in the sandbox, tiny pawprints

Isabella, John White Alexander

48,440, A Lamentation of Swans. Sunday, Sunday–a bit after eleven; I’ve no desire to do anything today. I’ve been way too busy, running away. Couldn’t sleep last night so had to resort to a little sky blue, oval pill–but before that, managed a page or so on ALoS, and now this morning, despite the splash of brilliant sun on the window ledge, I’m wrapped in lethargy.

Reading Angela Carter’s Black Venus, having my third cup of coffee, and if I can bestir myself, if I can avoid being overwhelmed by Carter’s lapidary prose, I’ll work more on ALoS. Also, I’m trying to find my way, only mentally at this point, into the voice for the NANO book. It’ll help me to strike the tone I want. I’m thinking about it, but not too much.

the scent of violets

Isabella and the Pot of Basil, William Holman Hunt

48,163 (A Lamentation of Swans). Unable to fall asleep right away one recent night, I started reading The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters by Gordon Dahlquist. It is a steampunkish fantasy set during the Victorian Age in a European city loosely resembling London, but not. The book, which earned its first-time author a $2 million advance, received mixed reviews–most in the negative. I’m enjoying it however. Dahlquist is a playwright and this is his first novel. He makes a few first time novelist mistakes, snags in the clothe of the story, but nothing to make me quit reading. For example, his heroine is aware that her chaperone aunt lingered outside her door by the aunt’s “husky, insistent, violet-scented breathing.” I doubt she could smell her aunt’s breath through a solid wood door. Had he been writing a play, he would have had to make mention of the aunt’s violet-scented breath through face to face dialogue, otherwise the audience would have been unaware of this little characterizing detail. In the book, this is a detail the heroine knows, and since we are in her pov, that makes the slip forgiveable.

One critic complained that the voice of the novel is too modern for the setting. Ah well. There was one particular line in the narrative that rang anachronistically for me, but I’ve got no significant complaint about the voice of the narrative. Some critics found the activities and antics of the Victorian heroine unbelievable, but I think Dahlquist does a credible job of characterizing her as an unusual, resourceful young woman with a sharp sense of adventure. One critic mentioned the book was 300 pages too long. Ah well.

One thing he does particularly well is create and draw out the suspense in nearly every scene. It’s a good thing I’m not a nail-biter, otherwise my fingertips would be ravaged. It’s an absorbing adventure fantasy; I think I may buy the sequel.

Worked on ALoS this week, adding to one of Gaius’s scenes, and also did a bit of planning for the NANO novel. Today–more of same.

all the good stuff

Autumn, Lucien Levy Dhurmer

This has been quite a year for me–a new job at the start of the year that turned out to be a great disappointment, a return to the old job, having major surgery, and on top of it all, losing Mom. I’ve rarely felt lonely, but I feel lonely now. Mom’s death has left a gnawing emptiness that I suppose in time will fade some, although I don’t know if it’ll ever go away. Since I cannot face that emptiness, I’ve turned my attention to the business of living. My half-sister, who lost her mother, and a good friend of mine who also lost her mother several years ago, tell me the first two years after are hard, and then it gets easier. Time heals, as they say.

I loved Mom with all my heart; we were companions. We’d hang out together, she’d talk and talk, I’d listen, we’d laugh over family stories, complain to each other about family problems; she’d tell me all her worries and her dreams; I’d update her on my doings. Looking back I realize Mom and I shared much–and for that I’m grateful. I never forgot she was “MOM” but she was also much like an older sister and best friend. I’m glad for all the hugs and kisses I gave her, for all the “I love you’s,” for the trips we took together, for the times I made her laugh, for that chuckle and wink she would do when she’d successfully accomplished a task or solved a problem, for the Mother’s Days, for the sound of her voice telling me everything, and for all the good stuff she taught me–independence, self-reliance, how to roll with the punches, how to be strong, the pursuit of dreams. She’s gone too soon.

I’ve taken refuge in my writing; it’s where I always go to deal with my troubles. A part of me sits in a fog, and another part redirects itself and makes it bearable. Mom used to say “Knock me down and I’ll get up every time.” How to get up every time is the most valuable lesson she taught me.

first new step

Flying Fish, Herbert James Draper

Last year in November I didn’t sign up for NANO but I competed on my own, and with the encouragement of friends Devon and Michelle, finished a rough draft of Silk River. Writing that novel under the intense pressure of NANO was like breaking up an iceberg with a hammer. I didn’t know where I was going with the story, but I slammed down scenes and stuff everyday and it was great. I actually wrote my way to a real ending, with a climax and everything! The middle is stew but nevertheless the book turned out to be a tasty dish. This year I decided yes, then decided no–that I would work on A Lamentation of Swans during November and aim for 50,000 words more, but then, due to life throwing a couple grenades my way, I decided no. I’ve changed my mind again now. Saturday night I signed up for NANO to write the Isabella book. I’ve got my hammer, and the iceberg is not so big this time.

