The Muddle

Just read a wonderful post on Laurie King's blog http://laurierking.com/wp.php in which she says that the first draft of her work in progress is complete --it has "a beginning, a muddle, and an end." Not a typo -- but a very recognizable mile post in the marathon of writing a novel.

Here I am in the 'muddle' of my own WIP -- trying to keep straight all those dates and prior references so I don't contradict myself; trying to rachet up the action without giving away too much, too soon; trying to lay down some false clues for the entertainment of the reader -- while all the time playing fair, of course; and trying to see exactly who Miss Birdie is, both from her own point of view as well as through other eyes for a fully rounded picture.

I mentioned already, back on February 6, how this character Myrna Lou suddenly emerged out of nowhere. Well, in the past few days, Calven, the boy who Dorothy 'adopts' in Old Wounds, has insisted on a voice of his own and I've had to go back and insert an early chapter. Law, but these strong-willed characters do seem to have minds of their own.

Remember -- Each time you put a comment on any of my posts from 3/5 to 3/30,you'll be entered (only one entry per day) for a drawing for an early copy of In a Dark Season.
I'll name the winner on my March 31 post, so check back then!

AKA James

William, the original of Elizabeth's James, is getting old and white-muzzled but he remains full of energy and personality. This little guy's been part of our pack of dogs almost ten years, ever since he showed up while I was weed-eating down along the hard road near our mailbox. He was a healthy, exuberant little dog and he frisked after me and did everything in his power to be winning. As I continued with my weed-eating, I noticed that on the few occasions a vehicle went by, the little dog would stop following me to run hopefully after each car. I concluded that some unfeeling, irresponsible, expletive deleted person must have very recently dumped him on our country road. When I'd finished my weed-eating, the little dog was still with me so I put him in the truck and took him to the house.

Calls to nearby neighbors were fruitless -- everyone disavowed knowledge of this little fella. So we kept him -- the smallest dog we've ever had.

We suspect that he has dachshund and Chihuahua in his background -- a Dachuahua, we tell people. He's so small that he gets all sorts of privileges that our normal sized dogs don't enjoy -- sleeping on our bed all night, sitting on the table to catch the morning sun. Like many Chihuahuas, William is very sensitive to the cold and winter is something of a trial for him.

Once I bought him a nice little turtleneck dog sweater, thinking this would be just the thing for Shiverin' Bill, as he's sometimes called. I put him in my lap and pulled it onto him -- a perfect fit! Then I set William down on the floor. He promptly fell on his side and stayed there, deaf to my praise of how handsome he looked. I picked him up, set him back on his feet, and watched as he fell on his side once again. It was hopeless -- William will not wear a sweater. He'd rather sit on the table in the morning sun, thank you very much.

Like the rest of our dogs, William lifts his voice in song as part of the morning dog chorus. He sings soprano, though he's very manly in other respects. "Stud dog' we call him, as he growls the two Border Collie males away from Maggie, the red hound, who he's pretty sure is his girl. He's a funny little dog and always the popular favorite of our visitors, in spite of his determination to put his tongue in their mouths. ('The Bob Packwood of dogs' is yet another of his many names.) "Heh, heh, you know you want it," he says as he makes a determined assault on yet another unwary person who has let him on her lap.

{Remember: Leave a comment and your name will be put in the pot for a drawing on March 31 for an early copy of In a Dark Season.}

Lagniappe

A morning of mundane errands, including delivering our tax materials to the accountant, had left me in a glum mood. I stopped at our local Fresh Market to get a sandwich for lunch and was ridiculously pleased to be handed this lovely rose at the checkout counter. It seems that the custom of lagniappe is still with us.

I'd always thought this was a French word, associating it as I do with New Orleans, but Wikipedia tell me it's Spanish, la napa, derived from yapa in the Quechan language of Peru, where it means 'something added.' Whatever the origin of the word, it's a lovely custom!

