my title Characters Behaving Badly: Writing Uncomfortable Scenes of Sex and Violence.  Right?  Sex scenes are difficult to write well. They just sound awkward or cheesy or just awful. I refer you to the 50 Shades of Grey trilogy if you doubt me, with all of Anastasia's inner goddess moments. (I will say, however, that in spite of the  book's flaws - and there are so, so many - that they sparked so much healthy conversation about sex, what's considered normal or erotic or out of bounds, along with a generous dose of curiosity, that I can't hate on them too much. Plus, the movie trailer looks hot.)

There were fewer resources for writing good sex scenes than scenes of violence, and the ones I did find were not really academic in nature. When you boil it down, though, the advice for writing both were more or less the same. In most cases, less is more, although you want to evoke a reaction. Clearly not the same reaction, but inspiring an emotional response with words is what we writers strive for. Also, how a character (or a human, single woman) deals with crime or fear or injustice tells as much as how they would interact with lovers or friends or spouses. Are they comfortable talking about it? Are they natural reactions to stress? For writers like me who tell crime stories, talking about violence is a necessity. And characters exposed to violence are likely to seek out human connection as a method for dealing with that violence, especially if there is looming danger. Carpe diem and all. So I have to practice until it becomes a skill, just like any other.

I've been blessed with great writing mentors, especially in this program, but finding mentors for one's real life is so much harder. I've mentioned in an earlier blog post that following advice from sources like Cosmopolitan or - God help you - HBO leads nowhere but disaster. Seriously. Friends might be helpful, but in the U.S. we aren't so great about communicating or educating about sex. There's Google - good luck with that. We tend to rely upon experience, so that's a lottery we might win or lose. We also tend to have completely skewed ideas about what other people are doing or know or consider normal or kinky or off limits. Finding one's way requires some trust, some courage, some luck, and some help. Please don't rely entirely on 50 Shades! Instead, take a look at this series of youtube videos that both answer way more questions than you thought you had and also can provide some insight for characters who may have different experiences, needs, issues, or assumptions from your own. Let your characters be their own people with believable critical detail. Because that critical detail is what makes the scene, no matter what  story you are telling.

Sexplanations - Bring Your Sexy Back

On a side note - I'm not terribly prudey. I think more knowledge is better than less in most cases. I think questions are usually a good idea although please see my note about context and consent below.  If you are not comfortable with sex, don't have it. If you aren't comfortable writing about it, don't do it unless it furthers your story. Don't add it for the sake of a writing checklist. And, although I understand sex as a natural expression of emotion or intimacy or release of tension between real people, I also understand that this has to be case for both parties. Consent is real and should extend to others being okay with even the discussion of sex, especially out of context. So don't assume it's fine with your coworker or your friend or even your date to launch into detail about what you do or don't do in the bedroom or on the dining room table while having coffee or lunch or even drinks in a bar. Know your audience people! On the other hand, it's hard for people to talk about it, so if someone comes to you for information, for guidance, even if the topic is uncomfortable (this could apply to so many topics), please consider speaking frankly and with understanding if you can. People are driven to desperate acts in the absence of support and information. Sometimes listening without judgment is the best help out there. Try and remember that we are all stupid and crazy and blind and brave and afraid when in love. Don't shortchange yourselves or the characters you write from the same richness of experience.

Happy writing, and if you are out there in the dating pool - best of luck to you! If you are a writer and looking for a good program, check out University of Tampa's low residency program here.

Fear of Commitment and Storybook Endings

My phobia list, although short, is pretty well-known in my circle. Bees, bears, and commitment. Yeah. The first two are self-explanatory (and TOTALLY understandable), but the last one is misinterpreted all the time. It's not about relationships. It's not fear of marriage or boyfriends or dating. It's about choosing a road and staying on it to the end when turning around isn't really an option. It's why I don't have a tattoo. I'd never be able to choose one and commit to it for life. Plus - ouch!

