Category Archives: Time

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Limping toward home

I fear I’m not going to make my deadline. I hoped to have my novel ready for polishing by the end of June, but it’s been slow going lately. I admire writers who can finish a novel in one-hour sessions carved out of an already full schedule. I can’t do that. I can edit in short spurts, but not write.

It’s not that I have writer’s block. It’s that my fragmented time gives me too much time to think. I think my story might not be strong enough. I think my prose is not up to par. I think I might have too much narrative, not enough narrative, too many details, not enough details, a too weak beginning, a too pat ending.

I hope none of these things are true, but I won’t know until I have time enough to really get back to work. Then I can insert all the fragments of scenes that now reside in “notes”, flesh them out, and see how close I come to reaching the goal of the final 15,000 words needed. Surely, I’ll be finished soon. May the Muse be with me.

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I believe in yesterday

No, I’m not going to wax eloquent on the time-space continuum, or time travel, or eternity, or any other concept of time as defined by physics, philosophy, or religion. I’m viewing time strictly from an egocentric point of view. My time.

The trilogy of time—what was, what is, what shall be. Yesterday—I’m told the past is dead, forget the past, don’t dwell in the past. Today—I’m told to live for today, live in the moment, live as if there is no tomorrow. Tomorrow—I’m admonished to plan ahead, to be forward thinking, to project into the future.

Of these three, I vote for yesterday. I’m not ashamed to admit that I love the past. I exist today … and I can only think about the future … ahhh, but the past is certain. I was there. To forget your past is to forget yourself. I’m the sum total of all the days of my life. I’m the end result of my ancestors. Even more, if you can hear it, I’m the present incarnation of an eternal being.

Now, I’m fairly techo savvy, I have a working knowledge of current politics and world affairs, and lord help me, I’ve even heard of Brangelina, but the past?

That’s where the stories are.

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World Enough and Time

I confess to being a poor time manager. When I started writing “full-time” eight months ago, I was in the midst of jewelry making and genealogy research … oh yes, and redecorating one of my bathrooms. All those projects are exactly where I left them. But here’s the thing: progress on my novel is now at a pace the Slowskis would love. I blame society.

I’m a hermit by nature. I’m self-taught in all my skills, not because I think I know more than anyone else, but because self-teaching allows me to avoid interaction with scary humans. I’ve long held the belief that, if needed, I could learn brain surgery from a book—and from YouTube?—no problem.

I have a sister who knows half the population of Indiana—and meets with them once a week, for all I know. She goes here, there, and everywhere, doing this, that, and the other. A recitation of her schedule makes me want to hibernate for a year or two. In fact, I might need a nap just writing that. One of my best friends (hey, Mary) started as a pen pal (remember letter writing?) and now, twenty years later, we email. We’ve never met.

So, what inner demon directed me to join a writers’ group? As it turns out, writers are scary humans too. They expect me to talk. Out loud. And they expect me to make sense while talking. I’m ill-suited for the task. I can’t even hold a decent phone conversation … from my own home … sitting in my comfy little chair … while dressed in my fat clothes.

Okay, so it’s good practice for when I’m published and have to do interviews, and book signings, and sit on Oprah’s couch (did I mention, hermits fantasize a lot?) But, what about my novel? Jalal and Meredith are getting impatient … and poor Renee hasn’t had a chance to open her mouth yet.

Time, time, time …

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Time! Blessed Time

I’m excited! Tuesday I expect to have fourteen hours alone. I don’t have to leave the house. I don’t even have to cook dinner. What ever shall I do?

WRITE! And write some more. Edit and write. Revise and write. Did I mention I plan to write? I will spend the day in my robe and write. I will drink chai and eat homemade bread with lots of butter—and I will write!

Oh yes, before I forget—I WILL WRITE!

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Tradition

2tree081This golden bird on my Christmas tree is the last remaining glass ornament I bought in Germany. There were a dozen of them originally, though a few were broken that very first year when our kitten pounced and toppled the tree. Others either never survived their shipment back to the States the following year, or our subsequent nomadic life.

The bird is not the oldest ornament on my tree. That honor goes to a faded blue glass globe topped with snow that once glittered. This ornament was my childhood favorite, and each year nestles in a secret spot at the back my tree.

I decorate my tree “old style” with as many glass ornaments as I can fit, alongside ones made lovingly by my children and grandchildren. It takes hours to create my sugarplum fantasy, working outward from trunk to tip and downward from top to bottom. It’s a labor of love. It’s tradition.

Tradition grounds us, centers us, comforts us. It represents our memory of the past, our enjoyment of the present, and our anticipation of the future. I wish for you to have abundant tradition throughout your life.