A character in my newest novel is writing poetry. Didn’t ask him to, didn’t expect it. But there it is. I sent Hubby an email the other day telling him that my MC just found a poem that Eric wrote with the line “Mourn no more for the dinosaurs.” (Yup, I think it’s cheesy on its own, too. He’d better explain.)
“Who’s Eric?” Barry asked. LOL. Just a friendly reminder, folks, that our characters aren’t as real to others. At least not initially.
As to what that line of poetry means, I haven’t asked Eric yet, but I suspect I know. Just between us, I have an inexplicable grudge against dinosaurs. A few years ago, Barry and I were traveling to Michigan for a week of classes he was taking. For at least an hour of our travel time, I ranted about dinosaurs. I can’t go into it without sounding completely irrational, but I think it came from a mandatory trip to Kings Island just before then.
I’ll say more. Barry had to either go to Kings Island for a work perk or work the whole weekend. Because rules. Didn’t make any sense to me, either. And while I hadn’t been to Kings Island since sixth grade and we are not in general theme park goers, I didn’t hate going. Just don’t ask me about the Backlot Stunt Coaster we got on. Barry said he wasn’t worried about me while I was screaming, but once I went quiet, he was scared.
You know what, I checked that ride out on YouTube later, and it’s only just over a minute long. Had I known that I wouldn’t have been so scared. Didn’t help that as we were getting into our car, they were hosing one down where someone had…well, you know. After that he took me on some fun cartoon ride and then we did the Dinosaurs Alive! walk. Hence the grudge.
Nope, still can’t explain it, though I think it has something to do with how really alive they looked, and how sad I was for them and how I wonder if we are speeding towards our own extinction. The fragility of life, that kind of thing.
I am engrossed in this novel I am writing. Because I have a deadline for the first fifty pages in the next few days, I am focusing on polishing those at the moment. Naturally I shifted the plot yesterday a teensy bit which requires some transitions and the addition of a scene. Dang it. But I think I can do it in time.
I’m writing a literary mystery, my first attempt at one, and I am jazzed! My “research” for it has included re-reading A.S. Byatt’s Possession and re-watching The Chair on Netflix. I’ll take any excuse to do either of those!
While I know there is only one A.S. Byatt, I’m going to write what I call a light literary mystery based on what I believe to be real missing literary items. Not ready to say more yet, but I’m enjoying the journey!
Speaking of journeys, my mindset coach and I have been working on scheduling my calendar for three weeks now as Barry and I finish up a pet project. Phase one is pretty much done. I’ll share some about that in the coming weeks.
I know the coach will be pleased when I tell her that I feel as if I FINALLY have the scheduling thing down. (Shorthand – if you haven’t used Monday Hour One for scheduling your life, give it a try. Just google it. But also, don’t be me: be sure to add in the things you WANT to do first. Don’t resist that. Just do it. You were not born to be a workhorse. Got it? )
P.S. My second novel, Southern-Fried Woolf, is coming January 2023. Expect more about it, including an excerpt, in early October if not sooner. Salute!
Copyright Drēma Drudge, 2022. All rights reserved.
Update on my Freewrite experience thus far: Oh my gosh! Where has this been all my life? First of all, the keys sound great when I’m typing! It’s like I’m dancing with them. And not being able to go back and edit (unless I want to backspace whole sections; spoiler alert – I don’t!) frees me to keep going. Typos? No biggie. False starts? Make a quick note to yourself.
Here’s the scoop: I am saving my drafts to Google drive.. Dropbox is the other choice, I think, but that’s not an option for me because my Dropbox is stuffed, and I don’t want to upgrade or go through and get rid of multiple drafts of stuff from way back in 2013.
Then I just cut and paste to a Word document.
In a week…are you ready for this…I have written 53 pages!! No lie. Bananas! I have a deadline of 50 REVISED pages coming in hot and fast, so I’m happy to be so far ahead because now comes the finessing. (I love revision; I hate it. You know.)
Since it’s a novel, and these are the opening pages (yes, I really AM writing this novel, no false starts this time), it’s been awesome firing the editor and just writing, writing, writing with my Freewrite!
Some further thoughts on my Freewrite.