Sometimes, my heart moves too fast for my head to react and I  - oh, I don't know - quit my job and move to another state. But usually, I tend to make decisions carefully. I made color boards and surveyed coworkers and friends before choosing the samples I would paint all over my house, months before I needed a decision. I wanted to make sure I saw them in all light. So, yeah - committing to a paint color for my living room took months.

But it means that when I choose, I've probably weighed it out. Thought it through. I'm sure.

Or I've just made a wild ass guess.

Which brings me to storybook endings. Because it's time for me to choose one. For my book.

I've had an inkling about how I wanted to wrap things up for awhile. By inkling, I mean I knew who I was going to make the villain (no spoilers!) but I hadn't really worked out the details. I haven't committed to an ending.

But it's time. I am working through my last chapters and I am forced to choose, to make resolutions, to tie up loose ends I threw in, sometimes by picking from my crazy idea board. (see previous related post) Committing to an ending seems like a big deal, not only because I really don't want to fuck this all up after all the work I've done, but because it's the ending.   Not 'happily ever after' exactly, but I want it to satisfy. I want it to work.

Writers catch a lot of flak about revising things to death. We tend not to be satisfied with our own work, so we tweak it over and over and over. In a way, I'm blessed with some laziness, so the neverending loop of rewrites isn't really on my radar, because that would be exhausting. Of course, that means that I occasionally find errors way after I print or publish or submit, but so it goes.

But choosing an ending is big. And I'm too lazy to write five and see how I feel about them all over the next three months, so this one might come down to a wild ass guess.  Wish me luck!

Memory lane has been digitized

I updated my iPhone's software this week and was surprised when I synched it back to my laptop to see that I was using most of the memory for stuff other than music. So over the last few days, I started looking through my photo files and deleting the duplicates, the accidents, the blurry takes, and the pics I won't need again - like the snap of the schedule for last week's faculty meetings so I could figure out where to go.

I haven't gotten all the way through the pics, but I did go through voicemails once I realized that I never delete those. They aren't kept for any good reason. It's not like I'm going to hunt back for a random missed call recording. I deleted almost all of them Almost all. I kept a few from people I may not hear much from anymore. For the sound of their voices. Which leads me to the text messages.

Another area I never deleted. Until today. I saved my messages from only two people. Most of the others were "hey, I'm outside" or "Meet you at 6" or things like that, so it's no disrespect to the authors that freed up that space. But the other two are different. One is starting to battle a serious illness and she is frightened. I send her messages regularly, mostly silly things meant only as a distraction and to let her know that I care. What else can I do?

The other is the entire chat history between me and a friend I met a little over a year ago. Every message between us since May 2013. I read them all today all the way back to the beginning and remembered how I felt sending them, receiving them. The entire human experience is there - our whole relationship as it unfolded. These are not messages coordinating rides or dinner plans. This is the digital history of the last year of my life. They are playful at times, concerned, angry, affectionate, sad, compassionate, informative, and kind. They are human - real. And they contain my history as much as they do for my friend. What we worried over late at night, what we did, where we went, what was going on in our lives that peripheral to the relationship with each other. There are favors and concessions, laughter and genuine caring. I read these today and remembered. Especially the kindnesses. Because what else is more worth remembering? What else could be more important?

When communication breaks down, when we lose touch with one another, or we let past differences or misunderstandings divide us from those we love, or when we lose dear ones to circumstances beyond our control, I am grateful for the ability to go back and remember when we believed each other to be special, extraordinary, to remember the kindnesses both given and received. My kindnesses were genuinely and freely given without expectation and those memories are healing in a world that moves too fast without regard for our plans or desires.

Some people will pass in and out of our lives and some will linger. I hope the ones who might be on the fence about sticking around can also remember the kindnesses they shared. I am a better person for knowing them. And anyone who inspires others to be their best deserves a place at the table for many years to come.

