Venetian Blinds

I've had this image knocking around in my head for the last week or so. It arose as the tiny memory of sitting in my grampa's room; I was probably 8 or 9 years old, staring in awe at the sight of shadows of tree branches dancing over the slats of his venetian blinds.

Venetian Blinds. I love them.

Simply put, they are (sometimes) wooden slats held together by cords and some sort of pulley-system. They cover windows, allowing varying amounts of light through them depending on which way you adjust the cords. They allow us to look out, but—depending on how we adjust them—protect us from the gaze of others.

To me, they mean so much more. 

Not just a memory of my grandfather (who I honestly don't even remember being in the room, although I'm sure he was or I would never been allowed in there), but of the beauty and mystery of memory itself.

So much of what we remember of our lives is  like those shadowy branches. Like a tree in the wind, memory seems to wave at us from the screen of our mind, carrying the images we've gleaned from the outside world. Yet unlike the actual tree, our memories are never really its branches. They are only the shadows left behind by the people and events that came before.

Although he died nearly 30 years ago, I can still see my grampa’s face so clearly. I can hear his laugh. I can picture the twinkle in his eyes when he would announce that he bought ice cream snowballs for us because he knew they were our favorites—although I knew even then they were his favorites, and that our visits offered him a rare chance to eat them without suffering a lecture on the care and feeding of diabetes from my grandmother (which she sometimes delivered anyway).

I can still see the Venetian Blinds in his bedroom, shimmering with the light and shadows they drew into the room.

I have a feeling I'm going to be playing with this for awhile. I can already feel the churning of ideas and images nearly ready to pour out onto the page. I have a feeling I'm going to be peering out through a lot of venetian blinds. 

But that's ok--I have them in every room of my house!

 
https://c2.staticflickr.com/8/7428/10129022593_0c51393af4_z.jpghind them.

On Procrastination, and moving on...

As a general rule, I don't put things off. Oh, I can be distracted, pulled away from things I plan to do by things I find along the way. But for the most part, once I know something has to be done, I  will do it.

I've been planning to write this post for at least two weeks now, but haven't been able to get myself to start.

The last few weeks have admittedly been busy. I've been working on final revisions to my project defense--that lovely "little" forty-eight page document that shows my committee (and the world) that I learned something about diaries, audience, identity, autobiographical acts and the theory that underlies all of them, as I completed the capstone project for my MA degree. At its heart, the MA degree is all about learning to do real academic research-- and my defense was meant to prove I did just that. My committee all signed on the dotted line--agreeing that I'd proven my case--and with that I was  approved for graduation. I've printed copies of the manuscript and defense, mailed a few off to those who needed to see them, and have moved on to researching publishers while I work on revisions of the novel.

I've also been putting together a final project for my independent study on the use of journals in the college writing classroom--creating a syllabus for a course I'd love to teach someday. Although I had little idea what I was doing, it was a great experience and I'll find out this afternoon how close to the mark I got with my first draft.

There's little (or maybe even nothing) left to do before I draw the curtain on my academic career. I've accomplished a great deal over the last 5 1/2 years, and I'm pretty happy with the way things have gone and proud of  all the hard work I've put into it.

But come Friday, it will be over. I went back to college at 52. I became a student in classrooms filled with people who were, in large part, younger than my children (and not only survived, but thrived). I learned to love it all--and now it's ending.

And that makes me more than a little bit sad.

I could very happily have done this forever--and being a professional student would be fun. But everything ends eventually, and I know its time to move on to the next phase of my life.
I have no idea what that will be yet, but I know something is coming (even if it's some time off and a chance to finish the revisions on my book).

From here on out though, I will no longer be a college student. Any book I chose to read will be my choice (now, I've got to admit, that sounds kinda nice...). Even this blog will change. I won't be writing about being a graduate student anymore, but about being a writer trying to publish her first book. I'll probably post bits and pieces from my book and thoughts on the publishing process.

Who knows! But today, I stopped procrastinating and wrote this post to say good bye to college.
It's time to move on with the next step...

(so...whenever you're ready, Future, you can show yourself! I'm ready to get moving, here!)

Every now and then...

You come across a story that renews your faith that the world is not quite as horrendous as we are sometimes led to believe it is. Today I found one that I'd like to share with anyone who might be listening:

Gate A-4

(I've never "reblogged" before, so if it doesn't work as I imagine it should, it will still be worth your "click." I promise!)

Naomi Shihad Nye has written a beautiful story on this page. Of finding a common language, and offering hope. It's something that we can each do everyday. And a common language is more than just words in a mother tongue--it is also finding a place beyond rhetoric or politics or opinions where we hold common ground with another human being who is standing with us in a joint moment of time.

And those people surround us every day, no matter what language they speak.

But I have to admit when I reached Nye's words "Always carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere," there were tears in my eyes.

No matter how far you travel, bring along a little piece of home, and you'll never be alone.

Maybe it struck me because I've spent the morning writing a memory of an event I never really lived. Working on a scene for my book where the main character is reliving the memory of her husband's funeral, while standing before the grave of a stranger. It is the leaf in her hands that helps to ground her in the moment, pulling her back from a memory that threatens to crush her, and propelling her forward into her life.

