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On Taking a Bye Week.

Right in the middle of the season, professional football players get a bye week. On injured reserve or not, they kick up their feet that Sunday and watch everyone else mix it up on the turf, cut across the field, get chased by antagonists. We should all be so lucky.

I’m taking a bye week, sort of. I’m not kicking my feet up, but my daughter has been on injured reserve for the past few days, in the asthmatic way, and needed some extra TLC. If you’re a parent, you know that multiple days with a sick kid at home means you lose track of time, you wander in circles. You eat smorgasbord for dinner, because nobody’s in the mood for a full-on dinner. And when I get loopy after walking in circles, I turn to knitting, not writing. I’m on dishcloth number three (simple and square are good for loopy). Knit, purl, knit, purl, knit knit knit.

Despite the sick and crazy, little bouts of creativity popped up here and there. One day, I settled my daughter into bed and she drew pictures while I read to her. Amazing pictures in between coughing fits: a colorful parrot, an American flag surrounded by a crowd of cheering patriots, and Ariel (from The Little Mermaid) all Picasso-style.

The next day, we baked up a batch of pumpkin bread that begged to be eaten right out of the oven. Pumpkin bread makes for a good afternoon snack, and may even be the cure-all. When I heard the little girlie singing in the shower and caught her getting all gussied up in front of the mirror, I knew she was on the mend.

The writing fairies haven’t totally ditched me either, despite my neglect of pen and paper. My flash fiction piece, “Iron Shadows,” hit the digital presses. You can read it here, in the Fall/Winter issue of Rose & Thorn Journal (Thanks to editors Kathryn Magendie and Angie Ledbetter!).

What would you do on a bye week?

* Rescue photo credit: Lazy_Lobster on Morguefile.com
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Bread, Books, and Coffee

Fall has a way of throwing me off balance. The weather turns cool, the rain drizzles, and my laptop doesn’t look half as cozy as the comforter on my bed. Hibernate first, write later.

That’s how I felt all last week, and very little writing got done. My mind wasn’t completely on sleep mode, though. I was busy feeding my creative self with other projects. And, sometimes, I was just busy.

Bread

In an effort to warm up and watch something develop (especially with my writing at a standstill), I dove back into the world of baking with yeast. Yeast and I are old enemies, in a kind and loving way. Yeast teases me, hints at some level of greatness, then leaves me with some concoction that weighs on the heavy side. The loaf of bread I pulled out of the oven last week, dense as it was, lacked substance, if you know what I mean.

It smelled good. It even looked good. But, all that kneading and watching and hoping yielded a rock-solid lump of grain that took a strong arm to cut into slices. If there was a circle of bakers similar to my writing critique group, I’d had marched that sucker straight to the table and begged them to show me no mercy. What is the secret to raising a perfect loaf of bread? And, can that translate into a good story? Or, at least a good sandwich?

Books

Remember that comforter I mentioned? I wasn’t kidding when I said I went into hiding. Come 9pm most nights, I crawled into bed with a good book. I started and finished reading Hillary Jordan’s When She Woke, a story about what happens when religion and politics mix too closely and women’s rights are thrown to the wayside. If you like Margaret Atwood, you’ll love this book. If you swing to the right, you might not like it so much. I don’t want to push politics here, but, while Jordan’s book is futuristic, much of the story hits way too close to home.

On a lighter note, and to balance my reading experience, I’ve also been sifting through stories of the past. My daughter and I are knee-deep into the Little House on the Prairie series, currently reading The Long Winter (no wonder I’m in hibernation mode). My son and I are halfway through Blackwater Ben, a YA fiction about a boy working with his father in the cookhouse at a lumber camp. Both books are set around the 1800’s, around the same time as that novel I’m finishing up. So, while I’ve been reading with the kids, my brain has been absorbing nuances of the 19th century life and studying the techniques of writing historical fiction.

Coffee

I’ve been drinking decaf for months now, maybe even a year. I can’t exactly remember, which is perhaps a side effect of cutting the caffeine. At any rate, I poured myself a cup of half decaf half regular last Saturday, and um, wow.

I finally sat down to do some writing and was typing 100 words per minute. No, I didn’t count the words, but who can count when you’re zipping through a draft of something that reads really well on a caffeine high. I even managed to rake several piles of leaves from the back yard all the way down the driveway to the curb like there was no tomorrow and somebody get me a refill on that coffee, would you?

Lordy.

What’s your story? Hibernation, or heavy on the coffee?

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In life and in writing, the message is the same.

I’ve been sitting on this post for several days now, trying to figure out exactly what I want to say, and how to say it. I’ve been hearing the same message, resurface again and again, in different conversations.

Suit up. Show up. Do the next right thing.

There’s so much in life that I cannot control. So much that baffles me and sends me in a tizzy as I try to understand. Yet, the more I search for the why and what for and that magic solution, the more elusive the answers.

Of one thing I am certain, though: when I put one foot in front of the other, when I shower and make my bed, when I eat my breakfast and carry out my day, when I move from one small task to another, I arrive in the exact right place. There. In the light. For a second. Under the wings of a power so much greater than myself.

Take a breath.
Trust.
Do what’s in front of me.

Not every revelation comes as a burning bush, but eventually I see with more clarity.

All that is true in writing as well, the dizzy worry and that search for the perfect solution. I struggle through a story, and I think, Why? What for? Where’s the damn thread in all this mess? Yet, all I really have to do is suit up and show up. Put one tiny word in front of another. Take a breath and trust.

Because nothing comes out perfect the first time. Rarely does it smooth out the second time. But the more I keep at it, the more I push forward, the more will be revealed. And, in the end (and there is always an end to the madness), there I sit. In the light of a story pulled straight from the heart and written on the page. Maybe it doesn’t hold all the answers to the problems I will face the next time around, but somehow – for the moment – I feel better.

What’s your message this week?

Photo credit: Grafixar on Morguefile.com