Sunday morning . . . early.

It's 4:30 am. A motorcycle revs up and burrs through the night, the sound irrevocably splitting my eyes open. And I begin think what to do -- meetings, public relations projects, deadlines, and the marketing plan (when all I want to do is stay home quietly and write).

I open up my e-mail to find Karen Huber's post about stillness. The Power of Pause. Emptying the mind. Lovely evocative photographs that remind me we can find quiet.

This week I subbed a new opening chapter for Years of Stone to the NOVELS group on the  Internet Writing Workshop and got some generous and helpful feedback. My book now opens at the moment people abandon ship. Cries and screams. Crashing waves. A tenuous rope holds ship to shore. Sailors carry children on their backs and pull their way to safety. Women cling to the rope. A few -- terrified and cold to the bone -- can't hang on and are pulled away in the sea. And the ship goes down.

I found this photograph online of women in 1860 at Scratching Sydney's Surface and am struck by how unique each woman's face is. Of course, they would be, just as we are today, but I have to work hard not to generalize the past, as if all women had that patina from Romantic painters. But they did not. These early suffragettes ultimately brought women the right to vote. Their determination can be seen in their faces, even as their clothing reveals adherence to Victorian codes of dress and decorum.

ROW80 Update: Sadly missed Weds check-in but I have made some progress in writing, reading, and research. Marketing? Less so. Our major quilt show comes up in October with about 5,000 attendees. Should I invest in bookmarks???

On writing . . . and finishing . . .

Three books so far. One rests in a drawer. A thriller, Mothers Don't Die. One is being sent out somewhat sporadically. Standing Stones introduces the MacDonnell clan during the Scottish Industrial Revolution. The current work in progress, Years of Stone, set in Tasmania mid 19th Century, steams right along.

Some days I think I'm learning more about my characters, about how to write their story in a way that reveals some essential truth about the struggle we all face to make our lives a little better. Some days the next book teases me with sly thoughts, and I wonder how long it will be before Years of Stone is truly finished and ready for some form of publication. I also wonder when I'll jump into self-publishing.

But mostly I just write in the morning because if I don't, I get grouchy and feel something elemental is missing, an anchor that keeps me connected to the past and the future in a way that is uniquely mine.

Even when the writing does not go well, when I can't write a sentence that pleases me, I still learn something new. Did you know that 'fadge' is Victorian slang for a farthing? Fadge became the name of one of my characters this week. Here's how he introduces himself:  "You know why they call me Fadge?” He spat. “’Cause my life’s not worth a farthing.”

Fadge is a hulk of a man, silent, enduring, and he's probably spent far too much time in solitary. And yet he shares his Sunday meal of boiled beef with a fellow prisoner. He is also mad to escape. For I'm down in the coal mines this week, in the dank and dark places where men grubbed coal out by hand in tunnels no more than 4 feet high, and young boys ran baskets of coal back to the mine shaft, to be pulled up some 70 feet by a winch. These boys have no names.

I write to bring this history alive -- if for no one else, then for me.

Guest blogger at Rick's . . .

I'm a guest blogger this Friday at Rick Bylina's blog. The link:

"Up Against the Wall, Baby!"

If you're working on a massive writing project, you may find using "the wall" another way to stay organized and to keep those words flowing.

Thank you, Rick, for your interest in writing and kindness to me. And, as Rick would say, "Writers write!" So write on, and may your writing go well!

R is for Rum Song . . .

Rum was the favored drink down by the waterfront in Hobart Town in 1842. Robert  Hughes, in The Fatal Shore (292-293) asserts that it was the unusual man (does he mean working class man?) who did not drink, for conditions were so bad. Apparently men drank themselves oblivious -- sailors, soldiers, ticket-of-leave men or pass holders (those convicts lucky enough to have permission to work outside one of the many prisons or probation stations).

The Rum Song was written around 1830 and is helpful in establishing the mood (defiance) and slang of the time.

Cut yer name across me backbone,
Stretch me skin across a drum,
Iron me up to Pinchgut Island
From today till Kingdon Come!
I will eat yer Norfolk dumplings
Like a juicy spanish plum,
Even dance the Newgate Hornpipe
If ye'll only give me Rum!

I tried once to figure out what grog tasted like, a mix of water and rum served on sailing ships, but I didn't like it. I probably watered it down too much. Hughes explains that "Norfolk dumplings" are 100 lashes and the "Newgate Hornpipe" is a rather visceral description of how those hanged at the infamous Newgate Prison would kick their heels and twitch as they died.

