Category Archives: Writing

Whew.

Winter                                                                Cold Moon

Well.  First face-to-face (other than Kate) over the finished manuscript.  Lonnie had some cogent critiques.  My experiment with multiple first person narrators didn’t work for her.  She also wanted to see more character development on major characters.  But, on the whole, she thinks Missing is strong and won’t “require a major rewrite.”  It was fun to talk about my work with someone in addition to Kate.

(Valhalla)

Then the comedy began.  I picked up my eye drops (for glaucoma) and went to Walmart (I know.  But the price was $90 less than anywhere else.) to pick up two 50 pound barbells and two 45 plates for the leg press.  50 pounds I can do.  But.  The two 45’s were in one package.  I cannot lift 90 pounds.  So.  The one time I really needed a knife, which I usually carry, I’d left it at home.

They had that plastic shrink wrap over them.  Had to saw at it with my car key, setting off the door locks, then a beeping noise.  Quiet them down.  Back at it.  After what seemed like a very long time I finally got the package open and pulled them out one after the other.  Then onto home.  Whew.

Break A Leg

Winter                                                                       Cold Moon

Going to meet Lonnie Helgeson this morning for her critique of the 1st draft of Missing.  I’m a little nervous, performance anxiety mainly.  My baby has exposure to the world now and I want it well received.  But whatever her analysis, I’ve got five others coming, too.  After this feedback, I’ll head back into Missing for a second draft.  See where that gets me.

I’m very appreciative of everyone who’ve read Missing.  Kate read the rough draft and helped me get to the 1st draft.  She’s now read it again and I have her remarks already in writing.

Not sure quite how to proceed so I’m waiting to collect as many as I can before I review them all and get set for another (third) rewrite.

 

Living in Season

Winter                                                               Cold Moon

Winter is upon us.  Beginning to give more thought time to my Living in Season presentation for Groveland on the 27th.  The short version is this:  learning to adapt your life to the season, rather than the seasons to your life.  I mean this on at least two levels: the literal and the metaphorical.

(A seasonal round.  This is a new idea to me, but I like it a lot.)

The literal can include such things as caring for plants outside during the growing season.  Maybe in a container, a window box.  Maybe in a flower bed or a vegetable garden.  Could be an orchard or a woods.  Maybe a community garden.  Something to synch up at least part of your daily life with the emergence of plants from winter’s fallow time.

It can also include intentionally leaving time in your winter schedule for retreats, inside projects like crafts or writing or visiting friends.

Perhaps in all the seasons hiking might be part of your plan, a liturgical response similar in all seasons but changed by them in profound ways.  If you can’t hike, get someone to help you be outside some amount of time each week.  Yes, even in the dreaded middle weeks of January.

Metaphorical:  first, know which season of your life you are in.  Are you college age, in the still vigorous growth years?  Or, are you in the mature years, the years of the late growing season, the early harvest days?  Or, like me, are you in the days of the late harvest, headed toward the long, eternal fallow time?

Here, too, we can find analogical help from living in season.  When sun and rain and warm temperatures push a plant up, up, up, perhaps that time right around flowering, then it must attend as well to its roots, not forgetting the stabilizing and nutrient gathering powers of those underneath surface parts.  So, for example, when college and the world of work begins to beckon, as graduation nears and your own unique bloom begins to present itself to the universe at large, this may be a time to recall hometown, old friends, family.  Favorite hobbies and pets and places.  It may seem that these people and places hold you back, hold you down, are heavy anchors weighted to yesterday.  But, no.  Instead these are the anchors in the deep subsoil of your life that hold you up, feed those parts of you that remember the child you once were, remind you of the long strengths that balance the new, shiny ones obtained through education.

Anyhow, stuff like that.  More by the 27th.

The Old Ways

Winter                                                                     New (Cold) Moon

Ancientrails.  A name happened on by accident, now 8 years ago.  Still, it stuck and its meaning seems to grow.  Dug deeper into my psyche as those years have gone by.

Recently discovered a book, The Old Ways, by Robert Macfarlane.  Here’s a bit from a book review in the Guardian:

“…this is the story of many journeys. Fifteen of them are made by Macfarlane himself, along paths in the British Isles and, further afield, in Spain, Palestine and Tibet. He invokes, as he goes, hundreds of previous walkers, and hundreds of pathways – across silt, sand, granite, water, snow – each with its different rhythms and secrets. So the book is a tribute to the variety and complexity of the “old ways” that are often now forgotten as we go past in the car, but which were marked out by the footfall of generations. And it is an affirmation of their connectedness as part of a great network linking ways and wayfarers of every sort.”