Is there a connection between Nye's line and my ramblings here? To me there is. And it lies in our joint moment of time.

This morning I have learned from Nye. I hold her "leaf" in my hands--and I pray it will ground me, but move me forward as well.

Thoughts about piracy (or maybe it's plagiarism)

Tuesday evening, just before I left for the WLA conference, I got a Facebook message from one of my former teachers at TCC. I hadn't heard from her for a while, so I was thrilled to get her message. She was undoubtedly one of my greatest inspirations during my first quarter back in college after a VERY long absence. She is also one of the biggest reasons I felt like I could actually write AND that I want to teach others how to write.

I really love this woman!

But her message was both flattering and confusing. She was congratulating me on getting one of the first essays that I wrote for her class published in a major college English textbook (I don't want to say the name just yet). At first, I had no idea what she was talking about. If I'd been published somewhere, wouldn't I know it? But in spite of my confusion, I was pleased. I'd worked hard on that thing--and doesn't every writer dream  about seeing their words in print? (I certainly do! It's such a validation of your work)

However, after getting home from Victoria last night and getting a first look at the essay and accompanying article in the book, I found myself first  a bit creeped out by the information included in the introduction and bio materials. Then I was irritated--how could they do this? Then, after working really hard to find contact information (beyond a website and mailing address) for the person in charge of "Rights and Permissions," I came across an online form provided as an anti-piracy measure. It was offered to anyone who found a place (either in print or online) where materials that belong to the publisher were published without citation or permission.

Then I got mad.

This company, who is clearly concerned about protecting their intellectual property, somehow took mine and published it without my permission?

Now, since I haven't actually spoken to them yet (they are not making contacting them easy--plus it's a weekend!), I am willing to give them the benefit of the doubt. It's possible that someone passing themselves off as me did this. Revised as they said I did (I haven't done a side-by-side comparison yet), gathered information about me from the internet, and submitted it in my name--but to what end? What is the point of publishing my stuff behind my back--and in my name? There was a suggestion it could have been for money (and I guess that is the most likely reason), but how would doing it in my name get them anything? How would they cash a check?

Do I have more to worry about than just plagiarism?

Anyway, I've filled out the online anti-piracy form, written a letter to the Director of Rights and Permissions, and once it's mailed in the morning I'll sit back to wait.

When (if?) they answer, I'll let you know what they have to say!

A WLA Conference Report

Today was a very interesting day at the Western Literature Association conference—both for the good and the not so good.

I took a walk in the glorious autumn sunshine late this morning, wandering into shops and up and down streets full of people. It was such fun! I can’t remember the last time I traveled alone—probably because I never have—but there is a lovely freedom in doing what you want to do, and not worrying about whether your companion can handle one more bookstore or is ready for lunch yet. My husband, who is my usual travel partner, is wonderful and we tend to like many of the same things. We’ve been so blessed to be able to travel all over the world, and he’s wandered museums and cathedrals and paths leading to waterfalls with me. But he can only handle so many bookstores… so believe me, he’ll be glad he stayed home this time around!

Anyway I went to two great sessions this afternoon—the first on teaching climate change, and the second on eco-critical readings. Both sessions were really well attended—as in, packed to the doors with people sitting on the floor (good thing the fire marshall didn’t make a surprise inspection; the Empress would have failed miserably!) The leader of the workshop was full of great information, and many of the people in the room have taught environmental lit courses and had all sorts of recommendations for both fiction and non-fiction to use in a literature class based around environmental issues. If I ever get a chance to teach, I have a long list of books to use for an environmentally-themed course (and I think that would be so cool!)

One thing, though, did leave a very bad taste in my mouth—well, maybe two things.

The first was a few very snooty comments about Americans and climate change denial. A few people objected and she backed down (this was from a person in the audience, not the speaker), and the second was an elitist academic prig (!) who kept going on about “Jane and Joe Six-pack”—as in anyone who wasn’t educated to “his level” so didn’t hold to his opinions.  Sorry, but the guy's attitude just really bugged me! Now, I have had the pleasure of hanging around academics for the last five and a half years now, and I am thankful to say that before today I have never before run into anyone like him—and I hope I never do again. Most of the professors and scholars I’ve met are lovely human beings who just happen to care passionately about things that the rest of the world is probably not particularly interested in—but they would never look down their noses at someone who hadn’t  gained an advanced degree.  Anyway, it kind of ruined the rest of the presentation for me. Luckily, both of the party-poopers skipped out on the eco-poetry readings, so that was totally enjoyable.

Ok, rant over!

(At the poetry reading, I ran into a woman who was at my reading yesterday and told me again how much she loved it. She  was full of questions about my book project, so of course that made my day—all over again!)

Tomorrow there are two more morning sessions and they promise to be great. Then I have the afternoon to wander the city before boarding the Victoria Clipper to head back home. Monday morning, I’ll be settling in for the last few weeks of my quarter—and whatever lies ahead!

Can't wait!

Greetings from Victoria!

