Overwhelmed

I did write this week. H/h are no longer stuck in a doorway together. Non-fiction project has one more section completed. Dog was brushed, several times. His fur has filled a bucket so I need to wash that, blend it, card it and spin it.  yeah, that will wait. I worked on the latest quilt.  I picked up the Tunisian crochet and figured out where I went wrong.  I sorted through some photographs.  I went for a few long walks and took more photographs for the tree blog. 

I grieved for three lost friends. Two are hitting first year anniversaries, the body of the third was found this week.  All were too damn young. 

There are not enough hours in a week for me to accomplish all the tasks I've set for myself.  So day by day, one task at a time, I work on them.  For the most part, they are joyful endeavors.  It's easier to remember that when I'm not trying to cram everything into my day because my friends don't have the option of letting things slide.

Overwhelmed. It's pointless yet somehow I feel it.  What do you do when that feeling hits you?

Good habits are easy to break

I wrote every day for fifteen years. It was a good habit. It kept my mind sharp, my skills honed and my writing vibrant. Then a bunch of stuff happened and I was burnt out so I stopped the daily habit.

When I came back from North Carolina, I was enthusiastic again. I wrote every day. Then I stalled out.  Another idea was swirling around in my brain. A fresh idea. But it was completely different from what I usually write so I tried to ignore it. That didn't work.  I stopped writing all-together because the new project wouldn't wait its turn and the older project was stuck in the doorway uncertain about which direction to go.  I entertained the thought of combining the two storylines but ack that was ugly. Did I mention there is a third project?  Non-fiction and two-thirds done. I need to send some of it off to the cover designer. She's in the middle of a major life transition so I've held off  in order not to pressure her. I think we both need to get back into it and be productive.

Back to a schedule, back to a goal and back to writing.  That's the only way out of the ridiculous position in which I've found myself lately. I am a writer who doesn't write. That's not entirely true as my brain is overactive but words are not making it to the page.

Check back with me next week and see how I've made out.  I will write every day - for a minimum of one hour. I will send off the samples to the cover designer for the other project. I will get one set of characters out of the doorway. And write down the outline for the new ones who are demanding to be heard. 

What's your goal for the week?

Battle for Queenston Heights

Here's the view from Queenston Heights.  At one time much of the park land was owned by my great-grandfather.  When my dad and uncle were little, they were hiking up the back of Grandpa's property and ran into a Parks Canada guy staking the top of the hill.  It seems the government has never been very good at reading boundary maps.  Grandpa sold the land to the park for a tidy sum that supported two generations right into retirement.  Whenever we walk along there I think of that story.  It's a park rich in Canadian history as well but my thoughts always start with that canny Scot.

Triangles

I'm not a geomtry-cist (I made up the word, indeed I did, blame the head cold)While my Celtic background leans me towards lovely curving lines, I have to admit angles come in handy.  Nor is one type of angle better than another.  Cylinders, squares, rectangles and triangle are all equally important. Can you imagine a turret made like a square? It would be a courtyard.

Triangles though are often used as plot devices and they make me crazy. It's my own personal belief system that if you haven't chosen one lover over the other by book nineteen, you are not the type of person with whom I wish to spend time.  That's selfish, and cruel, behaviour.  At some point in time, your feelings towards one person are stronger than they are for the other person.  Rarely do all three form a perfect equilateral triangle.  As a plot device, they are the more common, and cliched, scalene triangle which has no equal sides. It's unbalanced from the beginning. Walk away.

What plot devices most annoy you?

Life as a television show

Lately, I've been watching a lot of dark, gloomy paranoid television. It's entertaining and stretches my problem-solving skills. I'd never last ten minutes in any of those scenarios.  I wouldn't want my life to be anything like them. I like Suburgatory.  It's funny, cute and no one dies. I can't think of a sexy rom-com. Hmmm, that could be the problem at home.

If your life was a television show, what would you like it to be?

Fame

I had an interesting conversation with someone the other day about meeting famous people. She's thinking of taking to the streets of Toronto for the Toronto International Film Festival because she's never met a famous person.  I don't understand wanting to meet someone based solely on their celebrity.

My grandfather was the head of PR for the CNE so celebrity doesn't have the same meaning for our family.  Because we've been exposed to interesting people who are famous for one thing or another, we quickly learned that what makes people fascinating is personality and behaviour as opposed to persona and fame.

