journeys of a restless mind

official vehicles only

wrenching

This whole process is proving more emotionally involving that I thought it would.  In part because I am digging deeper into something that is important to me, but also, I think, becuase the characters I'm writing about, the characters who are now starting to whisper in my ears, are very personal.  They are parts of me, of course. There is something very wrenching about bringing them to life and, more importantly, to light.

I forget

I forget how much writing fiction can stir things up. I forget how hard it is to be around strangers all day, to make small talk with them.  I am exhausted. I have started down the path and there's no going back. You can't refill the hole once you start digging there. It is forever changed. You are forever changed.

writer's conference first impressions

There are more women than men by about 4 to 1.  At dinner I sat with a woman who has been to the conference four times, a very good looking high school science teacher/poet, a set designer, a student, and a secretary at a school that serves emotionally disturbed students. I found someone I know who is not only attending the conference, but is in my workshop track.  I just discovered that the leader of my workshop track writes really dark and violent, yet highly intelligent and philosophical work.  I am glad I didn't pay attention to this before; I think it would have colored my impressions too much.  I like hanging out with writers.

writing

The writer's conference starts tomorrow. Part of me is surprisingly calm, and of course, another part of me is freaking right the hell out.  It's been an intense and crazy time at work, and some unwelcome changes are on the way.  Good time to have a week off. One of these days I'm going to have to take a proper vacation, one that contains tropical climates, chaise lounges, a stack of novels, and people brining me drinks. Which is not to say that a week spent focusing on writing isn't a treat. But it is work.  Hopefully it will be work that revitalizes me.

Nicky

Promotional flyer for a series of concerts my grandmother's family performed, circa 1923.

Here's a piece I wrote about her back in 2005 when I was afraid that round of cancer was going to be the one to get her.

I thought I smelled her perfume today.  I was bringing Hijo's dirty clothes to the washing machine and was overcome by the scent of Estee Lauder's Youth Dew.  I don't even think she's worn any herself for years, but to me that perfume is her.  She would scoff at any notion of ghosts or an afterlife or anything like that, so I won't say it was that.  It was just the undeniable smell of her.

rest in peace

Dorothy Margaret "Nicky" Coulter
October 7, 1918 - July 1, 2008