Category — Writing

I so love the before and after of things.

Before the writing conference: Terrified of scary authors and other writers.

After: Friends with other fiction writers.

Friends with other fiction writers!

When I drove away from the dry forests to come back to the ocean, my heart was so full. I was glowing, vibrating with happiness. I loved reading the work of the other participants  everyday, I loved talking about it and learning from what people said. I loved hearing author’s read their work and talk about their processes.

The staff at the Community of Writers at Squaw Valley are some of the kindest people I’ve met, and I felt like I learned just as much about being a kind and generous person as I did about writing. I would like to emulate their way of including everyone in the room.

Plus, the time alone wasn’t so bad either. I’m always glad to get to the point where I miss my kids, and I have to come racing back to them a day earlier than I planned.

Of course I always miss Chinua. It goes without saying, but I’ll say it anyways: he really is a Superstar Husband.

Sara J. Henry has an excellent post on the Squaw Valley Writer’s Conference for anyone intending to go. You can find it here.

I have a few minutes to write a post before I hop off to the next thing. So here I am, with screen before me. This feels strange, it has been a remarkably technology-free time.

I went on a hike today, with the resident naturalist and a bunch of other people. I think we all felt that we needed to get out of our heads. We’ve been reading a lot, marking words with pens, analyzing, discussing. It’s been beautiful.

And every day the constant hills and valleys of self-congratulation and self-degradation. I’m pouring Cheez Whiz all over my brain with this stuff, who can think when they’re thinking about themself?  I will publish, I will never publish. She’s much better than me and I’m totally okay with that and I’m confident in my voice and who am I kidding I have no voice at all, just a dull whine in the desert, the whine of trucks in the distance. Nothing worth listening to. Maybe some air brakes thrown in.

So when that starts up I’m thinking about this:

The woman who cleans the condos on my floor is a small Mexican woman who reaches my armpit and is seven months pregnant. With her seventh child. I know because I asked. She smiles sweetly when we say hello to each other every day and she pushes this gigantic cart around and cleans all day, and so I will get out of my head and tell my insecurities to shut up already.

The first talk this week was about empathy and humility, two of the greatest tools in the writer’s toolbox.

I’m learning about a lot more here than just writing.

*Cherries for you to drool over.

*We all have a song on our heads that lists off the various countries in Western Europe. It’s from a book and CD combination called Geography Songs. Seriously excellent homeschool material, since we can’t get it off our brains. We walk around singing “Luxemborg, Liechtenstein, Switzerland…” and so forth.

*Kid A has just successfully destroyed a small sleeping tent that I paid quite a few pennies for. It’s Solo’s, you see. Both of the cribs that I bought for him in India were apparently made of matchsticks, because they fell apart, and then while we were traveling, he was just sleeping on beds, until it drove me mad because of the number of times I had to put him back in bed before he would fall asleep. My friend had one of these for her daughter, and it turned out to be perfect for Solo, until tonight, when Kid A made a Solo-sized hole in the mesh.

Why do boys do stuff like that? Where is the reasoning? Is there any moment when they think: This is needlessly destructive and I’m probably going to be in big trouble?

ARGH.

ARGH.

Okay, I’m over it. We’ll figure it out.

By the way, I highly recommend these tents in place of the back breaking piece of luggage we carried around with us, the dreaded Pack N Play. They keep bugs out too. Just make sure that your seven-year-olds know that ripping holes in them is highly inappropriate. Because you know, IT ISN’T OBVIOUS.

ARGH.

No, no. Moving on.

* I think I tweeted this but didn’t write it here.

I was accepted to the Squaw Valley Community of Writer’s Workshops, which happens from August 7th to 14th. To say that I am excited about this would be a massive understatement.

I am over the moon.

All I need to do now is finish this revision that I’m working on. Being in our own house is helping, but Chinua is working full-time and I am homeschooling, which leaves approximately negative 2 hours a day to become absorbed in writing.I’m working on solving this problem by getting up before the kids. I was getting up at 6:00, but Solo insisted on getting up at 6:30, so now I’ve switched to 5:30.

I also need to find a babysitter and raise the rest of the money for the conference. Tonight I had the brainstorm of doing some babysitting trades. Finding three different families who want to trade a day of babysitting or two. Which will mean that I only have to work off five days of babysitting when I get back. Heh heh.

So my manuscript will be treated by other writers, and I’ll have a chance to read and offer ideas on theirs. My hope is that I’ll learn more about how the book can be helped, and get into the kind of streams that will work toward traditional publication.

We’ll see.

*I ran the first day of the Couch to 5K today. I’m very proud of myself. I’m not exactly a couch potato, but I’m definitely not a runner.

*We had spaghetti for dinner tonight, and I suspect that I put cinnamon in it instead of pepper. By accident. But I couldn’t really tell. I detected a faint cinnamony taste, but maybe I’m having flashbacks of this morning’s oatmeal.

*This concludes my ramble tonight. Have lovely dreams.

I’ve made a decision.  I think I’d be rushing this book along too much, to publish it this summer.