Mark Twain writes about lagniappe in Life on the Mississippi:"We picked up one excellent word — a word worth travelling to New Orleans to get; a nice limber, expressive, handy word — "lagniappe." They pronounce it lanny-yap. It is Spanish — so they said. We discovered it at the head of a column of odds and ends in the Picayune, the first day; heard twenty people use it the second; inquired what it meant the third; adopted it and got facility in swinging it the fourth. It has a restricted meaning, but I think the people spread it out a little when they choose. It is the equivalent of the thirteenth roll in a "baker's dozen." It is something thrown in, gratis, for good measure. The custom originated in the Spanish quarter of the city. When a child or a servant buys something in a shop — or even the mayor or the governor, for aught I know — he finishes the operation by saying — "Give me something for lagniappe." The shopman always responds; gives the child a bit of licorice -root, gives the servant a cheap cigar or a spool of thread, gives the governor — I don't know what he gives the governor; support, likely. When you are invited to drink, and this does occur now and then in New Orleans — and you say, "What, again? — no, I've had enough;" the other party says, "But just this one time more — this is for lagniappe." When the beau perceives that he is stacking his compliments a trifle too high, and sees by the young lady's countenance that the edifice would have been better with the top compliment left off, he puts his "I beg pardon — no harm intended," into the briefer form of "Oh, that's for lagniappe."

And I think, in the broader sense of lagniappe, I'm going to have a drawing for a copy of In a Dark Season, when I receive my author's copies a little before May 20. If you leave a comment on my blog, beginning today, I'll put your name in the hat -- no more than once a day though, and on March 31, I, or a trustworthy associate will draw the name of the recipient of an early copy of book four. (This replaces an earlier, less wieldy contest. Love the edit capability on this blog!)

Full Circle

My son Justin and his girlfriend Claui are setting up a small blacksmith's shop under the shed of the old corncrib. Claui learned some blacksmithing when she was a student at Warren Wilson and both of them are eager to explore the possibilities of the craft.

I'm thrilled because it's a return to what was. Clifford, who lived here before us, had a small coal-fired forge. He could repair his horse-drawn equipment and make simple tools.
We have a few artifacts remaining from Clifford's forge -- a single small andiron and an elegantly curved something that we use as a hose guide

It'll be exciting to see where this leads. At present Claui is working on a set of hooks to hold up curtain rods in their living room. I like to think that the farm is happy to hear the ring of the blacksmith's hammer again.

Salix gracilistyla var. melanostachys

A beautiful day -- time to clear away some of the winter debris and make the garden and flower beds ready for planting and new growth. And a time to greet old friends returning -- especially the ones that usually go unnoticed.

My black pussy willow (Salix gracilistyla var. melanostachys) is a rather nondescript shrub for most of the year but I knew I had to have it when I saw one in spring, its deep red stems covered, it seemed, with fuzzy black caterpillars. At first the little catkins wear a tiny brown dunce cap which quickly falls off, revealing a startling scarlet tip on the black. Then, over a week or two, the pussies grow and bloom with the most delicate pink and green.

But you have to get up close to see them -- and after raking and pruning and raking some more, I'm happy to stop and appreciate the pussy willow.

I'm not alone in my appreciation. You'll find more pictures at http://www.paghat.com/blackpussywillow.html

New Growth

At this time of year so many plants are just beginning to unfurl new leaves, giving tantalizing hints of what a season of growth will eventually reveal. These odd, somewhat Seussian, olive and magenta shoots of a tree peony will spread and develop into glossy deep-green leaves -- if a hard freeze doesn't get them.

I see a parallel with the burgeoning writers in my writing class. Tonight was our fourth meeting and it's so delightful to see their work expanding and deepening even in such a short time.

They're a diverse group -- three men and three women -- writing on a variety of subjects in a variety of styles. But they pay attention -- and this is the key -- to the text, to one another , and to their teacher, (who occasionally wonders why in the world she has the effrontery to set up as a teacher. Then, of course, she remembers, "Oh, yes, the fella from UNCA asked me to -- and then there was the money.")

It's not easy, reading your work aloud to a bunch of strangers -- especially when you know that they've been tasked with pointing out any and all weaknesses. But I believe it's one of the best things a writer can do to improve his craft. First, in the reading aloud the writer can hear exactly what those words sound like -- is the dialogue realistic? does the narrative flow? And secondly, in listening to the comments of others, the writer acknowledges that he's writing not for only for himself but for potential readers. If they don't understand something, the job's not done.

