wading in shallow water

This is where I've spent most of my life--until now

Tuesday, February 21, 2006


I should be writing. I mean, real writing. I have short stories and poetry unfinished or in need of editing, or waiting to be started.

I can't write. I have other things on my mind. Taxes are due. I have to thaw something for dinner. I have to read a magazine or hang a curtain rod or patch some holes in the wall. There are bills to be paid and dogs that need play. I could finish the laundry, complete numerous projects or just watch the birds at the feeders.

It is one of those days I can't even open my laptop because the screen is too black and I have nothing to say. I could prompt write. I could free write. I could write someting but I'm not even going to try.

What I need is quite. I want the dogs to sleep. I want the world to pretend I don't exist. No phones, no humming of the laptop. It is warm in my house and the sun is shining. My family is healthy and safe. I am ok.

I have always needed quite. It is where I find inspiration; where I converse with my muse. Sometimes wonderful things transpire. Other times, nothing. But because it is part of my creative process, I won't feel guilty about the times nothing happens.

The picture on this page was taken on Monhegan Island, Maine. I had gotten up much earlier than hubby because I was needing quite time, and I knew I could get it at 5:00 in the morning in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean as the sun inched its way into the sky. I found my quite. I took my camera and a notebook. I wanted to capture the quite time. Keep it quite.

I still have the pictures and notes and I have begun, after 7 months, to put the experience into perspective and into a story. It isn't a story yet...it is still being born.

I always thought I was a slow writer. I'm not slow, its my process. I am in love with the process of writing, of creating. I can extract a single sentence from a story I have written and take it with me, just the sentence, and sit with it, think about it. How will my reader like it? Will it help them understand? Will it stir emotion? What about this title? Why this ending? Would a different POV better serve the story? If it is a poem, I worry about how it looks on the page.

Once finished, I am unable to let my work go. Despite authors such as Stu Dybek telling me I have work that should be submitted, I can't. Like children, I'm not always sure my work is ready for the world. Or maybe I'm not ready for the world. I sometimes have doubts that I will ever be a successful writer. I worry about whether my writing is good enough for the reader.

Today, above my desk, I posted the words of Lan Samantha Chang. She is a fiction writer and the new director of the U of Iowa's Writers' Workshop.

Here are her words:
"'It's important to be patient and to always keep in mind that good writing is more important than achieving rapid success as a writer. The best writing reveals the texture and the depth of the consciousness that wrote it and that can take a long time.'"

Today, I feel validated. Tomorrow, I'll write. In a few months, maybe I'll submit.

Wednesday, February 01, 2006

The quietest moment

My youngest daughter is home for the remainder of the week because she lives in Detroit, and Detroit has closed down for the SuperBowl and tourists.

She came home last night looking young and fresh. Whenever I see her after a period of time, it is always like taking that first breath of spring air. And eventhough both of my daughters have held me in suspended awe from the first day they slipped out of me and into my life, this one is different.

This is my baby girl.

My baby girl is at that time in her life when she is ready to fly as far and as high as life will let her--as a woman. So now I must prepare again for the quietest moment of my life: the moment she leaves.

It is a quiet moment because we will have said everything that needed to be said. It is quiet because we will be holding our breath and holding back our tears. It is the quietest moment because joy and sadness gel us to numb.

We will look at each other and without saying a word, know the truth:
She can't stay with me, and I can't go with her.

It is the quietest moment of separation.