I'm currently in Victoria, BC at the Empress Hotel-- and yes! I am actually staying here. I saw this hotel for the first time in November, 1976, and although my dear husband was horrified by the fact that we saw a bunch of elderly people asleep in the lobby (or possibly dead. It was hard to be sure!), I have wanted to stay here ever since I got a glimpse of the beautiful interiors.

And here I am!

I'm here in Victoria for the Western Literature Association conference, and just this afternoon did my first public reading from my novel " A Continuous Present." I was part of a panel who all shared readings--three of us from novels (one guy actually had his book in hand!), and one from a wonderful book of poetry about her Polish Mennonite family. It was such a great group!

I had a wonderful audience, who actually laughed when I was funny, and was so responsive to the reading. It was a fabulous experience. Several people told me how much they enjoyed the reading-- and clearly I was channeling my childhood storytelling mentor, Carol Jackson, because I was assured I had a wonderful storytelling voice. I do know Carol was on my mind all day as I was practicing the reading!

Now that the presentation is over I can relax and enjoy the rest of the conference. There are several panels on eco-criticism tomorrow, and since I am revising a paper on the topic in hopes of sending it to a journal, I can't wait to hear what they have to say.

But, as I sit here now typing this blogpost, all I can think of is my book. I can't wait to get revisions finished, find a willing publisher and do more readings like today's.

That was so much fun!

Getting ready

Ready, Set, Go...

Can you picture yourself on the playground in grade school? Restlessly standing before a line that someone has drawn in the dirt with a stick--getting ready to race across the schoolyard, and hopefully beat that kid who sits behind you in class. You know, the one who mocks your every effort? (Come on, every class had one of those, didn't they?)

Once and for all, you're going to show everyone what you can do. You can win this race!

Well, I'm getting ready...

As everyone whose read this blog more than once knows, I've written a book. And that--for me--is a huge accomplishment. This book has (nearly) taken over my every waking thought, my every conversation, and a very large portion of my time for nearly a year now. It's almost time to send it out into the world.

Is it ready to go?

I'm not sure, but I think it's almost there. And I am now in  "getting ready" mode. I'm writing synopses, query letters, and researching publishers. I'm revising and playing tennis with the words (you know,  back and forth across the net...is this word better here--or that one?)

The line is being drawn, and I'm getting ready to run. That mocking voice in my head? I think it's mine this time...

But I'm determined to win.

On Revisions

Last week, after a meeting with the Chair of my committee, I took a metaphorical axe (at his suggestion) and carved out about 7000 words from my novel. It was a bit painful at first. Watching that word count grow had been—after my trip to Iowa—the highlight of my summer. 

Watching it drop wasn’t nearly as much fun!

In one moment, it fell from 78,000+ words to about 71,000. It has since fallen to about 68,000—before climbing again to nearly 71,000 with the addition of a new chapter. Yet, cutting out all those words I slaved over has been a very good thing!

The beginning of the story feels tighter and more focused—and why not? I know what it’s about now, much more than I did when I first started writing. It’s become easier to tell what’s important for the reader to know, and what is just me riffing with an idea. 

It’s starting to feel like a real book.

Are there more revisions ahead? Of course. There will probably be hundreds more words that disappear from the page before I’m finished. But there will likely be—at least in some spots—others that either take their places, or fill in gaps I hadn’t seen in the beginning (like that new chapter I’m working on now).

When I first started writing papers in college, the call for revisions seemed like a punishment. Now I understand it a little better. It’s a re-visioning of the story you are trying to tell. As you understand it better, you’ll want to tell it differently—to be as sure as you can that your readers will follow.

Which they won’t…if they can’t see that where you’re going is someplace they want to go, too.

In search of a plan

I think I’m having a mid-life crisis. (Can I still do that after 55?)

In six weeks—more or less—my formal education will be complete. Although I am currently carrying 15 graduate credits, I haven’t been in a classroom as a student since June. That part of my education is over—and I have to admit, I miss it. The give and take of discussion. Examining new ideas with classmates. Writing papers.

(I love writing papers!)

Yes, I’m still doing a lot of writing. I’m in the midst of final revisions for my project and defense, and I’ve recently written a one page synopsis for my novel (the shortest and most difficult writing assignment I’ve had in a while). I’m getting ready to start working on a query letter to send out to publishers in hopes of drumming up some interest for my novel. I’m revising one paper for publication in an online journal and getting ready to submit another in hopes of acceptance. And, I’m doing an independent study on the use of journals in the writing classroom. I’ve got plenty to do for the next six weeks.

But, when those weeks are up, I have no idea what will come next—and for someone who likes their ducks in a row…that’s really hard. Really hard.

Not having a plan is not really the problem, though. The problem is that I have no idea what I might want the plan to be. Do I want to get a job—and if so, what kind? Do I still want to teach? Depends on what day of the week it is. Do I want to write another book

?

Shouldn’t I know what I want to be when I grow up by now?

I could take some time off and think about it, but I don’t do time off very well. 

The rational part of my brain reminds me that life can only be lived one day at a time, but the rest? The not-so-rational part?

It wants a plan…