pegkerr: (Enchanted quill 2)
Sometimes these digital collages come together really easily.

This was not one of those cards. I spent about two hours on an approach that I ended up scrapping altogether and then spent another two hours coming up with this.

This is entirely appropriate because it is about something that has given me fits of agony for more than the last quarter-century: writing.

After I finished The Wild Swans, I made several attempts to start a new novel, without success. One attempt was the Ice Palace Book, and one was a sequel to Emerald House Rising. I agonized and flailed and wrote scads of entries on LiveJournal and Dreamwidth about my writers block, but I never figured it out. It's not surprising, really: I was attempting to work full time, raise a family, and manage a household (of which the three other members all had ADHD). And write. My back brain just didn't have the bandwidth to do anything creative. And so after a lot of grief and self-flagellation, I effectively put my writing away (picture it locked away in a trunk) and didn't attempt again to write anything publishable for almost twenty years.

The Alternity Game helped. That convinced me I could still write. Soul Collage and this digital card project helped, too. That showed me that I still have a creative side.

Several years ago, I extricated from a pile in my office the four chapters I'd written that were meant to be a new Piyanthia novel:
Chapter One


Reynardo was correcting student exercises when Bevan paid an unexpected visit to Freneca Hall and asked to see him. That must have been the reason, he decided later, that he was foolish enough to be glad that his old schoolmate had come.

An apprentice directed him to the south solar, where Bevan had been ushered to wait. It overlooked the garden, and he was standing at the window when Reynardo opened the door. It was a fine clear morning in early summer, and just below the window outside, bees were making a low thrum in the yellow patch of sweet lord’s buttons that Master Lionel tended so faithfully. Whenever Reynardo thought of the interview afterward, that was part of the memory: the warm, heady perfume of the garden in full flower, and the drone of the bees in the background, soporific and faintly menacing.
With some diffidence, I passed them on to Delia to read. "Mom! You should do something with this. It's really good! I want to see you finish it." I thanked her, and didn't do anything about it, but that raw encouragement continued to lurk in the back of my mind.

For the last several years, I have been having coffee every Friday with three other writing friends: Eleanor Arnason, [personal profile] lydamorehouse and [personal profile] naomikritzer. When the pandemic came, we switched to meeting over Zoom every Friday. They have all published more books than me and certainly have had more successful writing careers; we've had different life paths. But they did me the great courtesy of still considering me to be a writer too and gently encouraged me to keep revisiting the idea of writing--for publication or simply for fun. Lyda formed a writing critique group last year and assured me that I would be welcome to join.

And so I did. I dusted off those four chapters and ran them through the critique group, where they were well-received. But I wrote those chapters twenty years ago. How could I pick the book up again, particularly after failing so miserably the last time? I had no idea what happened next.

Then Lyda and Naomi told me that they were getting together an hour a day four days a week, on Zoom, simply to write. No talking. Just showing up and clicking keyboards. Would I like to join? No pressure. Just show up if you want, and if you can't, no sweat. The invitation was out there for several months. I kept making excuses. I got a concussion. I needed to recover. Ack, could I do it?

This past week, for the first time, I showed up.

I have written 1,231 new words on a book I began twenty years ago. Here is the opening of the new chapter I started this week:
Chapter Five


Of course, joining the players involved a certain amount of negotiation—and wrestling with his inner pride—over one issue: money.

“You will share in the profits, of course,” Tavia said briskly, “after a month, once we’ve had a chance to see that you will settle in well with us.” And I’ve had the chance to determine that you’re useful was the clear implication.

Reynardo swallowed. “Am I to eat during that month? I fear my hose will be hanging quite loose if I cannot. Hardly a look that would appeal to the audience.” He offered her his most blinding smile. “And I always make it a point of pride to appeal to the audience.

Tavia’s lips thinned, and he could sense that she was suppressing a sigh. Perhaps profits had been rather low lately. “I will stake your belly during that first month. No alcohol, though,” she added quickly. Drunken louts, clearly, were not useful.
I still have no idea whether I can finish it. I have no idea of my way through. But now I am 1,231 words closer to the end.

You have NO IDEA what a big deal this is.