And I know why I’d be doing it.  It has become clear. It’s because of fear. Fear of not having money. Feeling like I need to sell something, and sell it quickly, so that we’ll be okay.

But fear is never a good motivator, and I know that this book needs me to be fully alive for it for a while longer, I know there is more that I can give it.  So I won’t be publishing it this summer.  We’ll see if it’s ready in the fall. I’m hoping to attend a writing conference to get some more input.

Whew. Fear is a large boulder, isn’t it? Worry is such a false friend, all that needle-clacking comfort of it. To sit and stew and imagine that there’s some button you could push to change things, to make things all better, all by yourself. Sustained by the breath of God, we are fidgety and obstinate (I am anyways), trying to jam candle wax into all the holes in the walls, though we don’t have to be afraid of the air outside.

Anyhow.  I’ll be so pleased to share it with you when it is ready. It is beloved to me.

*

Did you see that facebook badge over there?  That’s something I’ve been afraid of for a while.  Connecting this life and that one.  And then I realized, what will happen?  Nothing much, is what.  I’ll gain a few more friends and see more of your insights and dull moments that we all insist on updating each other with.  (The duller the better!  Tell me about your french toast!)

I’m also better (only slightly) on facebook than on twitter.

*

And another thing: (Totally unrelated, but important)

Fitted sheets: Necessary or not?

They are easy to keep on the bed, but hard to fold. Flat sheets are easy to fold and don’t hide socks.  We don’t have fitted sheets in India, so it is a new/old question for me. What do you think?

How cool is it that Hammy, one of Leafy’s favorite characters ever, said “Hi” to Leafy in the comment box on the last post?  Leafy and Kid A and YaYa were pretty stoked; they started giggling and couldn’t stop.  Thanks, Michael Fry. You are one talented and kind guy.

And there was Stacey, a Victoria-ite. (How do you say that, by the way?  Victorian sounds, somehow, like another idea entirely.)

That brings me to a thought that I had, when I knew I was coming back with limited time and quite a travel itinerary ahead of me.

I would like to do some coffee (or tea) circles in some different cities while I’m in North America, to meet any of my readers or fellow bloggers who happen to be in those areas.  The thing is, I’m not planning them right now, not right this minute, because there may be a book.  And that book may be ready.  And I may be able to bring some with me, or get some into some stores.

It kind of depends on whether or not I decide to self publish.  At any rate, I’m making my way to the finish line.

And, book or not, I’d like to meet you. Or see you again.  I’ll have to swallow the huge lump in my throat and calm my shaking hands.  I’m not as lucid in person.  I’ll probably stammer, “Uh. Hey,” and then pretend I have to tie my shoe.

It is 5:00 in the evening here. The light is getting softer, the wind is picking up, like it does in the evenings at this time of year. I am on our rooftop, looking at red stones and multicolored glass panes, watching the wind move the coconut fronds.  A man in the village is getting married tomorrow, and the tape of wedding music has begun its long loop.

I’ve been on the rooftop since early morning. Sending out query letters, my self-confidence dying a little more with each click of the “send” button. Did I mention that I finished the book on my writing vacation?  And did I mention that I’ve been home for two weeks?  Just in case you’re thinking that I’m on a really really long vacation. But today is my writing day and instead of writing, I’m, well, beginning my journey to publication. I want you to read the book.

I’m writing now, and it’s feeding me. The wind in the leaves feeds me, the breath of God feeds me, hanging laundry on the line feeds me, and writing feeds me. Also, finding treasures on the shore, a scooter ride through the jungle, and cooking good food.

I’m nobody important, that’s what I feel when I look through all the agency websites. But that’s what I find to be beautiful about life, that we’re nobody important, just small, lovely people who extend a hand of welcome to one another. My book is about small, lovely people, my life is full of small, lovely people, and everyday I meet another person who is fascinating and insightful and nobody important at all.

Kid A, who barely acknowledges that he missed me when I went away, had his own way of letting me know he was glad I was back. Almost as soon as he saw me, he asked if I would like to help him and YaYa build their new invention.

It’s a bacteria smasher.  The big stick person is Chinua, and the little stick person is Kid A.  They’re there to show the scale.

Inviting me to help him build it was his way of welcoming me home. Of telling me that I was important. Every little frond, every little brick, every pane of glass. Every small trouble, every word, every little blogger, every one of our long, tiring, beauty-filled days.

I’m going to put this photo above my washing machine.

My internet connection has been so, so broken. It seems to be fixed now in all of its dinosaur slowness.

You are hearing from a woman who is a little worn out from a year and a half of blogging on bad internet connections.  Will it ever end?

(When one WILL choose to live in a small fishing village one WILL experience some technical difficulties. Okay, okay.)

I have some exciting news and a rumor.  The exciting news is that I ordered my oven today; a little metal box that I can set over my gas burner and make heavenly concoctions in, if everyone is lucky. Or maybe just meatloaf.  Beanloaf. Lentil-loaf. Charred sneakers. I’m very excited.

The rumor that’s going around is that Rae (that’s me) officially finished the first draft of her novel last weekend and is now working on revisions.  A novel that she started in the Redwoods, continued in Sacramento, continued even more in Goa, worked on in the Himalayas, and finished in this studio.

