Transitions

Cricket McRae

I do love the transitions between seasons. Nothing like a Christmas cactus in bloom right next to the last green tomatoes ripening on the window seat. I count myself lucky to live in a place with distinct seasons. Just when you get tired of heat or cold or wind or Indian summer, it’s on to the next thing.

Wait. No one gets tired of Indian summer. What was I thinking?

And I love the transitions between projects. One of my favorite things about my years at The Mother Ship was the cyclical nature of software development. The writing of a book has a life cycle, as well, made up of all kinds of different pieces. The inception of an idea, the sketchy plans, the implementation of those plans, replanning, writing and rewriting and playing with language and fine-tuning effect and arcs and, in the case of books that are part of a series, planting the seeds that will germinate in the next one, or even the next one after that.

Then there are editor revisions, acknowledgements, asking other authors you love to blurb your book, covers and back copy and dedications. There is the marketing in anticipation of release, marketing around the release, and constantly being on the lookout for signing and interview opportunities, blogs to guest post on, and all the rest.

The cycles overlap, just like the cactus and the tomatoes above. That can be tricky, but being at the end of one project and at the beginning of another is a great feeling. I’m there right now, and it’s heady stuff indeed. It combines the satisfaction of completing one project and the anticipation of moving forward with another.

Where are you in your projects, be they writerly or otherwise? Do you like beginnings and endings best, or do you enjoy all the bits and pieces of the whole process?

The Scratch of Pen on Paper

Cricket McRae

Lately I seem to be reverting more and more to analog behavior. Gone is the sound of Windows loading while coffee brews early in the a.m. Instead, crisp air, birdsong and the sound of pen on paper accompanies my morning caffeine.

The writing callous on my middle finger is in full working order. My addiction to paper, pens and pencils feels not only justified but necessary. Office supply stores aren’t my only bane – just this week I bought two banana paper notebooks at Target. How could I not? Banana paper is treeless, sustainable, and has a slightly rough texture that’s a joy to put pen to. Then there was the thick quad pad from the corner market, because there’s just something about writing on graph paper. Especially really white paper with really blue lines. Perhaps the grid taps into the uber-left brain?

And the Mead recycled notebook from the drug store (also acquired this week) has an olive green cover in textured squares and a thick cardboard back that makes it easy to write in anywhere. As for the Cambridge, burnt-orange composition book with green lines that also made its way into my basket, it’s size and colors evoke a nonfiction project I’m working on.

Each current writing project has a separate notebook. So does each potential project. Something about each notebook usually reminds me of something to do with the project it contains, be it color, shape, light happy design, luscious velvet or purple metallic cover. Inside they are half-filled with random thoughts, clusters of brainstorming, lists, whole scenes, character interviews, bits of dialog, questions to answer, research contacts, ideas to follow up on, and large chunks of free writing.

There could be several reasons for my recent reversion to the old-school methods.

One is that my I-Phone allows me to check – and delete – email from anywhere. Still techie, of course, but much more limited. Now I only respond to email once or twice a day unless something urgent comes up, and even then I can do it from the wee device, albeit in terser than usual language. This has saved me an amazing amount of time as well as the angst that comes from dealing with my crappy Internet connection on an ongoing basis. It also cuts down on online surfing. Now when I come to the computer, it’s to accomplish something in particular. Sometimes that IS surfing, but it’s intentional and usually timed.

Another reason is that I’m trying to pay more attention to the here and now, to the smell of the roses, if you will. Writing by hand gives me the feeling, real or not, of being more connected to my creative process. It’s slower. There is no backspace button. I find myself being more careful about what I’m saying the first time, not in an editorial way, but because I have the time to think more during the actual act of writing. Then when I input the draft into the computer, it’s an instant edit pass.

I’m also simply writing more lately. It’s an autumn thing and happens every year. That means fitting some of that writing in around other activities, sometimes in bits and pieces, ten or even five minutes at a time. I need something even more portable than a laptop.

Neo-Luddite tendencies aside, there’s real satisfaction in the sound and feel of a fountain pen’s nib on the page. Oooh: fountain pen. Doesn’t that sound la-de-da, all tweedy and writerly! Except I use Pilot disposable fountain pens, which aren’t la-de-da at all. I just like how they vibrate slightly against the paper, how the ink lays down in no-nonsense thick lines, the scratching noise they make, and the fact that I can toss them in the garbage when they’re spent. I buy them packs at a time in black, blue, purple and red.