A small complaint: the shiny black cover gets smudgy, very much so. A few quick buffs with a microfiber cloth gets rid of the marks, but now I feel self-conscious knowing I’m mucking the poor thing up when I use it. (I guess it only happens when I open and/or close it, so maybe I just need to be more careful about that.)
Also, keep in mind I type way too fast when I’m not pausing to revise, so it might be from that, but I was writing yesterday, and I got this fun little buzz and I thought it was endorphins from being so happy writing (yes, I’m in that phase and not the “Can I do this?” revision stage) until I realized my hands were actually numb and my sight was a little blurry. I decided it might be time to take a break. In a few minutes, I felt fine, but I think it had something to do with blood flow due to my typing speed. So, not entirely unpleasant, but it merits paying attention to in the future, I suppose. (I did voice text Barry yesterday and tell him I would be incommunicado because I couldn’t see my phone or the computer very well. Not surprisingly, I got a phone call shortly thereafter asking me to explain myself.)
This draft of my novel, while still very loose at this point, has been so fun. It’s like a new romance, right? You’re getting to know one another. You’re on your best behavior. Your patience is at a ten. You have that mandatory “let’s talk for hours and tell me everything about yourself” night.
A character walks into a novel, says his name is James. You say, “Nice to meet you; stand over there.” You decide if his name really is James while he looks indignant. Because of course he is James. Did he not tell you so?
You hear him out. You listen to his backstory.
“Really? Then what?” you ask. Because you’re already hooked.
This novel is different for me in that it’s in third person, past. And I am alternating POV’s. And…are you ready? Some of the POV’s are from a male’s perspective. It’s fun, this head hopping.
Dirty Dancing turns 35 this year! I mean…how?! My dear, sweet, thoughtful husband accompanied me to a big screen showing last weekend. It was fun, though he swore he was drowning in the estrogen in the room. “Get a paddle, mister,” I quipped as I sucked on my Crown Royal apple slushy at the theater.
I first saw this about a year after it came out, I believe. Our high school played it during my Senior Week! I hadn’t seen it yet, because being “devout,” it wasn’t something I was supposed to see, though I was pissed not to see it. (Not that I would have said pissed; that was strong language for me, a prissy missy. Sigh.)
There’s a huge difference seeing Dirty Dancing when you’re 18, versus seeing it when you’re…not.
For one thing, this time around I really pitied Patrick Swayze’s character, Johnny. The poor guy seemed like he had the weight of the dance staff on his shoulders. He was more than a little parental, and so serious. Baby gave him the chance to lighten up, to be playful. She challenged him to stand up for himself, to go for what he wanted. They challenged one another: when she tried to keep their relationship from her father, Johnny caused her to question not only her own beliefs about people, but her father’s as well, leading to a sweet breakthrough in her relationship with her father.
While surely we all know that Baby and Johnny do not end up together, we know they are changed for the better for having met.
And then there’s the music and the dancing, which are major reasons I like the movie, too. I knew the music very well before I saw the movie, and if you know me, you know how much I love dancing! (I was so happy when at our town’s holiday gala this year someone donated money on the condition that X amount of people hit the dance floor. I looked at my “date,” a young barista friend, and said, “Shall we?” I had wanted to dance so much, but there was only one guy dancing at the time, and my hubby was playing keyboards so I couldn’t dance with my own husband. Band widowed again!
But my friend and I danced and danced, which made my night, especially when my hubby said something over the mic and I retorted “I know that’s right,” which got me high fives from all the guys on the floor. Someone put a feathered boa around my neck, and I wore it all evening.
Okay, I’m back to finish this post after a few hours spent successfully revising. I’m in the zone, and kind of want to stay in this new novel I’m writing, and yet, alas, other preoccupations call.
I did take time out to make us a late lunch, Creamy Aglio E Olio Chicken Pasta, courtesy of HelloFresh. The meal delivery service is my secret weapon for when I have a deadline. (Not a sponsored post!) Because the meals are preselected, premeasured, and come with colorful meal cards, they’re so handy. We don’t order every week, but when we have, we’ve been pretty happy.
