Posted on

Knit One, Purl Two, Write 500.

For the next several weeks, I’ll be wishing I had four hands: two to write, two to knit.

With Christmas just around the corner, I am behind – again – on my  gift schedule. This year I have yet to rewrite my list four or five times (whether for neatness or edits). But, with a whole afternoon to myself today, I shopped anyway.

At one point, I stopped at the fabric store and perused the yarn aisle. Drawn to the color and the texture of yarn, I bought more than I needed, I’m sure. While I can’t wait to get to my needles, I approach knitting with caution. If you read my last post, you’ll know why. I’ve decided to knit dish rags this year (safe and easy, they say), and I’ll claim creative license if they don’t end up perfectly square.

On top of enough yarn for a stack of rags (hope my family plans on doing a lot of dishes), I also committed to write 500 words a day. Thanks, Debbie Ohi, for the challenge. The badge is up. With today’s 500 under my belt, I’m on my way.

In Julia Cameron’s The Artist’s Way, she writes that creativity presents itself in many different ways. All we have to do, as artists or writers or knitters, is open our mind to the Spirit (or muse) that guides us. 500 words a day doesn’t sound like much, especially when you’re just coming off of NaNoWriMo, but it still means sitting down and writing or editing 500 words on one story or another. I hope, in knitting dishrag after dishrag (boy, that’s an unappealing cluster of words), one creative endeavor will influence another.

Posted on

In Texas

I live a double life.

My right leg stands in a state
With four seasons and my eye towards the future,
While my left foot dips in another,
Searching for remnants of
Pastures and two-lane roads.
And, each time I return,
To one home or the other,
I am torn.

I sat at the lunch table.
My daughter on my left; my grandmother on my right.
One spoke in sing-song silliness,
The other spoke in running commentary
Of my history.

In my chest,
There was a stirring
Of emotions.

I looked around and saw
That I would be the only one
To cry.
So I willed my eyes dry.
And, I swallowed, hard, my gulp of tea.
I listened, instead,

To my grandmother’s stories as they rolled off her tongue.
Her thin lips formed each detail
With confidence and accuracy.
Her voice never wavered.
Her eyes twinkled when she spoke
Of mischief
And narrowed when the subject grew dark.

No one questioned her faith.
In fact, I wondered if I, too,
Could send away the Devil
With one loud rebuke,
“In the name of God!”

For five or six hours
She sat in the same chair,
Cushioned with a leather pillow,
As listeners cycled.
She leaned in with gossip.
She leaned over with advice.
She leaned back with a smile.

I burned her image into my mind.
I tried hard to memorize her words,
So I could repeat them,
In years to come,

To my daughter,
Who won’t remember
The moment at the lunch table
With Nanny
In Texas.

Posted on

Pulling My Head Out of the Sand

Today is Wednesday – mid week, mid month – and I’m avoiding my NaNoWriMo novel. Tamora Pierce wrote a great pep talk for NaNo-ers this week, who (like me) are spending their valuable writing time reading emails and blogs. She listed several questions I can ask of my characters to help get my creative juices flowing again. I read her talk and thought, yes. I will ask those questions. Definitely.

But today is Wednesday, and Wordsmith.org doesn’t put their word of a day routine on hold for NaNoWriMo. I’ve committed to write on Wednesday’s word of the day, nevermind I’m easily distracted and willing to do  just about anything…even vacuum the cobwebs from the corners of every room in my house.  Wait, that’s NaHoCleMo.

Anyway, Wordsmith’s word of the day today is expiate: a verb meaning to atone, to make amends for.

So, I hereby expiate for leaving my NaNoWriMo characters in a lurch this week.

To my dear friend Millie, who prefers to live life watching others through the glass pane of windows, I am sorry I left you at that party, in the middle of a crowd, vunerable and windowless.

To Mr. Millstead, who I continue to address as Mr. Millstead. Eventually, I will get back to my draft and figure out when and where I can start calling you by your given name, and therefore let your character fill out and your face color up.

To Marcie, who’s pissed off at the world and likely at me, since I have given her minimal dialogue and few appearances in the novel thus far. I realize you have much to say, and I intend, wholeheartedly, to give you your day.

To Mrs. Wilson, who showed up in the beginning in a lovely opening scene and was cut, by this author’s swift and indifferent hand, in the first few days. You were kind enough to revisit the story and even willing to let your name take the limelight.

My dear characters, in my first draft of Missing Mrs. Wilson, I promise (with my right hand on my heart and my left hand in the air) to write my way to 50,000 words, even if it takes me until Christmas.

***

Phew, that’s a load off.
Now. Enough stalling. Back to that novel.