I know lots of people write by hand, especially first draft. Why do you do it? If you’re a tried-and-true keyboard addict, do you ever go to paper when you get stuck, or during outlining or other parts of the writing process?

Winter is Coming

Summer ended in my northern Colorado town not with a whimper but a bang. Nighttime temperatures dropped, and then one morning we awoke to find each blade of grass finely limned with frost and the rooftops glittering in the sunlight as if the wind had scattered broken glass in its wake. The tender plants in the vegetable garden -- zucchini, peppers, eggplant, cucumber -- withered and twisted in instant defeat. But others, planted in August, relish the cool weather. Crisp Swiss chard leaves, tiny and tender on bright, multi-colored stems give the spinach some serious competition for our plates. Spicy mustard greens combine with baby lettuce leaves, new radishes, purple carrots and scallions to create a salad reminiscent of spring. But the sound of dry, yellowing cottonwood leaves scratching together in the mildest breeze belies any notion of impending summer.

The sweaters are back in the closet, returned from their summer hiatus in the guest bedroom. Flannel sheets and down comforters warm the beds. Menus veer toward soups and chilis and the house smells of fresh baked bread. Evenings are spent in front of the fire for all nine innings as the championship teams hammer their way -- or not -- to the World Series. On the arm of the sofa, a half-completed hat in chunky red wool perches on a pair of circular knitting needles.

Green tomatoes cover the window sills. Those that don't ripen quickly will go into cake, chutney, or spicy green tomato catsup. The big freezer in the garage is packed with local produce and a quarter of grass fed Charolais beef from a rancher down the road. The pantry shelves hold neat rows of pickles -- beans, watermelon rind, cucumbers and asparagus -- and bright yellow chutney, dark raspberry jam, jalapeño pickled carrots and purple sauerkraut. On the top shelf, a few bottles from my first attempt at making wine, strong enough to make your eyes water. Bunches of herbs hang from the ceiling to dry. The weekly vegetable delivery from our winter CSA share begins at the end of the month.

There will still be plenty to do: cleaning up and putting away the yard, getting a few more bulbs in, carving pumpkins to light the front porch for the costumed trick-or-treaters to come.

But for now, my desk beckons.

I've indulged in fresh notebooks and another cluster of my favorite pens. I've purged and archived computer files, defragged and backed up. Books for research sit ready on the shelf. On my clean desk, three new writing projects await my attention. At this point it's my choice which one I go with first.

Fall has arrived, as full of promise as any spring. And winter is coming.

Winter: my favorite time for writing. The anticipation is delicious.

Time is Out of Joint

by Julia Buckley
There’s a famous line spoken by Hamlet in one of his soliloquies: “Time is out of joint; oh curséd spite that ever I was born to set it right!”

It’s an apt metaphor, I think, for the fall we’ve been having, which puts me on edge, makes me uneasy in its unnaturalness. For one thing, all of our trees are still green. (The tree pictured here is in my front yard; the photo was taken today). In autumns past, this was already the peak color weekend, and vast drifts of leaves were blowing around yards and gathering at car fenders.

Today the foliage is still on the trees, as though summer still hadn’t heard that it was supposed to leave town. Added to that, the weather has been unpleasantly warm. I like my Octobers cold; I’m conditioned to need that bitter weather because it’s a part of the cycle of the Midwest; cold autumns go with football, warm-up food like stew and chili, cozy blankets and heaters. Jack-o-lanterns weren’t meant to be lit while flowers bloom and bugs still buzz past our ears. (That's my Red Riding Hood Mandevilla, still blooming happily on my front porch). Pumpkins should contrast with gray skies; they endure chilled rains with seasonal stoicism.

If these changed temps (which are supposed to bring severe storms later in the week, when they clash with a cold front) are an indicator of global warming, then I am fearful not only as an autumn-lover, but as a writer. What will fall be in the future? How will we write it then? Will the seasons blend into one another until there is little beauty left in the distinctions? Will we have to write about autumnal splendor in retrospect, as something we have lost?

Yesterday, on top of this weather oddity, we lost our electricity for five hours. My husband and I were distinctly irritable, and we agreed that the unseasonable weather had been bad enough, but to be deprived of light and all modern conveniences at the same time made it feel that, indeed, time was out of joint.

Things will get better, of course. It will be colder next week, although we may have missed our chance for fall color. The leaves may drop green and wither quickly. Time, currently out of joint, will tell if this is a trend or a warning.

But I’m concerned. Look how things turned out for Hamlet.