Although for today’s meal, I doubled their laughable six ounces of pasta provided with pasta from the pantry, which meant having to doctor the cream sauce, easily enough done with butter, cheese, and extra pasta water. Hubby said it’s a winner, so I’ve made notes to myself for next time.
Oh, and I refuse to chop garlic when I’m busy, so I cheated and used jarred garlic.
The dish turned out tasty, if I do say so myself.
So yeah, after what started out as an iffy Saturday (we had a way early morning “mission of mercy” call that we heeded), it’s been a good day. Even if that mindset coach of mine has me tracking my time this week, a pesky task. Think I can get by with putting this post under the generic category “Writing? (She’s trying to help me fit in everything I want to do, and I’m struggling to find room. Hence the time tracking. I’m confident that together we’ll figure it out.)
And look what we have waiting for us when we’re done with the day’s work! Barry picked them up for us yesterday and I, for one, am looking forward to giving them a try. “Spiked with fun.” Indeed. You know, that could be a description of my mister, too. 😉
What are YOU trying to find more time for?
Copyright Drēma Drudge, 2022. All rights reserved.
Reader, I bought a Freewrite! While I haven’t been able to use it much yet, so far I love my Freewrite Traveler. (This is not a sponsored post. I wish.)
Here is my side of the text conversation I had with my darling daughter about it recently, lightly edited:
“It’s like a typewriter but it ONLY connects to the internet to save your writing. It’s a distraction-free writing device. Best for first drafts. I don’t know if I can justify the cost, but I bought it with mad money, because I just want it.
More pluses: it has a glare-free screen so I can write outside. It’s built to be used on the beach, too! In my dreams, your dad and I own a small place at the dunes, and I can write on the beach every day! My fantasy “retirement” in a box.
Also, it’s lightweight. Its keys are weighted and responsive, like a typewriter’s. And all the cool kids have one. (I actually don’t personally know anyone with one, though it could be they have one and I just don’t know it.)
You can’t easily look back at what you’ve written on it, so it tunnels you into your draft. Since anxiety is such a huge part of my writing process, it doesn’t let me agonize as much because I can’t go over and over it, at least not until I transfer the document over to revise it on my laptop. Once you do that, you can’t transfer it back over. It’s not playing about keeping you in hot draft mode.
I bought the travel version because it’s light and compact. It fits in most of my purses! Now I just need time to use it.”
My poor, indulgent daughter, listening to her mother go on about things that probably don’t interest her. On the other hand, she has a new puppy, a mini dachshund named Oskar, which thrills me. I hear we might get to meet him in October!
I know, I know. It’s hard to justify one of these contraptions, a Freewrite, but I’m at the planning stages (again? still?) of my third novel, and this, so far, has been perfect for it. I’ll know more later, when I’ve had more experience with it, but so far, it’s a dream tool.
If I were giving advice, I’d say get that “impractical” tool that your soul keeps asking for, whatever it is, if you can. There might be a reason it wants it that you just don’t know yet.
P.S. I spent my scheduled daily “Do whatever the hell you want” hour (mindset coach’s orders for this week) today reading Steven Pressfield’s newest release, Put Your Ass Where YourHeart Wants to Be. It literally took me less than an hour to read the whole thing. While I admittedly rolled my eyes at the first third which basically said move to wherever the action in your creative pursuit is, the short book inspired me. (Especially after he exempted writers because we can write anywhere. We still thrive best when we have a writing community of some kind, though, don’t we?) He reminded me in his book to open myself daily to the muse. I finished a short creative response about that earlier this morning, before I read his book. Coincidence? I think not.
Pressfield shared a gorgeous story about the sacrifices a pianist made to have his career, with all its ups and downs punctuated by playing, at best, an “acceptable” concert, because perfection just doesn’t exist. I can attest to this. Hubby and I did a show for a local retirement community recently. Though we had practiced, I had a dry spot in my throat and well, you can’t stop mid phrase to take a drink, so you push on. He said he didn’t notice, so I hope the audience didn’t, either. Expecting perfection, at my amateur level of singing, is laughable. But how frustrating it must be for the pianist who devotes at least six hours a day to practice, not to mention the discomfort of constant travel, to know he could only have a great concert, no perfection. (Chances are the undiscerning ear wouldn’t notice his “fumbles,” though.)