Songs, Psychology, Sorrow, and Taking it Slow

What started as a creative exercise last fall - a challenge to see if I could write cohesive lyrics that might fit a song - turned into a distraction, even an obsession, that occupied my evening hours in fits and starts since. I found a way to channel what can only be described as an overflow of feelings into something that felt intellectual, creative, and less intense than my life. When I showed these scribblings to friends, their responses were not what I expected. They blushed like they'd been caught with my diary. Even though I explained that these were inspired by what I was feeling - overfeeling, really - I just took that as a concept and I tried to build it into something separate from my personal life, something that could stand on its own. Still, in a year of loss, most of these songs were about longing, dashed hopes, missed opportunities, and the uncertainties of a murky future. Here's a snippet of one I called My Friends:

Disappointment I have met before

I’ve been let down, I’ve watched the door

Honey, you sure can be sweet,

But I’m going to need so much more

Yeah, kind of a downer, right? I probably wrote 15 - 20 of these until I started to feel like Lili Taylor's character in Say Anything with her 63 songs about Joe, so I stopped.  Just stopped altogether. I had  and have plenty of other things I should be focusing on anyway. I have a book to finish, reading for school which seems nearly endless, and there are always projects around the house. Throw in a new puppy and the song notebook is all but forgotten.

And then...

Life doesn't care whether you are ready or if you can handle it - you get what you get. I had a couple of swift reminders that I should not take any of this for granted because it can end in a second. So, while I was at my residency, all juiced up on creativity, writing like a fiend all outside of my comfort zone, I wrote another one called Muscle Memory and passed it along to a couple of musically oriented fellow students. It came to me out of the blue, the title from a poem in our required readings. After all the time that passed since my last lyrics and all my efforts to focus my attention elsewhere, this song reads back just as intensely personal as any I had written before.

I read back through the glut of songs in various stages of completion when I returned home. Most of them are really awful. True, heartfelt, but terrible. But not all.  I sent another one over to my friends and we'll see if anything comes of it. I have three more started, though I don't know if they will go anywhere. So why do I continue?  Maybe it is like my diary, only not really mine, because I really don't write them about me in a literal sense. I start with a feeling or a concept and build it into something that is no longer mine. Maybe it's my way of working through this overflow. Because I feel overwhelmed most days. And there's no sign that the universe is going to slow its roll anytime soon. I find that I have to think about my days one at a time. Like they tell people in AA. One day at a time. Don't hang too many hopes on tomorrow, just do what you can today. I am a battered-by-life optimist who is struggling to temper my expectations of others and myself.

I fight to stay positive for my friends who face unimaginable sorrow, frightening disease, and all manner of daily stresses. My flood of emotion pales in comparison to their bravery and hurt. Right now they need me to be their friend. And I try to move forward, knowing it's what my friends want for me. I try. They are watching me closely though, because they sense that this is not what I want. It feels like lying. And so, one day at a time. I'm balancing between what I feel I should do and what I know I should do. And my heart, it has muscle memory - still. For now, Lili Taylor is my sister. For now. Tomorrow will take care of itself.

Life is a beach...if you are lucky

I had a birthday this weekend. Those numbers are creeping up there and I'm surprised at how little it seems to relate to me. I traveled over the holiday with a friend I've known since we were twelve years old. We've seen each other at our most awkward, at our most beautiful, through the loss of loved ones, through triumph and failure, and all sorts of change. What hasn't changed is that we continue to build a shared story, one that is a near unending source of material for ribbing each other. I tease her about cats, shopping, and her ability to get injured in the most benign of places. I swear she could have an accident in a pillow store. She teases me about the stupid machine in casinos that pushes quarters toward a ledge in gravity defying dance of frustration, my irrational fear of bears, and my weakness for balding men. (I have a theory about extra brain cells crowding out hair follicles and I can't resist a brainy man, especially if he has a sense of humor and appreciates mine.)

