Bright & Dark

Thanksgiving: a holiday designed around the conspicuous consumption of turkey, dressing, cranberries, and pumpkin pie. Or, a holiday designed around gratitude.

Oh, I know — those aren’t the only choices. But they’re the ones I’ve adopted. That said, here’s my short list of things to be thankful for this holiday season, in no particular order.

Family and friends. There are so many wonderful people in my life who I feel blessed to know. There’s nothing as precious as time spent with someone you love. In person is best. Phone or virtual is good, too. I have so many friends hundreds or thousands of miles away.

Writing time. Four glorious days off for Thanksgiving weekend. 6,500 glorious words. Over the 300 page mark on the book and into the last 100 page light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel sprint. The coolest thing by far is figuring everything out at the same time my characters do.

Dance. Four glorious days off also means three mornings spent at the Nia studio — one with a mix of music honoring one of the founders of Nia, Carlos Rosas, and two instances of Sting’s Brand New Day, which choreography and music makes my whole self sing. Through thick and thin, during times when I felt comfortable and sometimes worried in my own skin, Nia has nourished me, body and soul.

Food, Glorious Food! ‘Tis the season to be baking, fa la la la, la la la la. Fig cookies, banana bread with chocolate chips and crystallized ginger, and sometime this coming week: gingerbread. I love the feel of dough in my hands, the warm, spicy, sweet smells wafting from the oven to fill the whole house, the dance of flavors on the tongue. Many thanks to Gluten Free Girl for a website of glorious gluten free recipes, ripe for the making.

Story. For great books and movies and stories spoken from the mouths of friends. This weekend, I’ve been New Moon-ed, which I liked just fine, and the company was awesome, too. Really love spending time in the Bella-and-Edward ‘verse. I’ve also been reminded of my great love of all things Buffy, Angel, Firefly, Monk, NCIS, and of course Sons of Anarchy. On deck: the honkin’ huge novel on my coffee table, just itching to be opened and read. Could this book be by Stephen King? Why, yes, Virginia. It is.

Song. I had the good luck (and the determination) to see U2 this year after many years of having missed them when they came to town. Definitely worth the wait. A giant shot in the arm full of love and hope and general shiny goodness. Tomorrow night, I have the privilege of going with a very good friend on a birthday adventure to include Jackson Browne. Doctor, my eyes will be full of Jackson Browne-ness and my ears will be full of lovely tunes.

Sunset Walks. Sunset walks on the block with the Doggie Ranger. Evening breeze rustling the leaves of the oaks, ashes, sycamores, holly, palms, golden raintrees, sweetgums, and magnolias. Crows gliding through the air, calling out to the world. And the way everything must smell really interesting, what with all the times we simply MUST STOP to smell the (fill in the blank).

Love. Needs no description.

Also:
Tea
Hot Chocolate
Christmas fairy lights
Flickering candlelight
Cider
A fuzzy scarf
and
Muppet Bohemian Rhapsody

Mama!

I offer you this bit of warmth on a cold, rainy day.

Sliante!

Step 1: Boot the computer.
Step 2: Butt in chair.
Step 3: Fingers on keyboard.
Step 4: Plug into the work in progress.
Step 5: Write. Rinse. Repeat.

If you do this over and over again, eventually you will have a completed story or novel or [fill in the blank]. If you don’t do it, whatever you dream of writing, whatever story you dream of telling, will remain just that — ephemera.

I’m continuing to work on the current novel in progress, one showing-up at a time. It appears that over the weekend I’ll cross the 300 page mark and the road to the end will begin for the characters. Or at least they’ll think they can see the sign over the highway that reads THE END, 150 PAGES.

Personally, I’m ever so happy to see that sign, or to anticipate that I will look up sometime soon and lay eyes on it. Although I’ve probably had more fun and more mystery in writing this book than with any other I’ve written, The Dreaded Middle (also known as The Hundred Miles of Desert Remaining Before We Reach the Oasis) is still hard to write.

The beginning of a book is loads of fun. Exciting. Like finding and exploring an adventure for the first time. Like unpacking after a move, only it’s not the same old stuff in those boxes — it’s all new and interesting.

The middle of a book? That’s when all the boxes have been unpacked and you’re got most or all of the stuff put in its place and all the cardboard broken down and taken to the recycling center and you’ve been living there for a while and there’s stains on the carpet from where the cat’s thrown up a hairball and where your neighbor tracked in mud after a rain and the sink’s full of dirty dishes. Okay, maybe it’s not *that* bad. After all, there are still new people who show up on the page and there’s still mystery for those of us (like me) who don’t outline before we begin. And yet, with most of the fun planning finished, it can still feel like a lot of work. Here is where the showing up really counts. Show up often — every day if possible. Show up with commitment.

That’s easier than it sounds. Or not; commitment is a serious-sounding word.

What is commitment about, exactly? Is it about dedication? Maybe. I’m dedicated to finishing this book no matter what it takes, whether I think it’s crap or a masterpiece, whether I succeed or fail spectacularly. At least there will be a spectacle, right?

Is commitment about obligation? If it is, who or what is the obligation for or to? The story? If I don’t tell it, it doesn’t get told. Even if someone else is writing a story just like it, it will be their story and because it’s theirs it will be very different from mine. To write the story my way, in my words, is the only way it will ever be told. Is the obligation to myself? Sure. This book is not under contract. I didn’t promise it to anyone. No one else will ever really care whether or not it’s finished. No one, that is, except me.

Can commitment be about joy? There’s the joy of having matched a goal (I will write 1,000 words today) and finishing a chapter with a glorious cliffhanger and starting the next chapter with a hook that can’t be denied. There’s the joy of knowing that, whatever I’ve committed to do, I’ve done. I’ve honored it — myself, the story, my time.

So, I commit to the middle. I try to experience it as more about the joy. And when it’s not about that, it’s still about showing up.

Do that and eventually I’ll get to the end, which is almost as much fun as the beginning. There’s discovery and tying up storylines and driving the punch of the story home to the heart. So much satisfaction. It’s one of the best feelings on my scale of 1 to 10. It’s right up there. I don’t have to make myself sit down to write.

Of course, a story would never get to that point without a middle, would it?

I raise my glass to the glorious, commited middle of my novel. And then I put my butt in the chair and my fingers on the keyboard and tell some more story. It’s the only way I know.

Sliante!