I’m glad there are artists of all stripes willing to take the time and effort to create. Life is richer for it.
Copyright Drēma Drudge, 2022. All rights reserved.
Okay, Barry and I are newly back from Paris, and there is so much I want to write about, but I’m catching up on life first.
In the meantime, you must read this odd and powerful, evocative and curiosity-stirring story by my friend, poet Andrew Najberg. We have had meaningful conversations in several countries and airports on group trips, and that’s not something you can say about just anyone. He showed me a glorious patch of night sky and stars in Argentina unlike anything I’d ever seen.
I’ve spoken before of how I couldn’t breathe at a poetry reading he did and how I rose to escape only to discover I was in a long, long row, so I covered my ears, sat back down, and waited for him to be done. (It was just that moving! He knows how to clip close to human crucialities.)
Anyway, I have another, equally moving experience involving a concert Barry and I attended at Saint-Chapelle while in Paris to relay, but duty calls. And also, I have been chasing how the hell to explain what happened.
In the meantime, do read Andrew’s story. He has also recorded it. When I’m feeling braver, I’ll listen to it as well — his voice is beautifully intense.
I have a list of people whose writing I would publish were Barry and I ever to start a press. I don’t know if he would do us the honor (someone tell me emphatically NO if I ever say I want to start a press), but he’s on the list for sure.
P.S. It’s unfair (but also wonderful) that he’s both a talented poet and now fiction writer — his first novel is forthcoming.
Enjoy!
Drema
Copyright Drēma Drudge, 2022. All rights reserved.
I’m in the middle of a deep dive post about The Awakening, Kate Chopin’s novel, of course, but while I mull, I wanted to share a sliver of beauty.
You know that the beach is my happy place. Well, in all of the years that my sweetie and I have been going to this particular beach, I’ve found tiny pieces of beach glass but nothing big enough for my purposes: to have a former classmate who creates gorgeous necklaces make me one that I can carry when the sun decides to hide. Which is way too often, IMO.
In the past I have found smallish shards (red, clear, brown, green, and blue) and have placed them all over the house: in with my toiletries, on windowsills, just any place for an unexpected glimpse of joy. Occasionally, I carry a piece on my person. (Shh…)
Barry and I returned to our paradise this weekend, and I was, per usual, walking the beach, scanning for rocks of interest and beach glass. I intersected with a woman who was also scrutinizing the sand, and I asked her what she was looking for, in hopes I’d find something useful for her. She was likewise searching for beach glass. I told her about my hope to find a large enough piece for a necklace (or bracelet; I have a bracelet collection) and we wished one another luck.
Though I found a couple of tiny pieces that morning, my true treasure was the peace that the water brings, the stretching in the sun, the people watching, and knowing that my hubby awaited me when I returned to our chairs.
The next morning, we returned to the beach and pretty much repeated the day before, though we didn’t climb Mt. Tom as we had the previous day — it’s steeper than the photo below makes it look. (It was taxing but so rewarding! And now I want to complete the three-dune challenge. I don’t think the body’s up to that just now, but it’s a goal.)
I was maybe thirty seconds into my walk when I came across this!
Just minutes later I found another, smaller piece. I scanned the beach to see if the woman I had seen the day before was there so I could share, but she wasn’t.
In light of my mindset coach’s suggestion that I find many ways to “fail” by trying things I am unfamiliar with, I am going to attempt to make the necklace myself, guided by YouTube. I don’t think it will be too difficult, but if I fail, I will be reaching out to my friend in Florida and though she is a busy ice cream shop proprietor, I will beg her to help me!
You have no idea the happiness it brings me to imagine carrying summer with me all year.
P.S. In other “trying something new” news, because my favorite coffeehouse to write at is closed today, I am writing at the library instead. So far, so good. And I don’t have to resist a row of pastries, so there’s that.
And I’m going to drop in on a gentle yoga class tonight. I told the instructor that I’m nervous, but I’ll give it a try. I told her probably six months ago that I was going to stop in sometime. When I read on social media this morning that she has some slots open, I knew it was time to reach out before I lost my nerve.
Stay tuned for both that longer, more somber, post on The Awakening, as well as the chronicles of my “failures.” I have no doubt I’ll be good at that!