Image description: Background: a sketchified picture of a pathless forest. A crossroads sign stands to one side, but the markers pointing in various directions are empty. Lower left foreground: an open wooden trunk. A woman (Peg) stands beside it, peering inside. Behind the trunk and the woman, overlaying the forest hovers a semi-transparent image of a woman's hand holding a quill pen, writing. Upper edge: individual thumbnail images of three women on Zoom: Naomi Kritzer (left), Peg (center), Lyda Morehouse (right).

Writing

14 Writing

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Icon meme

Oct. 18th, 2007 09:52 pm
pegkerr: (Default)
I got this meme from [livejournal.com profile] minnehaha:

Comment on this post. I will choose seven userpics from your profile and you will explain what they mean and why you are using them. Post this along with your answers in your own journal so others can play along.

Here were the icons [livejournal.com profile] minnihaha K. asked me about:

This is from the movie Sense and Sensibility (of the Jane Austen novel of the same name) and it pictures the actress Emma Thompson in the part of Elinor Dashwood. Throughout the book (and movie) the reserved Elinor ("Sense") stands in contrast to her sister, the romantic passionate Marianne ("Sensibility"). At the course of the novel, Marianne, who has always rather looked down upon Elinor for what she terms her coldness, learns that Elinor feels just as passionately as Marianne herself, except that she (unlike Marianne) exercises discipline over her emotions for a variety of reasons: because it is more honorable, more temperate, and because she does not wish to give her family and friends pain when she herself is hurting. My emotions have always been a difficult part of my own character to manage, and much of the process of my maturation has been learning how to handle them appropriately. I have adopted what I call my "Elinor Dashwood" mode (and I use this icon) to describe those times when my emotions may be tumultuous and painful, but I do not feel it is appropriate to make a parade of them, or to speak directly in my LiveJournal of what is bothering me. See this entry where I began the metaphor, and all of my entries tagged "Elinor Dashwood" here.

and Both of these icons (as well as my default icon) are representations of what I have come to call the Holy Tree. I first became aware of the term by reading Tolkien: he loved trees dearly, and they became central to his mythology, as depicted in The Silmarillion. (In the first manifestation of the world, there was no sunlight or moonlight. Instead, there were the Two Holy Trees, Telperion and Laurelin, from which shone golden and silvery light.) This idea has mingled in my imagination with my favorite poem of all, Yeat's The Two Trees. (I was introduced to it by Loreena McKennitt, who sang it as a song on her album The Mask and the Mirror.) The poet speaks of a magical tree which grows within the human heart, and contrasts that with a false vision of a blasted, barren tree, which may be seen when demons hold up their bitter glass (a mirror). To me, this poem is about one of the central struggles of my life, and it words it so beautifully. I am too apt to believe the demons who hold up the bitter glass, and show me a vision of a blasted and barren tree. I have been trying to see more clearly the holy tree, which the poet assures me grows within my own heart. The song is also a damn good description of cognitive therapy, one of the best I've ever read. When depression gets its claws into me, my tormentors are, indeed, the "ravens of unresting thought," who shake their ragged wings, alas. The key, the poet says, is to turn the eyes away from the bitter glass, with its false vision of the blasted tree, back to the holy tree within the heart. The first tree icon, highly stylized, I posted because I was considering it as a possible tattoo (it was on the cover of a devotional booklet distributed by my church). I still love the design, but I know it would have to be simplified and I am not sure I will ever do it (the idea of my getting a tattoo does horrify some members of my family). The second tree icon was taken from a watercolor done by Tolkien himself, picturing the Mallorn trees of the Golden Wood (from The Fellowship of the Ring).

This candle is an evocation of another important concept from Tolkien: A light in dark places, when all other lights go out. (This is a reference to the Vial of Galadriel, which was a source of light to Frodo in the cave where he encountered the spider Shelob. I use this icon when the depression seems to be waxing and the Light seems to be waning. I use it to remind myself that there is still light there, and I need to remember and draw courage from that.

This is a line from Pride and Prejudice, something said by the insufferable, bossy Lady Catherine DeBourgh. I swiped it from www.pemberley.com. I thought it might be good to use when I wanted to comment on other people's journals, although since I swiped it without permission I feel guilty about having it and so I haven't used it that often. It was actually these Pemberley icons that gave me the idea of creating my Tolkien icons.

This is a picture of the ice palace in St. Paul, taken from the air, at night. I was trying to write a fantasy novel, where the central character was the architect designing it. Unfortunately, I lost my way, and the book has been abandoned for now.

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