I'm writing about men in prison this week, so my thoughts are rather grim. Usually I sink down into the story and try to feel what my character might have felt, a rather intuitive approach. And I've been told that my writing needs more sensory detail to create something called "deep point of view." This means that the reader is so pulled into the character through description that uses the five senses that the reader can't stop turning pages.

For example, if a character is beaten (and this week I have two characters roughed up), I can't very well have them popping back up like live-action dolls without an ache or groan. Well, deep point of view is more than simply adding description. Here's a longer definition (complete with purple prose) at Wow! Women on Writing.

So originally, I was going to write about R is for Roughed Up . . . I have some experience to draw upon, the student who came to my office so beaten she could barely walk, how my body felt after a car accident (I was pinned underneath the car for a time; luckily only dislocated a hip, but I remember how that felt). Once I was backhanded and my lip puffed out immediately (I was a mouthy teenager). But I'm having a hard time imagining a place where floggings of 100 lashes were routine. Sigh. Time for granola and back to today's writing.

Michigan in July . . .

Last night a thunderstorm,
covered the stars, darkness;
a crack of lightening sudden, complete.
I hid my weakness:
Nature doesn't patronize.

Out near Duck Lake,
I heard a loon cry this morning,
one small trill, then silence.
A barred owl sat on the fence for the longest time.
Under these Jack-pine trees, I feel safe,
safe from even the strongest rain.


NOTE: This poem is in response to Three Word Wednesday (darkness, patronize, weaken), and is the first poem I've written in a while. Perhaps it's because we've traveled across country, on our way to Philadelphia, then Scotland, and our car is loaded with boxes for three different kinds of journeys.

Today's quote on i-Google Literary Quotes widget highlights Gertrude Stein who says "In the portraits of really great writers, the mouths are always firmly closed." This made me smile. I'm a writer, not a great writer, but I'm deep in the midst of editing, editing, and even more editing. I could say the work goes reasonably well, that I'm on schedule, more or less. But every time I look at another photo of Inverness, Orkney, or Edinburgh, where we're headed in September, my heart feels lighter and lighter. I will really see these places where part of my story takes place. An amazing dream. So perhaps it's ok to hover a bit with my writing.

162 Disconnecting . . .

It only took a moment. I looked down. My computer bag was gone. Yes, I lost my driver's license, some meds, but mostly I was stunned. Would all my backups function? Had I backed up my poetry as carefully as my fiction?

Only days later did I realize the extent of my loss, pictures of this once-in-a-lifetime trip, six months through South America. Yes, all my backups (flash drive, DVD/CD, e-mailed copies of current work to my yahoo account), all worked. But the biggest loss was being able to write easily, whenever and wherever I wished. Now, only 3-1/2 weeks from home and being able to replace my computer, I'm calmer. I can write in bits and pieces, but I lost truly this last month as well.

Tenacity remains. I scribble on scratches of paper, a new notebook and whenever I have access (internet cafes, hotel lobbies), I try to write something -- bits of scenes, parts of poems, and posts to my travel blog.

What I learned: Back on up i-Google documents, especially when writing on the road. That service is free, private, and accessible from any computer (tip thanks to Internet Writing Workshop, an online writing critique group that shall forever be appreciated for their prompt practical and thoughtful advice). Trust yourself to write, no matter what happens. New concepts, scenes, bits of dialogue, insights into characters, commitments to different strategies for research, all have come my way. Appreciate what you have. No matter what your workspace is, know it, appreciate it! It is your unique writing place, your refuge, your inspiration. That view out the window, the line of books in front of you, the stack of notes, the quiet at early morning. You have made this as surely as any written product. And, if you are traveling, Wrap your laptop in your arms, no matter where you are -- in a bus stop after 12 hours, on the airplane, on a train, sitting in a rstaurant, or even standing on a corner.

We are often told some experiences can never be taken from us. What remains for me is a commitment to writing. I lost a few poems. I lost some treasured photographs. And perhaps several hundred research files. I cannot replace some of the drawings or notes. But I still write.

Leaves quiver in morning sunlight.
A mysterious bird warbles,
and its call is answered by a passing train.
I sit in this garden and watch for the birds
as the sun shimmers on the leaves,
the train passes, the ground rumbles,
and the chip-chip-chip of hummingbirds
punctuates the garden.
Pale white trumpet flowers sway,
the train´s bell makes a harsh last call,
metal on metal clanging, the rails hum.
I sit under this mango tree,
looking up into its green leaves,
where buds hallow into fruit.
The past, the present, the future,
all fuse in the humming bird's call.
The mountains rise around me impossibly high,
but I remain at peace,
connected.