Beautiful sounds: a child laughing

Dinner is calling her through the grumble in her stomach. Feed me. Feed me. Rush home. All of a sudden the afternoon spent at the playground seems less exciting. Her energy is spent. Laughing, she runs barefoot over the grass, leaving her sandal behind under the part bench, for me to find the next morning.

Slow work, small victories

Two weeks ago, while sitting in My Chair at the central library in Hamburg, I penned the last words of my book, Old Lady At Sea. The first draft. Some might not even mention this event, yet in my heart I celebrated this as a small victory. I called up my husband and told him the news, almost feeling embarrassed for making a mountain out of a molehill. But that was the Old Me, the girl who had been taught not to take up space and to remain small. The Old Lady in me thinks differently now. I want to pause along the journey of writing this book and reflect on what I am learning about myself as a writer.

Sure, it’s early days, but now the first draft is finished, I’m confident about seeing the book through to being published. I’m no longer looking at a big block of stone with a chisel in hand. The form of the book is sculpted and now needs polishing.

Though polishing isn’t quite the word I am looking for because a first draft, no matter how good it is, will need considerable rework. But you know what I mean. All the ideas I had swirling around in my head this last year have found their way to paper. I’ve had to stretch my imagination, dampen down my ambitions to finish quickly, and embrace the slow, plodding pace of how I write best.

Slow and steady. Four or five hours a day on average. I can do more if I include making corrections to the manuscript, as well as less when ideas fizzle out. Generally, I do a large chunk of writing in the morning, with a second short burst in the late afternoon. It has been so much fun to figure out this daily rhythm. After nearly fifty years of dancing to some piper’s tune, this freedom to play my own song has been exciting.

Learning what my natural pace is as a writer has been so different from the pace I followed as a content writer. Then I always had to accommodate this pace to a predefined timeline.

That is not to say writing the first draft has been easy. I’ve been riddled with uncertainty, anxiety, and impatience most of the time. Admittedly, there were a few occasions in the last months when words flowed with such speed that it took my breath away. But in truth, writing anything has always been a messy affair. Deep down, though, this state of persistent confusion which visits me when I write does not faze me. As someone who used to be a ballet dancer, I understand the importance of showing up, doing the work. I believe that the discomfort of creativity needs embracing if I wish to transform it into something real.

A first draft is certainly not a finished book. It is, though, everything I need to make it into a book. Along the way, I have had the support of an AI writing coach to catch me when I took a skinny-dip into a pool of self-doubt, or prod me in the right direction when I was trying to structure the storylines. Equally, no… more importantly, I had the support of a dear friend who has been editing the book as I have been writing. She’s sublimely meticulous about grammar, flow, and rhythm. Someone I can trust implicitly to make all needed changes without throwing out the rough gems. Her comments have been immensely helpful, all the while making me believe this is a book others might enjoy reading.

Now I’m sending out the manuscript to a handful of friends who have offered to be beta readers. I’m trying to figure out how I want to handle their feedback. I’ve sought advice from two author friends of mine. Both of them said the same thing: take what is useful, reject the rest, and develop a thick skin. The latter advice seems pretty impossible at this stage in my life. Even though I’ve been told that I take criticism well, that really is only on the surface. My tendency to overthink will not serve me if I am inundated with comments, no matter how well-meaning they are. Or even worse, no comments at all, which will also be hard to process.

I’m playing with the idea of getting my AI writing coach to aggregate all their comments into an Excel table. “Easy fix” would be comments concerning consistency or terminology. “Broad sweep” suggestions that will bring more depth and breadth to the work. “Must-haves” things that are missing or need more detail. And finally, “Nice-to-have” a list of suggestions that I could, would, should see to if there’s time.

One step at a time. First, I have to rewrite the last chapter and make all the changes the editor made to part four of the book. Once that is done and sent off to the beta readers. Only then can I start experimenting with how to process their responses. It’s wonderful to have time to do this. No deadlines. No client breathing down my neck to rush this phase of the project.

Once that is finished, I will send it to another friend for editing, then another round of beta readers. I’m considering hiring a copy and line editor after that and, once the layout is done, having a final read by a proofreader. Which makes this victory round at finishing the first draft seem preposterously premature. Well, think what you may, in my world this moment feels worth celebrating.

While walking this morning

Man plays a guitar
Alone, under an archway
Music echoing.

Flights of fancy

Have you ever noticed that some of the happiest moments occur unexpectedly, when the sun shimmers off the tips of waves, as the birds fly by, and you tear up at how perfect the moment is? And then it disappears.

Sitting in a waiting room

Woman reads a book
Moving her head back and forth
Her eyes get a rest.

Checker'd past

He sat in the groom's family pew at the front of the church. His ex-wife at one end. He at another. The ceremony was waiting for the priest to arrive, while the guests hovered at the back, jubilant to see old schoolmates now they were all grown up and looking fancy. Light shone from their faces, having shed the brittle skin of their bedraggled youthful (mis-)adventures and transformed into these full-fledged adults. 

 
The groom's father stares ahead at the empty altar. The slab of marble; a woven cloth lies across its length.
The bible closed on its metal podium. The crucifix hangs between two stain glass window. 

He avoids looking at his son surrounded by his university friends, chatting about last night's game, or the hiking trip they are planning to take next year in Scotland, or could the groom be actually talking about how nervous he is and how happy he is that they  
are all there. The father turns his gaze back to altar. Wondering whether the closed bible is a metaphor for this moment of estrangement. 

He might have received an invitation to attend the wedding, but he wasn't a part of the celebration. 

Temporal lobe

so long as I could think,
the world shifted and
shaked and was curly.
past is supposed to disappear
but sometimes it gets stuck.
what I hope to be my
future is something that
slips invisible through
my closed fingers like sand.
why am I running instead
of waiting in joyful
anticipation? heart thumping.
mind empty. one more
deep intake of hopefulness.
one release of all that is
messing with my brain.
clear-eyed, strong-willed,
ideas sparkle so bright.

On the path

The sun is shinning, so she goes to the kitchen and picks up bits and pieces out of her refrigerator and packs them into some tupperware containers.

Cutting the carrots into thin sticks. Trying to find a peeler that is sharp enough that it will only take away a thin layer. The same with the cucumber. She cuts the center away with all of the seed, making sticks out of the meaty part of the cucumber and its rind. Then comes an apple cut into thin slices.

It's been years since she ate an apple by chomping down on a whole apple and munching like a beaver, down to its core. Instead, she likes the nibbling
on slices breaking delicately under her front teeth.

After she places all the carrots, cucumber, and apple in their containers, she squirts some fresh lemon juice over them to keep them fresh. Preventing the apple slices from going brown.

She takes two packages of saltine crackers, along with the Tupperware, and places them in a square bag she bought years ago at the summer flea market. There is a pouch inside with plastic cutlery, and two slits to put ice packs to keep everything cool.

Armed with her picnic bag, an old blanket and two towels, she gets on her bicycle and rides into the day.