There are several famous people I'd like to meet. I've seen them in documentaries or on talk shows and been intrigued by their experiences or perceptions.  I want to talk with them about those things. Last night, I dreamt that Robin Williams, Dennis Quaid, Nancy Herkness and I were talking about raising kids. We were a group of people united by our frustrations, pride and love for the children in our lives.  It was a good conversation (and entirely imaginary but I blame the actual conversation that started this blog)

Somehow, I doubt that will happen by standing behind a rope to watch someone walk down a red carpet.

How do you feel about fame?

More distractions

My little world is more chaotic than usual. I write to comfort myself. And I read a lot. Right now, fairy tales with a twist are very popular in the young adult market. That makes sense to me.

Oh, how I long to escape back into the world of fantasy that I alone create. I miss writing. House repairs were done today - until I had the first shower in my own bathroom in over ten days. It leaked. Just a tiny puddle at the corner by the tub but it came from behind the tub surround. ACK!

I haven't finished the quilt, been busy with the bathroom repair which had segued to the living room floor as we used the laminate from the middle of the living room. The varnish nearly killed me but didn't bother the birds. I protected them much better than I did myself.

Now the shower leaks. Again. We were so sure we'd got it. Nothing leaked before we reinstalled everything. It has to be the showerhead.

I'm anxious to return to the suburbs of North Carolina so that Nymphs can battle each other. I control all the variables there and rarely, not never, but rarely, does something happen in that world that takes me by surprise.

Endurance

Closing Ceremonies of London 2012 are over. I feel bereft. 17 days of believing in the best of sport, and the best of humanity. Someday, we'll hold onto that energy longer.

I didn't finish the quilt. I was derailed by emergency bathroom renovations. I had a couple of bad days feeling sorry for myself. Olympic athletes put that back into perspective. No matter how disappointing their day, or their finish, they pick themselves back up and complete their task.

Think of my quilt as a marathon. I may finish last but I will finish.

And once the floors are replaced, I will return to writing. During the Beijing Olympics, we had a Writing Olympics. Many words were written, pages turned in. Maybe that could be my paralympic gold.

What about you? Are you going to continue to enjoy London 2012 and cheer on the para-athletes?

Threads of memory

My great-grandmother was a milner. She loved fabric and thread, and was brilliant at creating the most wonderful hats that suited each woman perfectly. Last year's hoopla over the Royal Wedding would have filled her with glee. I'm sure her fingers would have itched to be part of that. I've barely worn a hat since she died when I was in my mid-twenties. She was 105 and sharp as a tack for the first 100 years.

Mumma raised my mother when the latter was a teenager. That's a delicate and difficult age and massive kudos to a woman in her seventies taking on such a task. Fortunately, the two had a lot in common and the tough times were minimal. During that time, Mumma taught my mom to quilt.

Fast forward to my own difficult teenage years. My mom hauled out a box of fabric from her grandmother and taught me how to piece them together. Mumma donated a quilt of butterfly applique that she'd never finished towards my education. It was an Olympic year so we set up the quilting frame in the living room and kept busy while we watched Nadia Comaneci, Bruce Jenner and Canada's own Greg Joy. For the next few years, I sewed, embroidered and quilted through the confusing times.

Then I stopped.

I'm not sure why exactly. I know that's about the time I started knitting. I was older and my interests were more outside of the house. I was busy exploring the world.

Last year, I inherited bolts and bolts and remnants of fabric from my friend and her mother. I recognized some of the scraps from different projects but a lot of it was brand new and never been cut. I knew right then what I would do with it all. Well, as much as I could manage.

Part of the challenge lay in the fact that I'd never learned to use a sewing machine. No matter how often my mom walked me through it, it was something I simply couldn't grasp. All of that material had to be hand-sewn. I recruited a friend to help with some of it. She took half the material to cut and machine sew. I took the other half and stared at it for several months.

Then the Olympic ads started. My mom came home from the hospital and helped me organize the fabric into weights, colours and themes. My goal was to get the project pieced together in time to quilt during the Olympics.

