Madness and Magic

Henry James said, "We work in the dark—we do what we can—we give what we have. Our doubt is our passion and our passion is our task. The rest is the madness of art."

So feeling a little mad, using the white rabbit as a reference, I have made a dive back into writing. It never ceases to amaze me how much joy it gives me. As the words start to move across the page, it’s as if light moves outward from my core and suffuses me.

Last week, after several meetings back with my writer’s group, I read them an excerpt from my YA novel. I had not looked at it for a year. I was terrified to actually do this, but the anticipation of their critique was much more horrifying than the reality. They were kind but gave some very helpful suggestions. I have been stuck for awhile. Not knowing whether to move forward or let it go. I had queried several agents over several years about several manuscripts… and those that did respond, passed. Was it the queries? Was it the topics? Was it…drum roll…the writing?

I had become so immobilized by the wall of rejection that I was having a hard time getting on with it. I have been writing for most of my life but seriously for about 17 years. To be fair to myself, I spent many of those years, first writing novel one and then researching the business of how to get published. Oh yeah, and learning how to use a computer so I could type my manuscript. What I learned aside from “there are no rules” (well, almost none) could easily fill another novel

So I got the critiques and it was now my task to implement the ideas that made sense to me. When you hear the same thing from several writers whose work you respect, you take heed. That’s your clue. Your starting point. So I sat at my computer and asked myself, “Do you really want to do this again? The rewriting, the polishing, the researching agents, the submissions?” Because it is a royal pain, let me tell you.

I thought and thought and thought, staring at the computer. Well, I must be that mad artist because I couldn’t think of another single thing I would rather do. That’s the magic part.

Cutting to the Bone

Writing. Trying to start over. It’s painful. I’m not sure why. Fear of failure? Fear of success? (I highly doubt that). I move through the house trying to find things to do… and it’s not hard… bills, laundry, lists, lists of lists, organizing, straitening, cleaning (as little as possible of that), email, Facebook, reading, watching TV. What’s up with that by the way? I have never, I mean NEVER watched daytime TV. Okay, being honest here, I did watch General Hospital for a period in the ‘80’s. But with that one exception, never.  I’m sure there are a few worthy things on… but it’s just not me. It’s always seemed a waste of time… time that could be spent on other things… more productive things. So I must be really desperate not to write.

There was a time when truly critical life issues stopped my writing. Family illnesses… plural..and then personal health challenges. During that time I could have written about the experiences, but I was too overwhelmed. Getting through was my only goal.

So now I really have free time. It’s summer break and I’m not working outside the home. We are home from vacation. Everyone is well, knock on wood, spit over both shoulders. So, if I’m honest, I can do it. I’m looking at myself in the proverbial mirror and asking, “if not now, when?” 

That's the question.

Lunch with Friends

It needs to be said. I value my time with my friends as one of the great gifts of my life. Coffee, a glass of wine, lunch, dinner, just hanging out, it doesn’t matter. There is something special I get from that time that is not matched by any other interaction. Not from family time, not from alone time, not from people at work or performing on stage. I love all these things, immeasurably, don’t get me wrong. But I want to sing the praises of friendship. There is nothing like it.

Our time, after all, is so precious. As we get older (perhaps because we know it is not unlimited) it becomes even more so. My aspiration is to refuse to continue to do anything that brings me down or spend my time on shallow, unnecessary obligations. Pretty lofty, yes? I want to spend my time in a way that enriches me, motivates me and hopefully those I am with.

When I sit down with friends, real friends, we talk so fast that we overlap… but that’s okay. We talk about everything from our hopes and dreams to our frustrations and pain. We talk about books, about tv shows, about Nia (we even do a little sometimes). We talk about what inspires us… and what doesn’t. We share ideas. We encourage. We tell the truth. I think. We laugh and laugh and laugh. Friends are good medicine. They are a large part of what makes me, me.

So to my friends, you know who you are, Thank you, Thank you, Thank you.

Leaving

Leaving my children is akin to reaching in and removing my heart from my chest. Little wonder as I gave it to them a long time ago. Little by little, I will piece it back with phone calls, cards, letters, skype (who said all technology is bad:)), lunch or dinner with friends, reading, writing. A busy life. I will breathe again. It's not new or profound or particularly poetic, it just is.


People always told us (other parents, primarily) that we would be relieved when they left and struck out on their own. Not glad exactly, just relieved. Unfortunately it was not so. We enjoy their company. Always have. We raised them to be independent, opinionated, intelligent, strong and thinking individuals. It is no surprise that they soared with delight and freedom when the time came. So I think we did our job, if not well, then at least with gratitude that we didn't screw up too much. But with their freedom comes the wrenching of the tearing cords. The silken, spider-silk-strong cords that must break to allow them autonomy.


With wings released, soar my Darlings, soar.