Whitney’s eulogy

Georgie Mae Young
February 29, 1940 - October 8, 2007

Tuesday, I and my siblings laid Mom to rest at Riverside National Cemetery. Mom was a lovely woman, inside and out. Like everyone else she had her good and bad days when the irritations of daily life rubbed her patience thin. She had an honest heart and a clean spirit. She was vibrant, straightforward, good-humored, and undeceiving. She took great care of us in life, and even in death, she still managed to take care of us.

A couple years ago she planned her funeral–even though she had no idea what would happen. She choose her coffin, decided she wanted red and white flowers (we chose a floral piece of red and white roses, lilies, and ivy); she included a limo for the family, and even wrote out the menu for the meal afterward–spaghetti, sweet cornbread, green salad, and a sheet cake. She left me in charge of carrying out her wishes; I gotta say the details of arranging a funeral are mind-boggling, but we gave Mom the dignified funeral she wanted.

I asked my niece to write her memories of her grandmother to present at Mom’s funeral, and below is what she wrote. She captured Mom’s essence.

Whitney’s Eulogy to her Grandmother

When I think about my grandmother, it’s hard not to think about the sick person that she was for the past few months. Seeing her that ill was upsetting and unsettling, not just because I loved her and cared about her and didn’t want to see her sick; more so, because of the vibrant and healthy person that she normally was.

The grandmother that I remember got up and made her bed every morning. She drank her coffee, or sometimes heated up water but left it in the microwave and forgot to make coffee. And she took her blood pressure medication, or sometimes took the bottle out and left it on top of the microwave and forgot to take her blood pressure medication. She would start soaking beans or chopping vegetables for that night’s dinner at 8 o’clock in the morning, after making breakfast, and getting my sister off to school. Sometimes, she would clear off the kitchen counter, or go online and work on her Internet business, or call friends and family to see how they were doing. She cleaned, and cooked, and fed, and washed, and talked everyday, from 6am to 10pm.

The grandmother I remember rode the bus with me everywhere- to the Tyler mall, before it became the Galleria, to the grocery store for Stater Brother’s sandwiches, to the movies, and the library, and Brockton arcade, and the dentist’s office, and finally back home. She walked me to school, even when I didn’t want her to, and brushed my hair in the mornings.

The grandmother I remember loved to laugh, loud, throaty, contagious laughs; and sneeze loud, contagious sneezes that could be heard throughout the entire house and scare you if you weren’t expecting them. If she saw you in a store she would stop you and say hi and talk to you about the past five years of her life, or what she’s done since the last time she saw you, whichever period of time was longer. She would listen to gospel songs every Sunday because her church was in her heart, she would say.

The grandmother I remember cooked pecan candies, and Cornish hens, and jambalaya, and gumbo, and cornbread, and potato salad, and stewed osh potatoes, and oyster dressing, and greens, and she could do it all from scratch if she wanted to.

She wore fuchsia lipstick, and costume jewelry, and velvet boots or heels, and shirts with crazy prints. Not hospital gowns or sick pajamas. I don’t remember seeing her cry, ever. So that’s why it was so surprising and upsetting to see a sick person where my grandmother once was. It was hard to think about all the things she wouldn’t get to do and even harder to accept the fact that she could never go back to the grandmother I used to ride the bus with.

However, I realize now that in my memories of my grandmother, she will always wear fuchsia lipstick, and cook stewed osh potatoes, make her bed in the mornings, ride the bus with me, and pursue her dreams- because all these things about her are a part of my life experience. The things that she taught me: how to work hard, care for your family, how to be selfless, and not to be afraid of failure or success, or even to be myself- will live on in me. She showed her love by sharing her life and I’m grateful that I got to share mine with her.

Thank you, Whitney. I’m going to miss Mom greatly. She was the rock of the family. I know she’s gone, but a part of me still doesn’t believe it. I’m going to look for her in my dreams.

On behalf of my family, thank you all for your kind notes and condolences. Your thoughtfulness softened the sharp edges of Mom’s passing.

at peace

Mommie died Monday night. On behalf of my family, thank you everyone for your kind words, hugs, and well wishes sent for our Mom.

I can tell you that she is at peace; she looked like she was smiling and her face was absolutely serene. d:

quickie

Swans, Leon Spilliaert

Just a quickie post to respond to all the kind comments. My surgery went well; I was in the hospital for the past 3 days, and am home now (Saturday). The staples are out and I’ve got a bottle of vicodin close to hand (right now I’m feeling no pain–heh) and six weeks of recovery ahead.

Mom slipped into a coma on Wednesday but managed to come out of it. I was so afraid she’d die while I was in the hospital and greatly relieved when my sister told me she’d come out of it. She’s lucid, but wavers in and out. A friend’s going to drive me down to see her but I won’t be able to stay ’cause I can’t do much moving about and must be careful of physical stress. My aunt and cousin have arrived–thank goodness.

So–that’s it for me now; when I’m able to focus more I’ll chat a bit. Thanks, guys; blessings to you all. d