Hiatus

I woke at 5 and wandered in the dark between our bedroom and Gavin’s, patting every flat surface until I touched on my glasses. Husband and son breathed deeply, and I crept away to the basement to write.

Nearly every Saturday since November has begun in this same fashion. Starting this blog meant a concrete reason to get up and write. It meant I kept a promise to myself.

I learned the names of 2 Greek mythology figures this week. Scylla and Charybdis are the names of 2 sea monsters who flank a narrow strait, and the sailors passing must move carefully so as not to trigger either vicious threat. The expression between Scylla and Charybdis preceded between a rock and a hard place.

I have been evaluating my writing time, or lack of it. Working full time and mothering a 4-year-old fills my days, and then some. Work has picked up, both for me and Tom. The hourglass seems to be shrinking, and my book is in serious danger of neglect. I have also promised myself that I will have at least 4 freelance queries in circulation at any given time (borrowing from Hope Clark’s magic number of 13, which I hope to build up to over time).

I love my Saturday morning blog, the newness of it, the surprises, and I am guessing it will be resurrected in some fashion (perhaps an account on the journey of my book proposal!). I realized this morning that my blog has been a bit like dating: a good time, no heavy agenda, full of new possibility. My book is more like a marriage: a good time also, but subject to more ups and downs, requiring more thought and effort—something that offers a great return in the long haul but isn’t always exciting or romantic. But for now, even though the romance of the blog calls, I am taking a hiatus. I am encountering my own Scylla and Charybdis (so much I want to write, but threats on either side of my narrow writing strait).

If you come upon Digging with a Spoon, I hope that you find some encouragement here. I would love to hear from fellow readers, writers, parents, dreamers. Please drop me a line at khauswirth@sbcglobal.net.

Cool Snap

We are in a snap of cool weather (at least for August). What simultaneous delight and dread, to wake and shiver when it is chilly and dark, to layer a cocoon of cotton sweater and socks over my flimsy pajamas, to debate the relative merits of going back to bed, of hot versus iced coffee. The coolness seems to bring with it an anticipation different than the sweet, sultry anticipation of a cricket-heavy summer night. It is more like the blank, freshly cracked notebook of back to school.

Blank notebook, also simultaneous delight and dread to a writer. So much to say, but how and where do I begin? Will anyone want to read it?

I keep picking up a book that my sister sent: The Practical Writer, a collaboration by the Poets & Writers staff, is one of the best collections of writing advice I've seen. It's got everything from editor etiquette to how to promote your work digitally, and a long list of Grants and Awards in the back. Juicy.

This morning I flipped to a piece on the essay, "literature's most misunderstood form". It contains a quote from OB Hardison, Jr: The essay is the enactment of the process by which the soul realizes itself even as it is passing from day to day and from moment to moment. Yes, that is what I love about the poor, misunderstood, even maligned, essay.

It is true that people don't light up when you tell them you write essays. They think of school compositions, bone dry and contrived. They don't think of Death of a Hornet by Robert Finch , or Living Out Loud by Anna Quindlen. These authors are so different: the first pulls off reflections on Cape Cod nature with admirable grace, the second is a hodgepodge of fresh thoughts on mostly female-oriented topics. The key for me is, as Hardison said, you can see both writers realizing their own souls. It is a treat to be invited into the process, at least when writers write as well as these.

I worked on a book chapter on spirituality this week and had to put it aside. So much, and so little, to say. Thinking with a refreshed mind, maybe I was not so far off the mark when I described writing as the biggest spiritual thing I do. Maybe I should do more, but there it is. To sit and muse, to indulge in contemplation, to drink in the unusually cool August air and appreciate the hush of the morning and the warmth of my sweater while creating something new, to me this is somehow a holy indulgence.

Gavin found a new and completely unexpected way into my heart yesterday. Although I 've read him plenty of books (latest favorite, highly recommended: The Wolves in the Walls) I have not discussed literature with him. He laid a gem at my feet, courtesy of a short lesson by his teacher Tyler. We sat and watched Everybody Loves Raymond while we digested our supper and got ready to go to bed. Gavin wondered aloud: Is this nonfiction? I could have kissed him (actually I'm sure I did): my budding writer. Sweetie, that's what Mommy writes. Did you know that? We talked about how Raymond is probably mostly fiction (but could be autobiographical), and then we read Lyle, Lyle Crocodile (decidedly fiction) before bed.

PS: I am contemplating ending this blog: time is so scarce and my book is languishing, undernourished from lack of consistent attention. Can I transfer the hopeful essence of my Saturday morning blog to my book, so that now every Saturday without fail I wake and write (or revise) a chapter? It might make more sense.

PPS: Found a fun blog this morning when searching for Robert Finch. Onepotmeal (where bears smoke and type) describes itself as a weblog about reading, writing, nature, culture, and bears with bad habits. It's got some very thought provoking quotes, and a great sense of humor.

After the Storm

For a long time it had seemed to me that life was about to begin — real life. But there was always some obstacle in the way, something to be got through first, some unfinished business, time still to be served, a debt to be paid. Then life would begin. At last it dawned on me that these ‘obstacles’ were my life.
—Fr. Alfred D’Souza

The storm hit Thursday and took a leggy maple and electric, phone, and cable wires down in the front yard and across the driveway. Our services are finally restored, and Tom will spend at least half the day reducing the tree to pickup bed sized limbs and making dump runs. I will be disposing of most of the refrigerator contents and trying to catch up with laundry, etc. Gavin will be having a small “film festival’ (videos on the couch) while I try to regain household equilibrium.

We spent the second hot, powerless night at a nearby hotel and I managed to revise one of my book chapters. I am writing about Harriet Beecher Stowe, and finding that one of her gifts was to weave writing in with her very hectic life, rather than trying to separate it out.

I love the quote by D'Souza: I suppose a real pessimist might say, oh, great, this is life? But I see it as an opportunity, as a reflection of deeper beliefs. Every moment is an opportunity to live fully and thoughtfully. Realistically, at least for most of us, a space will never clear where suddenly we have gotten all of the ‘busywork’ done. We have to find our spaces away from the hustle and bustle (today, a beach afternoon at our friend Cecilia’s) and figure out the best ways to weather our personal storms.