That’s the juicy gossip around here, anyways.  I can neither confirm nor deny it.

It is my writing day today and I am at the studio that a few of us are sharing this year. It’s a tiny house with two rooms, owned by a local fisherman’s family. The fishermen are the brothers of my neighbor, Maria.

I am in a small room with a peaked roof. The walls are all white, and the roof is covered with the red clay tiles that they use here in South India. Right now the family is cooking over a wood fire outside, and it’s smoking really badly and it has crept up under the roof until the house is full of smoke. My eyes are burning.

I am sitting at a simple wooden table with my computer, drinking a cup of coffee. I have my small electric burner over here, so I can keep making cups of coffee whenever I feel like I am going to fall asleep, which seems to be my body’s response to the great strain of so much creative output. I am trying to write a whole lot today, since I spent yesterday on the scooter, trying to get all the rent money for my landlord. It’s never easy to get a lot of money here, and he wanted it for the remaining months that we will be in Goa. Something about a loan that he needs to pay off, something with high interest.

The room where I write fiction is an exhausting place; fun, but full of hidden caverns that I might fall down into and never emerge from. Parenting seems much simpler, in contrast. I’m glad I can return to that world, when I am done here.

Sometimes the question goes through my head, is it okay to just keep writing about me? The spats of depression, the wonder, the wacky thoughts.  And it seems that you answered the question with a resounding yes, so I’ll keep on.

It is so helpful to know what you like.  This blog is for me in a way, but also for you, and I like hearing that you want to hear more about the kids, or that you like the photos, because then I don’t feel like I am gratuitously shoveling my motherhood down your skinny throats.

Many of you wrote that you resound with the bits where I’m crying into my sleeves on the floor.  I’m glad for this because it is another indication that I am not alone, that you are not alone.  And that we will get through.

(When Chinua and I arrived here it was pouring rain and freezing and we had a terrible little guest house room with mint green walls.  I could barely see my way out of it, especially after we househunted up and down the hills in the rain for several days, finding nothing.  “Over there, let’s check that house out!” we’d say and then twenty minutes later we’d arrive, only to find… nothing. We kept looking at each other and saying, “We survived Calangute.  We can survive this.”

Oh Calangute, Goa, mother of my breakdown, tiny guesthouse on a crowded loud street, lost, monsoon rain and mold and ants everywhere, falling into puddles the size of a house, alone, hot, pregnant, displaced.  We survived. We will get through.)

Also, spirituality.  Faith, love of God, love of man.  Oceans of grace.  I’d like to write more and more on this.  I think what stops me is the knowledge that it has been written about, by better people than me, but I guess that no one who is precisely Rae in India with four young children, meditating in community, has written about it.

Food.  I’d like to write more about food.  This year has saved my mind as far as food is concerned.  I was practically crippled, in America.  What it took was some time in the kitchen with an Indian woman and some serious scaling back, as far as choices go.  I need to write more about it, because I think it could help many people.

Day to day life is a big one.  Writing it all down.

And now I will answer one of my own questions, just to be fair.

1. Why do you come here?

I come here because writing is the way that I think about things, and because it helps me participate in my life by being an author.  Every time I step away from posting, I am a little more healed.  I continue because I love to look back and remember things that I would have forgotten, if I hadn’t written them down, and I continue because of the amazing community that is here, cheering me on.

First of all, this man is incredible.

I mean, check out the photo.  It’s obvious that he’s one of a kind, one of a beautiful kind.

And then I would like to say that when I moved back to San Francisco when Kid A was a toddler, every homeless person who I stopped to talk to would mention that they sure do grow up fast.  “Treasure them,” they all said.  And I nodded blithely in my 23-year-old way.

But today I was looking for the perfect picture to illustrate just how much Solo looks like Leafy and I found THIS. (A picture of neither Solo nor Leafy.)

OH MY WORD.  It’s Kid A’s fourth birthday, and he’s looking pretty much as he’s looked since he was born, but YAYA!   I want to cuddle that girl in that photo, just one more time, but now she’s a lanky five-year-old, and if this trend continues, at this time next year, she’ll be an even lankier six-year-old.

She sounds less like a duck than she used to, too.

Oh, and I found my first white hair. I pulled it out and woke Chinua up to show him.  And then I carefully carried it downstairs to show it to my sister. I would have walked down the hill with it to show Cate, but that might have been overdoing it.  It was wiry.

We are all getting older.

Here’s the Question.  Questions.  Interrogation.

Are you ready?

1. Why do you come here?

2. Is there something you’d like to read more of?  What are you interested in?

3. Is there anything that I write about that you feel “hits the spot” like the perfect latte?

4. Who am I?

5. What is my purpose in life?

Okay, all but the last two are real questions.  I’m intensely curious about the wherefores and whys of how this blog will continue. (I am not going anywhere, but trying to shape my writing into something of order.)  I would love to get the feedback of my friends, the people who read these words that come flowing from the fingers that first learned how to touch type in the seventh grade.