In a word, yes.  Yes.  These are ancientrails.  In this case actual trails and paths, but ones that encompass in their reality the more archetypal meaning I have when I use the term here.  Just as there hundreds of pathways across all manner of surface there are even more pathways of the heart, the mind, the genetic paths, the orbits of planets and the movement of stars and galaxies.

Then, yesterday while at lunch with Allison she mentioned, again, Emily Johnson, one of the videoed artists whose life size figures graced the Thaw exhibit at the MIA a couple of years ago.  Allison had become a disciple of sorts, going to a three-day workshop, making a fish skin lantern and even dancing within one of Emily’s pieces last year.  Allison’s fish skin lantern is now on stage with Emily at the Baryshnikov Ballet.  Allison thought of ancientrails in relation to Emily’s work.

Here’s why from a recent NYT piece:

“Structurally Ms. Johnson sees her new “Niicugni” (nee-CHOOG-nee) as encompassing “The Thank-you Bar.” Within an installation of 51 handmade fish-skin lanterns, created by Ms. Johnson and participants from workshops held in conjunction with residencies around the country, the work explores ideas about how a place, including a body, can tie everything and everyone together. It focuses on the wholeness of land, rather than its territorial borders.

“I know what it feels like to walk on the land I grew up on,” she said. “It’s very spongy. The trees and the ground smell earthy and piney. I’m really interested in not forgetting that there’s ground underneath this floor, and that we are all connected, via land, via ground, even in the sense that the ground is made of the remains of all creatures that have ever existed, including our ancestors.”

In “Niicugni” Ms. Johnson performs intricate duets with the dancer Aretha Aoki; some of the choreography is rooted in improvisations that required them to imagine they were dancing on earth. Part of the inspiration for the piece came from a picture of a mountain. “You see a huge physical structure that seems so permanent and so still, but then you can see where there was maybe a rock slide,” Ms. Johnson said. “You can see the precariousness of it. The contradiction between presence and movement is a possibility at every moment.””

And of these three…

Winter                                                                          New (Cold) Moon

Still parsing the change that happened over the last year or so.  It may have something to do with Kate’s retirement.  Allina and medicine as practiced there made her so unhappy.  With that out of her life she’s a different woman.  That may have had more effect on me than I imagined.  Perhaps relieved in me some of the emotional carrying charge I had as spouse.  Not sure.  Just speculative.

It may also have been the soul clarifying advance into life past 65; life lived with an existential awareness of death, rather than an abstract one.  Thinking about the third phase and its opportunities did lead to understanding what I wanted to do.  What only I could do.  And the necessity of putting myself behind those efforts as much as I can.

As that picture has become more filled in, I find myself focusing on three things:  writing, art, Latin.  That’s not to say that the garden, the bees, reimagining faith won’t get any effort from me.  They will.  But the good time, the time when I work best now belongs to those three.  It also means that I’m going to shun picking up any other responsibilities in the near and medium-term future.

And of those three, writing is the focus:  completing the Tailte trilogy, reworking the five other novels I’ve written, polishing some short stories and getting further in three novels I’ve got well started but left hanging.  If things go well with the Tailte trilogy, I have more books in that world.  It’s a rich vein.

Getting older.  Getting clearer.  Getting more determined.  That seems to be the direction.

A Sabbatical

Winter                                                                    Moon of the Winter Solstice

Winding down.  Last two days of tours.  A vast stretch of mornings between next Monday and July 1st.  I’m excited.  Rewriting.  Writing.  Marketing.  Lots to do.

One outdoor to do over the next few months.  Get out in Anoka county.  Hike.  Take pictures.  Make some phenological observation.  Maybe take a week plus somewhere, hiking from a cabin or perhaps, if I can find one, a trail going from inn to inn.  I’m feeling the need for some natural rejuvenation.  Not cities.  Not books.  Not movies.  Not art.

Mostly though I want to lean into the writing.  Make it as full time as I can.

A Good Lay (sorry, couldn’t help it)

Winter                                                                       Moon of the Winter Solstice

The Lay of Thrym.  It recounts how Loki convinced Thor to visit jotunheim (home of the giants) in drag.  Thor woke up one day and his hammer, the famed mjollnir, had gone missing.  He complained to Loki and Loki agreed to set off on a quest to find it.