I put it on the hoop the night before the Opening Ceremonies. Every day while I watch Michael Phelps, Gabby Douglas and the Canadian women's soccer team, I quilt. I've been posting the daily progress on my Facebook page which caused my aunt to remind me of my great-grandmother who started it all.

My mom is back in hospital. My friend is gone. My great-grandmother long gone. But the threads they have woven in my life are as strong as the thread that pulls three layers of fabric sturdy and true.

The Daily Tree

My friend Theresa and I started a blog that features a different tree each day.  All of the photographs were taken  by us.  I personally have over 500 photos taken in the last three years. I'm not likely to run out any time as I'm always snapping away at trees. I love them.

I love their resilience, their strength, their vulnerability, their multi-tasking, their home-building, their scent, their food, their complete and total existence.  I LOVE them.

Theresa is the one who wanted to marry one she met in Scotland.

Neither that story nor photo have appeared on the blog yet but go over and check out the lovely trees we've shared so far.  You might recognize some.

The Daily Tree

Music heals

As there is no such thing as a stress-free diet, I recommend you take two Motown Icons and call me in the morning.

Not only were my friends and I able to hop on stage with Mary Wilson at her concert in Detroit the other day, we toured Hitsville the following day with Martha Reeves. For a few hours I was able to forget all of my troubles, worries and cares. Do not underestimate the influence their music had on the turbulent 60's. It's easy to dismiss the happy lyrics and bubbling beat as frivolous. I know losing myself in that music, and the experience of rubbing elbows with those two incredible women, put my troubles on the back burner for a few hours. When I had to pick them back up, I had a new optimism, some compassion and a better perspective.

Motown isn't to everyone's taste but I think music appeals to everyone in varying degrees. Even deaf people feel the rhythm. (Marlee Matlin on Dancing with the Stars) What's your musical preference when you need a break from the stress?

Many years ago, there was a quiz making the rounds about what kind of flower you are. I posted mine here, in part because it was a great way to connect with my characters. And yes, I liked the attention.

Due to circumstance beyond my current control, I am in a situation with people that are completely unlike me. (See the flower mentioned above for more explanation if necessary) I am a weed in their garden of flowers. When I said that to a friend, he reminded me that weeds are survivors. They grow in the most horrendous conditions, with inconsistent quantities of food, water and sun.

I am a thistle. I'm prickly, purple and thrive regardless of circumstance. I can wilt in great heat but a few drops of water or some shade will revive me. I grow tall and strong and proud. Oddly, I never saw a single thistle either time I visited Scotland.

Because the current project is so plant-based, I am immersed in plant-lore and surrounded by leafy greens, bright splashes of colour, weeds, flowers, flora and fauna of all kinds. It helps that so many of my friends have green thumbs.

If you were a plant, what would you be?

This is growing by my pond

Random thoughts

If you're a plant-based life-form who eats vegetables, are you a cannibal?

Mulberry trees are condominiums. They support several different species of birds, silkworms, squirrels and raccoons. They protect the house, gobble up carbon and excrete oxygen. You can make jam from their berries. Not that I ever have. I don't get to the berries as fast as the afore-mentioned creatures.

Worry is like a rocking chair - lots of movement, no real activity. Yet we all line our porches with those bits of furniture and talk about spending our retirement in them.

Why are some poorly constructed/plotted/written books HUGELY popular? (not all hugely popular books are badly constructed/plotted/written)

On a related note, education can be entertaining and vice versa. I'm thinking of you, Museum Secrets.

There is simply not enough time in the day to work on all of the projects that are crowded into my brain and work to keep a roof over our heads. Yet somehow, I spend a ridiculous amount of time each day staring at an Osprey chick on the other side of the world.

What's your favourite form of procrastination relaxation?

I'm not sure about my heroine's personality yet. That makes it difficult to write from her pov, or even her reactions to the hero's actions. I thought I knew her but she's more formal than I expected. And odd. She's odd, quirky odd but odd nevertheless. I blame Big Bang Theory. I watched all three seasons in two weeks and it might have coloured my thoughts about scientists. Where do I get off writing about a scientist? I failed math and science all the way through school. They fascinate me* but I do not understand them. She's very odd. I can't follow her thought processes. Yikes. I might just spend the afternoon writing down her day and stuff so I can get a handle on her.