Criticism -- as long as it's not of the hard freeze variety, withering those tender shoots before they mature -- can nurture a budding writer. I look forward to seeing what the season brings for the folks in my class. The promise is definitely there.

Forty Wild Turkeys

Forty wild turkeys, grazing their way across a hill just above the road! I had to stop and take their picture. (Couldn't get all of them in the shot but there really were forty, cross my heart!)

Wildlife has made a big comeback in our area as the old farms grow up and pastures and fields become tangles of multiflora rose, hateful stuff to us but a safe haven for many creatures.

Our summertime view -- masses of green trees with only an occasional clearing -- isn't what folks would have seen a hundred years ago. Back then, all but the very steepest slopes were laboriously cleared and put to pasture, hay, or crops.

Clifford, who farmed this land before us, told of cutting hay on a slope so steep that he had to tie a long rope to his mowing machine and station two of his big sons uphill from him, hanging on to the rope to keep the mowing machine from tipping over.

Now those were farmers!

As the Darkness Falls

Speaking last night with a friend whose mother is slipping into dementia, I was reminded of times I spent with a college friend who fell prey to this insidious illness. And this morning, looking through my pictures for something to adorn a blog, I saw this puzzling scene, taken yesterday with a storm cloud lowering, a tree full of twittering birds and one brilliant shot of light -- as well as a puzzling spherical object in the foreground. I almost deleted the picture but then I realized that it was a good representation of a confused mind with the darkness closing in.

And I offer to you -- hoping all the while that you'll never need it, this poem that floated across the internet some time back.


REMEMBER ME
Do not discuss me as if I am not present
My mind is foggy, but my heart is clear.
Do not resent my frequent questions.
I am scared and confused. Your answers slip from my desperate grasp.
Do not stop loving me because my actions are inappropriate.
Use patience and kindness to remind me of my manners for they have disappeared with other fragments of my mind.
Do not resent my frequent pacing or attempts to “go home.”
This is not my home. Nothing here is familiar or reassuring. If only I could go home, I would surely find my memory there.
Do not remind me of my recent hurts.
I do not recall that my mate has passed or my house burned to the ground.

Do not speak to me as a child.
I have a lifetime of experiences despite my childlike ways.
Remind me of your name and the place you hold in my life.
I would love to recall, for I feel your love and kindness.
Show me the world – nature, music, art – for I have forgotten the amazing joy it holds.
Allow me to use the tools that remain, to hammer out my mark and unwrench my heart.
Forgive me for my imperfect past;
If only I remembered, I would surely apologize.
You need not fill our time with many words.
Your presence helps fill my void.
The blame does not lie with you or me.
Love me for who I am now and the person I used to be.
J. Al-hafez
June 1997

Tony Earley and The Blue Star

After finishing Tony Earley’s new novel The Blue Star, I spent much of yesterday in a bit of a daze, reluctant to leave this perfect gem of a book.

The long-awaited sequel to Jim the Boy, Earley’s critically acclaimed bestseller, The Blue Star takes up Jim’s story when, as a senior in high school at the beginning of WWII, he falls in love with Chrissie, a beautiful, half-Cherokee classmate. But Chrissie is the reluctant girlfriend of an older boy, recently enlisted in the Navy, and Jim’s path to true love is full of obstacles.

The writing is spare and heart-breakingly beautiful. Set in rural North Carolina, this deceptively simple story is a small masterpiece.

Full disclosure along with name-dropping: I’m proud to claim acquaintance with Tony Earley. We met at a book fair, back when I had an agent but no publisher as yet and he was kind and encouraging to an aspiring author of (oh dear) genre mysteries. Then, when my first book came out, he was even kinder, taking time from his writing and teaching to read my book and give it a nice quote. (I suspect that the Little Sylvie part of the book was more nearly his cup of tea than the rest.) He has continued to go out of his way to encourage me whenever our paths have crossed -- and one of my fondest memories is of having dinner with him and his lovely wife and daughter, after which Tony read me a story of his which would soon be in The New Yorker. Is that cool, or what!?! (Do I sound like a groupie?)