Our birthdays are three weeks apart, hers first, then mine, so I get to go on about being younger every May and I do. I'll probably continue until we are ancient because now it's expected, it's tradition. I have no doubt that we will still be friends. Some years, we wait to celebrate our birthdays until we are together, as we did this year. Usually, I go for the smartass card or any that I find about cats. My friend has a wide array of things to tease me about, but this year, she chose sincerity. I've had a difficult year and I'm afraid it shows, like it does when I'm happy or angry or amused. I've never been good at poker.

I am grateful for my friends - all of them. Sometimes you just know instantly that you click and sometimes it creeps up, but I've been fortunate to know some extraordinary people and I am the better for it. I used to be much more cavalier about the people flowing in and out of my life. I was proud of my independence. I worked hard not to get too attached. I actually believed the crap in Cosmopolitan. God help the girls who hope to live life like Sex in the City. The truth is that human connection is all that we have. Even when it doesn't work out like we hope.

I spent the weekend chatting up fellow travelers of all backgrounds, temperaments, economic strata, and cultures and it was invigorating. It was sunny, the water was that exquisite range of turquoise to mallard blues, there were rummy frozen drinks, and food every two hours. I worked on my tan. I wore a bikini and was photographed in it without shame. I read three novels. Still, I caught myself thinking about how much a recent friend would enjoy it, how much fun his daughter would have, how exciting it would be to see a place so different from home, and how much I would have enjoyed being part of that. But I can't fall into the what-if game. And I can't go back, it seems, to my cavalier youth where there was comfort in the superficial. I've been reminded too often lately that every moment must be appreciated, savored, shared. I no longer have the luxury of ignorance or denial.

So, I will engage. I will meet and greet. Without looking for anything, I will chat up strangers again, make connections, make new friends, enrich an already bounteous circle and maybe someday, one of them will choose to follow me to white sands and aqua seas. And maybe I'll be okay with that.

Little Ms Fix-it

I was a project manager even before I was one in any recognized sense. I have always thrived when tackling a large challenge, breaking it down into manageable pieces, setting a sequence, looking for opportunities along the way - you must know people like me. We are the ones who plan vacations, help with weddings, are good in a crisis, whatever.  Our houses are a mess if that's any consolation.

Perhaps you are thinking that this skill must come in handy as a writer - not so much. I can't seem to manage my own things as well, except for my home improvement projects. My novel still has generous amounts of panic, despair, and obscene amounts of caffeine fueling it on its way to haphazard completion.

Anyway, the thoughts that keep me up at night are almost always crazy plans for how I could fix problems. Most of those problems are imagined, by the way - but they might happen and so, I ponder while watching the ceiling fan do laps. These internal conversations start in one of the following ways:

What if I... (called, introduced, emailed, bought, and so on)
Would it be weird if I.... (it only gets stranger)
I guess I could...(for the way-out-there stuff)

In case you are wondering what kind of stuff floats around inside my cranium, here is a doozy from last year. When someone dear to me was concerned about losing his house, I was thinking "not while I have an extra kidney and there is a black market" so you see, it's not always rational.

It's no coincidence that my better ideas often come to me just as I am trying to sleep. My mind really works when I am forced to decide if I should turn on the light (or not) and get the notebook from the nightstand. That notebook has all sorts of random thoughts, some poetry, some story ideas, and some stern admonitions to myself. Their readability often depends on whether I skipped the light. The message from last night:

I have to squelch my problem solving instincts. I can't fix this.

Ahh, the larger problems in life! I have had to continually remind myself that I have to let a few things go - even if they didn't work out like I wanted, even if I was sure that I was right, or if I had a workable plan (probably conceived late a night while watching the ceiling fan spin lazily), and even if I believe for the moment that if I could just (fill in the blank), that my life would be perfect, I would be happy, and maybe Diane Lane would play me in the movie of my life.

I have found that if I can divert my attention to other things (please, let that be my novel!!! Or cleaning my house - that would work too) that life has a way of evening out. Today's crisis is tomorrow's conversation point. Or plot point. Or both. But I can't armchair manage the planet, so I do the best I can.

Until it's time to let go.