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Gearing Up for a 30 Day Workout

nano_09_red_participant_100x100_1“[W]riting is physical,” Natalie Goldberg says in her book, Writing Down the Bones (p.50). I, along with many of my other NaNoWriMo participant colleagues (I think), would agree.

Last year at this time, I dove – head on – into writing. I’d been talking about writing all summer. I registered for a writing class that would take place just after the new year. And, in a rare move contradictory to my no-risk personality, I signed up for NaNoWriMo. Even more surprising, I wrote a somewhat lucid story that inched passed the 50,000 word count. Up until the moment the purple NaNo word meter hit the 50,000 mark and flashed “you’re a winner,” I authored only short, undeveloped stories that barely registered 1000 words.

This year, I signed up for NaNoWriMo by accident. Really. I logged on to my account to check up on an old message in my inbox. When a window full of legalese popped up and asked if I would accept, I thought, sure, I’ve been here before. Click.

Wait. Accept? Accept what? Oh, boy.

I tabbed over to my author info page. Sure enough, that little purple line was back down to zero. It stared me in the face, like a digital taunt, daring me to try again.

I’ve had to remind myself, as the days inch toward November 1st, that NaNoWriMo is another exercise in writing. Natalie Goldberg emphasizes the importance of exercise when she says “[t]he rule for writing practice of “keeping your hand moving,” not stopping, actually is a way to physically break through your mental resistances and cut through the concept that writing is just about ideas and thinking” (p.50). She, of course, means pen-to-paper. But, I believe, in translating her philosophy to hand-to-keyboard, NaNoWriMo offers a 30-day plan to whip my writer’s mind in shape: “cut through” my tendency to think too hard about a story, pound out 2000 words a day (on a good day), and see what becomes of the characters and the work.

NaNoWriMo is initiation by fire for those writers who want to come out of hiding. It’s a test of tolerance and discipline. And, it’s an intervention with your mind’s editor, a reason to send her away for the next 30 days. If writing 50,000 words of one story makes you want to take a nap, if you’d rather dream up your story than put it down on “paper,” remember writing is an art to be learned and practiced. No good story comes out perfect the first time around. I’ve heard it over and over, but my stubborn (sometimes egotistical) mind refuses to listen.

To combat that stubbornness, I’ll take on another 30-day challenge of late nights, fast typing, sweat, and a maybe a few tears. Oh, and fun. NaNoWriMo is supposed to be fun!

***

Natalie Goldberg, Writing Down the Bones (Boston, MA: Shambhala Publications, Inc, 1986), p. 50.

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In the Moment with Sherman Alexie

Wednesday night was alive with excitement, energy, and nostalgia.

My husband stayed home with the kids, and I ventured out on my own. I met a friend for dinner — a delectable meal void of macaroni and cheese, complemented with a cloth napkin, and paid for by my sweet friend. I ordered a glass of Pinot Noir, made by a vineyard who’s name  I can’t remember, which came with an entry card for a contest the vineyard was sponsoring. I sipped my wine like I’d just come of age and filled out a form to win a new bike in December. I dotted my I’s with fervor. I felt lucky.

We skipped dessert for a more enticing event happening around the corner at the Boswell Book Company: Sherman Alexie, live and in person, speaking and reading.

The bookstore was packed, and the air electric. It was standing room only, so my friend and I weaved our way in and out of bodies to the back, where we found a niche near a bookshelf with a perfect view. I scanned the crowd: old, young, diverse. As I thought of the experience we were all about to embrace, cheers erupted and there he stood.

He spoke for an hour. He read poems from his new book, War Dances. Like in his writing, his words struck the air in an often humorous, raw, and poignant way.

He spoke with passion about the way technology is changing how we experience art. As we turn more and more towards digital and high-speed tools, the human aspect of art, whether it’s music or reading or writing, is filtered out little by little. Sherman Alexie described digitized books as sterile, robbing us of the anticipation found in a hand held object that draws us in and envelops our every sense: touch, sight, smell.

The smell of a bookstore, especially a used or antique bookstore, was a sensual image I could grasp well. I thought about the hidden stacks in the library of my alma mater, where I ventured one day in my early college years. I can’t remember the book I needed to borrow, but in my search I found a spiral staircase that took me down, down, down. The deeper I went, the older the books. It was a hidden treasure, a secret room of words, stories, and leather binding. Still today, I am drawn to antique books for the feel, the look, the character of the book itself. Years ago I bought an antique book written in French. I couldn’t read a word of it, but it didn’t matter. I bought it for the beauty of the cover and the endpaper.

On Sherman Alexie’s official website, the summary of his new book, War Dances, speaks well to the feel of the night as it settled into the recesses of my mind:

“…War Dances takes us to the heart of what it means to be human. The new beginnings, successes, mistakes, and regrets that make up our daily lives….”

I love the tactile experience of reading a good book. In that moment when I pick up the book, I am completely present. I am thinking only of the title, the author, the cover, until my hands open to the first page and my eyes begin to read. Then, I fall into the story.

Sherman Alexie made a very strong impression.

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Photos don’t lie.

In a few short days, I turn 39, on the brink of middle-age.

I’m not sure how this is possible. I mean, my birth certificate says 1970, but I don’t feel like I’ve aged since 1997. So, either I’m young at heart, or I’m immature.

I suppose, in the scheme of life, 39 is still young. But, my body keeps throwing out mixed signals.

I love taking hand held photos – close ups of me and my daughter or me and my son. Once in a while, I convince my husband to join me behind the macro lens. The end photos used to be cute and silly. Now, digital camera playbacks make me shutter. In the photo, I see a set of eyes surrounded by a roadmap of wrinkles. Squinting in macro shots is no longer an option.

Finding a pair of pants that fits well is a growing concern. Not because I’m an odd size, but because there’s an area around my waist that refuses to stay in line and will not be contained. Low waist jeans are too unwieldy. High waist jeans are too ’80’s. I wonder why we don’t just bring back the girdle. Oh, right, they did. It’s called Spanx.

At the beginning of summer, I bought a new, daring, swimsuit: halter top style. But, when I put it on, I questioned my sanity. The top bared too much cleavage for an “almost 40, mother of two.” I wore it only twice, and each time I got a familiar response from bystanders, familiar because I have done the same thing when confronted with a 60-something woman at the beach who crossed the line. Avert the eyes. Stare. Avert. Stare. Wow.

One of my favorite quotes from my dad is one he tossed out when flipping through vacation photos:
Who’s that old man in the picture?

I understand that level of denial now.

For me, my age shows up briefly in photos, in swimsuits, in the tug of my pants. But a letter from the Department of Motor Vehicles stung even more. Apparently, this year, I’m due for a new driver’s license, new photo required. The letter might as well have read, “you’re old, Ms. Craig. Quick trying to fake it.”