If I had fully realized, back when I first met him, what an amazing and important writer Tony is, I’d never have had the nerve to do more than humbly ask for his autograph. Luckily for me, he’s as nice a person as the folks he writes about.

The New York Times reviewed the book at length on Thursday --
http://www.nytimes.com/2008/03/06/books/06masl.html
(And by the way, I heartily disagree with this reviewer’s two small quibbles. What the reviewer found fault with, I particularly enjoyed.)

And tomorrow, it’s the lead story for the NYT Book Review. With a review by Scott Turow.
http://www.nytimes.com/pages/books/

Couldn’t happen to a better writer or a nicer guy!

Autumn Joy in Spring

Pushing past last year's

Dry stems, grey-green leaves unfurl,

Beginning again.



Autumn Joy sedum -- what a wonderful plant! Easily rooted from a cutting, drought-resistant, winter hardy, it dies back each winter only to start all over in spring.All summer it will grow, taller and taller, and little broccoli-like heads will appear at the ends of each leafy stem. Come fall, those green heads will begin to blush, culminating in a beautiful deep rose aggregation of tiny flowers.

Even in the depths of winter, the dried and blackened stems still retain a certain stark and sculptural elegance in the barren landscape. Then, when the new growth begins to show, I whack off the old stems and stand back so that the cycle of growth and rebirth can continue.

Compost on my Mind

It probably takes a gardener to appreciate a picture of dirt -- but this isn't just any dirt; it's composted soil/hay/manure, courtesy of our little herd of cows. My husband brought up load ofter load and today I've been cleaning off the asparagus beds and top-dressing them with this wonderful stuff.

At the end of the day, of course, I'm stiff and sore -- a winter spent sitting in a comfy chair with a laptop is not a good preparation for physical labor. But it's the same every Spring and the aches are good aches.

And now, back in the comfy chair, I think, as I have before, of of the relevance of compost to writing. Before I begin a book, I throw all sorts of diverse bits of research into my mind. Old textbooks, diaries, half-remembered stories, newspapers, histories, period novels and music -- anything and everything goes into the compost heap of my brain, there to simmer and work and, in time, with luck and labor, it will turn into a novel.

Cue Odin

We had a glorious rain yesterday -- close to two inches -- and the branches are roaring. When it finally stopped, just at sunset, we looked to the west to see a crystal blue sky laced with wispy pink clouds -- the sort of sky that many would dismiss as too sentimental or trite if they saw it in a painting.

To the east, however, was a setting worthy of a Wagnerian opera. Masses of curdled ominous, lowering clouds, still pink, but not at all sweet looking, and billows of white mist roiling up from below.

We stood on the porch, admiring the show, half-expecting Odin to come riding out of all that glory.

Hope Springs Eternal

Yesterday was the sort of day that makes one believe anything is possible -- that this will be the year the yard and the garden attain such heights of horticultural splendor that gardening magazines will be lining up to immortalize every perfect flower and ideal vegetable. Sober experience, of course, suggests that this won't happen. The balmy temperatures will give way to hot days and a Darwinian struggle of weed versus cultivated plant will rage through the flower beds and garden tiers. The masses of stately delphiniums I'd envisioned in March will subside to a sickly straggling few and once again I'll be thankful for the humble, indestructible daylily.




But when I came home yesterday from a morning that included reading Marvin K. Mooney to a charming group of second graders at our library's Seuss Day Celebration, to find that the manure fairy had spread a load of brown gold on our little entry lawn and that the first daffodil had opened, I shed my town-going garments and got into my grubbies to start work on that dream.

In the field above the orchard, my husband was on his tractor, turning under the newly green grass in preparation for a potato patch. The smell of the dark brown earth was intoxicating and it was cheering to think that this, at least, will be a crop with every liklihood of success.





"Taters is easy made," said our mentor, Clifford Freeman, helping us to plant our first potatoes back in the spring of '76. He knew better than to fool with delphiniums.