(detail from Marten Winge’s Thor’s Battle with the Giants)

Find it he did.  Thrym had it.  “Eight rasts below the surface of the midgard.”  A rast, according to one website, was a bit more than a mile.  Too far to dig, in other words.

Thrym offered Loki a deal.  He wanted Freyja, a goddess among the Aesir famed for her attractiveness to giants.

Loki agreed, returned to Asgard, told Thor and then went to see Freyja who rejected the idea.  A lot.

Loki had another idea.  He convinced Thor to wear Freyja’s bridal wear, including her famed Brisinga necklace.  Thrym was so taken with her appearance at jotunheim that he ordered mjollnir brought in and placed on her knees.

The lay then says, “Laughed Thor’s soul in his breast…”  And in the very next sentence:  “He first slew Thrym…and the jotun’s race all crushed…”

“So got Odin’s son his hammer back.”

 

A Change

Winter                                                                Moon of the Winter Solstice

A softening.  Some change.  Kate thinks more vulnerable.  Maybe.  Now the writing seems more.  Why?  Not sure.  A certain confidence has crept up on me.  A willingness to succeed. Which. I. Have. Not. Had.  On the other hand, too, a willingness to fail.  Not to hide.

(Newone   Flannagan)

Seems like an odd change for a guy facing down 66 on this Valentine’s Day.  A welcome one though.  Now the writing feels real.  Like the rabbit.  Carried around so long and loved so well that it has become real.

 

The Eddas

Winter                                                        Moon of the Winter Solstice

Another day amongst the Eddas.  Reading.  Hearing.  Seeing.  Letting the world of the Nordic gods wash over me, immersing myself in its rhythms, its logic, its conflicts and wonders.

(Walhall by Emil Doepler)

Like the Celtic myths these suffer from an interpretation problem.  That is, they were recorded by Christians or by Romans.  In either case the translators and compilers of these myths had an ax to grind.  A fundamental conflict with the metaphysics, a desire to wipe out the pagan world motivated many Christian redactors of folk traditions.  Though, it must be said in fairness, not all.

In the Roman case there was a general willingness to let conquered people have their own religions, so in that sense there was not the same kind of problem.  Yet, there was a similar one in that Romans and pagans alike often compared folk deities to Roman deities.  But, more to the point, there was the assumption of cultural superiority on the part of Romans.  Since many of the conquered peoples were pre-literate, the first written evidence of their cultures comes in Latin.  That very act, transforming local stories into Latin entails translation, interpretation and assumptions, all from a single direction, the Roman, since the conquered peoples could not write.

Fortunately, for my purposes in this case, I don’t care.  Much.  It’s the spirit and the tenor and the names and the stories that I want, not scholarly accuracy.  At other points I’m very interested in the question of what was truly Celtic or Nordic and what an overlay from their interpreters.  Today, not so much, though I do look out for obvious interpolations of Christian or Roman assumptions.

Pruning

Winter                                                                Moon of the Winter Solstice

Tomorrow the legislature goes into session and for the first time in three years I’m on the sideline.  A bit wistful.  A bit chagrined at getting out just when the getting might get good.  Yes. Yes.  Doubtful about the decision?  No.

It’s midwinter, the time for pruning in the orchard.  Fruit trees need space for air to circulate, fewer branches so they can focus their growth on less fruit with more vigor, and space, too, in which a harvester can reach.  Plus, if possible they need to be kept shorter.  Easier to harvest and less prone to damage during wind storms and heavy wet snow.

Just so my life of a year ago.  I’d allowed branches to grow every which way.  Too many branches.  The fruit might be greater in quantity but not as good a quality.  There was little space to reach inside the tree, watch an idea blossom, nurture it, then pluck it.  My tree had become overgrown and needed pruning.

It wasn’t easy.  The people at the Sierra Club are fellow travelers.  Folks who see a world and want it better.  Folks willing to do what it takes.  I admire that stance and have made it my own for much of my life.  I miss that sense of agency and I miss the camaraderie.

Yet.  The hours of driving, of having attention pulled away time and time again.  And the writing.  Peaking now, for some reason.  At this late stage of life.  It was the tree I had not nourished.  So I made the decision and pulled away.

I’ve pulled back from everything but Latin, art and writing now.  The art temporarily, till July 1st, but all else, at least for now, permanently.

And so the gavel will go down, the great sausage grinder start up its rusty gears and I will sit at home and think of Odin.