I do know the music she likes, and what weather makes her most happy. I know what she likes about places and people. I know what motivates her. I know who she loves.

Ah, but she's in the middle of a major identity crisis. No wonder I can't get a handle on her. Any suggestions for how to write from her perspective?

Here's another tree photo. The hero hails from close by

A few observations

This week I learned that if I make plans to write at a particular time for a specific length, then tell people, I will do it.

Peer pressure works on me.

I also learned:

I may never be done research. One thing leads to another then another and somehow everything I've written up to this point dovetails nicely with what I've just learned yet somehow I still need more information so that my characters don't sound like idiots. Although I wonder what the scientific community knows that I don't (plenty!) that they're not making the same connections I am and curing cancer.

Walking the terrain gives me a few shortcuts. I don't have to puzzle out logistics. My characters don't drive 300 miles out of their way to go for dinner. Or to work.

I do not have a large enough vocabulary to describe that awkward first meeting between two characters who will change each other's lives. The descent into cliches is swift and deep.

Some days the words flow. Other days they must be chiseled out of stone with a toothpick.

Taking those observations into consideration, what cliched scene have you read that really worked for you regardless of flaws?

Father`s Day

My dad was posted to Egypt a month after his wedding. The man faced a lot of adjustment when he returned a year later. I was three months old.

A few weeks ago, I found some postcards and letters he wrote to his parents from Egypt. Coincidentally, my aunt came across another one Dad wrote to his brother around the same time. She sent me a copy this week.

Reading them, I`m struck not only by how young he was, 21, but also how much his tone changed. He`s always been a serious man, with moments of great silliness. The letters were much lighter than I expected given his situation. I bought a hassock the other day. Ìf I can`t figure out a way to get rid of the smell, I`m chucking it over the fence.

It was amusing to read about his thoughts on my embryonic self. Mom was convinced I was a boy. He didn`t care as long as I was healthy. His great-grandfather was unwell(in his late 90`s)and Dad hoped he`d that we`d get to meet. We did.

Reading how much he loved the country, the people, I`m reminded of the stories I grew up hearing - sandstorms, camels, and coffee that tasted like seaweed. There was one brief allusion to the Middle East in the 60`s - Everyone changes over here...I think sometimes that we all leave here a little bit crazy.

But he was anxious to come home and be a family with Mom and I.
I`m really happy about the baby. I received a signal Thursday morning at 7:30 am and a telegram at 11 o`clock. We had quite a celebration in the club. It started at 7:30 in the morning and lasted until midnight.There were an awful lot of people who didn`t go to work...I want to know all about our daughter. I`ll be home in fifty-one days. Hurrah!

Dad was stationed at home when my brother was born. As a big sister, I remember all of the excitement. Dad never cared about our gender, health was his concern.

We tested him plenty over the years in that area and many others. We butted heads about politics and house rules, yet he supported us in all of our choices, even when those same choices baffled him.

It`s easy to forget our parents were young, had dreams and expectations of life. Reading my dad`s letters written when he was a young man has provided me with a great deal of insight into his character, a glimpse of the man, as opposed to the dad.

I`m going to transcribe the letters so that my niece and nephew can add a piece to the puzzle that is their grandfather. I wish I`d thought of it sooner to give to Dad for Father`s Day.

The letters confirmed what I already knew. He is quite the interesting man, my dad. I do love him.

True Love

The reason I write romance, and believe heart and soul in true love:



Fifty years, and many challenges later, my parents are still in love with each other

Front door

I'm thinking of starting a blog called The Front Door. It will simply be pictures of people's front doors.

The idea was inspired by this one

What do you think?

Plotting

Life is kicking my ass. That happens sometimes. This will come in handy later when I torture my characters. I'll draw on life experience to add depth and reality to their scenes.

In the meantime, I'm plotting what lies beyond this gate...

Contemplating

Spring is here. The weather is lovely, plants are growing, sprouting, blooming. I'm still contemplating all the information I gathered on my research trip to North Carolina. I have to figure out some backstory as it's essential to the why of the plot. I'm piecing together some information and looking at how certain trees thrive in multiple and diverse climates. Once that's done, I plan to sit down and write until the words dry up. Or for a minimum of two hours every day.

In the meantime, here's Brynja's home in Carrboro, North Carolina.

What does it tell you about her personality?