chocolates and bagels

It has been over a year since I sat in workshop with Joanna Rose and Stevan Allred, so I thought I would be out of practice to start again. Instead it was a remembered comfort like visiting family (those ones who like you). Weds evening started a new session, and I was there with 11 other writers. It was all very exciting - the reading, the writing, the chocolates and bagels.

My breath still locks up in my chest when I start to read. Nerves. But by about page 5, I was fine. By the last page, I was already satisfied with my experience - even before the comments. The feedback was just gravy.

It's a good group. I am looking forward to next Weds. We'll see how well I'll be able to read, if at all, what with the emergency oral surgery I had on my jaw today (ice and Advil are my friends. But I digress...)

Launching into Chapter 5 and 6 this weekend to refine voice of the narrator, Jude Wildish.

Speaking of Wildish, I drove out of my neighborhood a couple weeks ago, and where there was a building the night before, there was nothing but a pile of rubble and some uprooted Redwood trees. It was shocking. Worst of all, gone was the big blue sign with a mountain tops and in big lettering: Wildish. I am crushed that the inspiration for my family name is gone. There is renewed construction on the lot, but for now, the Wildish family saga will have to go on without the sign.

Ah, well. Things change. Buildings go away. Screws fall out.

Sherri

distraction

I have been known to almost miss the turning of a red light as I head down the road in front of my house, my attention drawn off by an interesting tree or a dog near the road. Or a chicken - there's chickens by the red barn up the street. It's just how my brain works, in a random, distractable way.

Mary Milstead is not any of those things. She is a wonderful writer and a dear friend. She has also been a long-standing reader of my work in progress and has given many thoughtful and constructive reviews, for which I remain grateful.

Last Wednesday, we met at one of our latest usual places - Coffeetime on NW 21st. Mary listened as I read both sets of my current revisions, each from a different point of narration.

Then, in a nutshell, she advised me to stop distracting myself and get on with my writing.

It seems my trees or chickens of late are of my own making, the questioning of my ability and perhaps a bump in self-confidence. Along the path of self-examination, there is a point where it becomes flailing. After gaining all the positive effects of re-evaluating the direction of my novel, I suppose I have done a bit of flailing.

But Mary was right, and it's time to move on. Outside of my over-analytical evaluation, my instincts tell me which direction to take this piece. There will always be different ways to approach each scene, options for character and narrator and description. But this is this character and this piece.

"Get back to work," she said. "And do what you do best."

Everyone needs a friend like Mary.

Sherri

stalled

Until this spring, I commuted several hours every day to and from my day job. Over the years, the offices where I worked were in downtown Portland, then Gresham, Lake Oswego and finally, Tigard. The hours driving gave me time to think. Or music. "Reading" books on CD. Voices in my head - ha.

The thing about commuting is that the variable is outside of any participating driver's control. Timing can be predicted only in general terms, and anticipated heavy traffic days are sometimes, randomly, not. Or exponentially so. Planning is a veritable craps-shoot. I could map my hours, leave on time, use all my commuting tricks, and one stall on the bridge would add hours to my plan.

Such is my writing at the moment. Stalled out by one element. An unanticipated glitch in my thoughtful schedule. Granted, this particular element is key to the ultimate success of the story and warrants thoughtful review and selection. But, oh, how I wish I was not stuck here. It's the work-weary return drive at a full-stop on I-5 behind a raised bridge and a diesel truck dually accompanied by the bass-boom Honda Accord with tinted windows in the next lane and the open window blast of country music from the Ford truck behind you.

Here I sit. Sans country music.

The good news is that being stuck does not mean inaction. Not if you want to get anywhere. The re-write of Chapter 1 in first-person has been rejected. A second re-write is in process.

I know that when the traffic breaks free, it flows forward like before. As if the delay had never happened.

Someone honks. "Get ready."

Sherri