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.