I haven’t been writing much this year—trying to change that lately, but barely willing to commit to even Camp NaNoWriMo and its flexible goal-setting. I’ve been reading a lot: some fiction; a lot of non-fiction, mostly books. I’ve been keeping a notebook of excerpts and quotes, as I read. I’ve been taking a lot in. I’ve been utilizing the heck out of my new-as-of-this-year library card. I’ve saved over $500 so far by using my local library! (The checkout receipt keeps a running total.) I just started Agatha Christie’s An Autobiography, and it occurs to me that what I’ve wanted to read lately is memoirs, and books about writers and writing. (Light the Dark and Women Writers at Work come to mind.)

I’ve come back to Mary Karr’s The Art of Memoir—I bought when it came out in 2016, but set it aside. I knew I’d want to read it, but didn’t feel ready when I started—and I semi-failed her pop quiz: “Don’t write about people you hate… Ditto: don’t write about a divorce you’re going through.” [sad trombone] Since the divorce was still very much a part of my conscious day-to-day living, I didn’t see how I couldn’t not write about it.

And now I wonder, will I write about my divorce, or my ex… or other persons closely affiliated with both? Indirectly, I’m sure I will. I hardly see how it can be avoided. But write about it directly? Probably not. I can sum up my reasoning with a quote from Pride and Prejudice (emphasis mine):

Lady Catherine de Bourgh: “I take no leave of you, Miss Bennett. I send no compliments to your mother, you deserve no such attention.”

It’s a lot better than it was, but even still, that subject wastes too much of my processing power. It/he/THEY deserve NO attention at all.

I’m thinking a lot about what my hangups are, in terms of writing. The act of storytelling is something that takes place continuously for me—in my head, relating events to myself, out loud, relating things to others—and I know writing is something I crave to be doing. Yet it’s not getting done, certainly not regularly—lately not at all. During the first year of “crisis”, I was journaling every day, pages and pages of sifting through emotions and events, trying to figure it all out. Now, I still write pages of text, but it’s more sporadic—things have moved beyond that emotional maelstrom, and largely it’s recounting events and things that seem significant. Processing. Always processing.

Maybe I’m overcomplicating things. Maybe all I need is to think of everything, fiction and non-fiction, in terms of telling someone a story. That’s all it is, after all… telling a story. And hoping to be clear, concise, and entertaining. Entertaining, like this spinning space shuttle… maybe that’s just me.

I’m not looking for somebody
With some superhuman gifts
Some superhero
Some fairytale bliss
Just something I can turn to
Somebody I can kiss
I want something just like this
— “Something Just Like This”, The Chainsmokers & Coldplay

I’ve been divorced two years today. (Yay?) I’ve had lots of time to contemplate what I actually want, both in my life, and in a future spouse. (Not to say that I have all the answers. But I suppose I have more than I did two years ago.)

And what I’ve realized I want is not perfection. There is no Prince Charming, no Mr. Right. (As much as I’d wish otherwise, there is no Tuxedo Kamen.) I just want someone whose imperfections mesh reasonably well with my own. Someone creative, constant and true. Someone honest. (Setting the bar low.)

Who are you, sir? I would like to meet for coffee, very soon….

I was chatting with my mother (an artist) and mentioned an article I read about creativity, by Austin Kleon. (Mom: “Oh, the Steal Like an Artist guy!”) I suspected she wouldn’t care for his book or his approach, and was delighted to discover the opposite—she doesn’t agree with everything, but praised his work, and rereads it every so often, always discovering new gems. (I do the same thing, but I find her statement more validating, since she is a Real Artist. LOL)

We discussed keeping an intentionally messy studio, and how ideas can emerge out of the chaos and juxtaposition. I have a collection of imagery, torn from magazines and other things (originally for collage projects), which became a box of inspiring randomness. I dip into it from time to time, usually looking for one thing, finding something else—often years after depositing it. She keeps a similar file, for her artwork. We were amused to find we have the same process (genetics at work?)

We also agree—as the post later states—that tools and implements need to be organized. I’ve seen her frustrated, searching for a particular tube of paint; similarly, I’m irritated when a tool in my jewelry workshop goes missing, or when my mentor’s shop is particularly unkempt. (Which is often, of late, but he swears he’s cleaning up. Uh-huh.)

It’s an interesting dichotomy. Don’t waste time finding your tools, to execute the idea… but do “waste” time finding the idea.

As mentioned last post, I’m fond of walking outdoors. Usually this is somewhat suburban, but once in a while I’m in a beautiful place, enjoying nature. I did this for years, before my divorce, trying to calm myself, quell inner turmoil, and have a quiet moment alone. These days, the “moment alone” isn’t a problem—the cat is a great companion, but not much of a conversationalist—but I still enjoy walking outside, airing out my brain, and getting away from the screen. (The big screen, anyway. The little screen sings to me, if prodded correctly.)

All of this was a set habit, long before I read more recently that demons hate fresh air, but the point is a good one, and worth sharing. When I feel stuck, a walk helps. Even if the solution doesn’t present itself mid-walk—it usually does—I feel better for the fresh air.

Tomorrow I am attending the memorial and celebration of life for a dear mentor and friend, my counselor of almost five years. I’m collecting my thoughts and memories, trying to distill them into something concise and meaningful (in case I feel like sharing.) In doing so, I read through (and saved) our last online conversation, from last July. I asked him to read an essay I’d just finished—the most deeply personal thing I’ve written, to date. I did this, in the secret hope that he’d shred the piece, as he was an experienced writer with many published pieces. This would allow and justify my never showing it to anyone else, ever, despite my feeling very strongly—a nudge from God, clearly—that I should share it.

Boy, did that backfire.

He read it while we were sitting in chat. (Terrifying.) He made one (positive) remark, then went silent for possibly the longest minute in human history. And then he told me he liked it. He had no edits. It was “good just as it is.” (Uh… what?)

He talked about the imagery I used. He suggested I start a group blog, an online community, a ministry of sorts, for others with similar experiences. He offered to advise. He offered to serve as an editor. He encouraged me, thought the idea would be successful.

I thanked him, sincerely. And then I did nothing about it.

Oh, I thought about his advice. I stumbled into a series of months that were incredibly challenging and stressful, and I didn’t feel I had time to pursue it. I couldn’t decide where to publish. I couldn’t find the right site name, the right domain. I was too busy with work. I had more immediate concerns. I meant to get back to it, any day now. Annnnnnnyyyyyyy day now….

And then, out of nowhere, on January 2nd, he passed away.

I, like many others, was blindsided by this. He leaves behind his wife of 33 years (also a dear friend), and three sons, two still in high school. He was a much beloved pastor of the first church I went to, and the congregation continues to grieve. He was only 56. He was the wisest man I know. And he was present, since day one, for my entire Christian walk. Until ten days ago.

For days I’ve been drifting through regrets. I wish I’d published that essay, months ago, like I meant to. I wish I’d talked to him recently, if only to hear his enthusiastic opinions on all the latest movies we both like. I wish I’d asked him what he thought of Star Wars: The Last Jedi. I’ve wished that probably 100 times. (So trivial and stupid, but why on earth didn’t I ask him? Because I was “busy”?)

And if I do mention any of this tomorrow, to anyone, I will close by saying what I’m about to tell you: whatever you’re not doing, do it. You know not the hour when that opportunity will expire. Tell your loved ones you love them. Have that long phone call, or that coffee date with a friend. Make the time. Don’t wait. Don’t procrastinate.

You may not get another chance.