And let me know if there’s something new at which you’re going to attempt to “fail.” I’d love to applaud your efforts and successes. I mean, failures. 😉
I’m pretty sure I just convinced myself to put “complete the three-dune challenge” on my list. Dammit…
I’m being “serenaded” by my hubby’s band which is practicing downstairs right now. Damn, are they good! Just now they played “I Want You to Want Me” by Cheap Trick. Mission Accomplished! (Hubby sang lead on that, BTW, just so you’re not scandalized.)
Okay, that had to be said. It’s hard to focus on the task at hand while I’m hearing that fluid lead flaming off a guitar, the snap of the snare drum, and the plunk of those rich bass notes.
Anyway…When I find something helpful, I love to pass it along. So here’s this: I’m working with a mindset coach right now. Gasp! Did you know there was such a thing? Neither did I until a few months ago. When I found myself stuck, unable to move forward on a (non-writing) project and I also learned a person with whom I feel simpatico was becoming a mindset coach, I gladly signed up.
We initially talked about how to balance my schedule so I can write, work, and take on this new project. She suggested I listen to this episode of UFYB, the Pleasure First Principle. WARNING: THIS EPISODE IS NOT SAFE FOR WORK! The gist of it is, put the things you WANT to do on your calendar FIRST! Then DO THEM!
My coach and I determined pretty easily that writing should go on my schedule first. So, voila! I can’t say I’ve kept every writing appointment with myself, but at least I’m writing more, and that’s the point. She and I are meeting via Zoom weekly and she’s asking me my progress on not only my project, but my writing and other goals. I find myself rushing to finish up what I’ve said I would do before our next call so I don’t “disappoint” her. It’s been so useful. She calls me on my excuses and challenges me to rise to what I say I want to accomplish. She helps me past my fears and self-flagellation for my mistakes, missteps, and wasted time.
If you’re feeling unable to move forward with something you say you really, really want to do, maybe you should consider a coach, or maybe just schedule an appointment with yourself to identify and complete one baby step.
For me, that meant breaking my project down into small parts and assigning tasks to myself in ASANA. It’s a lot easier to complete a task such as “Write a list of five things about (….)” than it is to ask yourself to complete it all in a day.
I feel better for the progress I’ve made. More soon on that front.
Oh, and now Hubby’s playing the blazing lead from Van Halen’s version of “You Really Got Me.” Have mercy!
Let me know if you need a nudge in the right direction. I’m not a mindset coach, but I can at least cheer you on. Go, us!
I had this lovely book with me last summer on the beach, yet somehow I neglected to share my thoughts on this beauty with you until now. I’m sorry for the oversight, and when you read this quiet, elegant book, you’ll see why I owe you an apology.
This timeless book feels as if you could have taken it down from a library bookshelf fifty years ago and read it. It’s set in the 1950’s and 60’s, so I suppose its classic nature makes sense.
Opening with a raging fire in Margreete’s kitchen, that first scene helps the reader quickly see what Margreete cannot/will not: the older, independent woman should no longer live alone.
Since she will not give up her lifelong home, it falls to her daughter, Liddie, and her family to uproot and move in with her. Thus begins a decade with the stunningly well-drawn family.
Liddie’s inability to find more time for her cello practice amid increasing family responsibilities speaks to the inherently sacrificial nature of love. Yes, she finds small gulps of fulfillment, but she gives up her larger goals in service to her mother’s wellbeing.
She’s not the only one to sacrifice. Her husband, Harry, has finally settled into a teaching position he likes in Michigan when Liddie insists they move back to Maine. Eventually, he jeopardizes his new teaching position by speaking political truths not in the textbook, and one gets the feeling that’s not the only thing he’s questioning.
Their children adjust to the move and have many tender moments with their grandmother. Little Eva allows her grandmother to share her bed when her grandparent takes to roaming the house at night. Bernie doesn’t complain about his grandmother’s idiosyncrasies such as hiding the remains of dinner in her purse, lovingly interacting with her.
Written with lyrical, compelling prose, this novel is literary fiction at its finest. And its title does it justice: her family has become Margreete’s harbor, and you love them for it.
If you’re already a fan of Eleanor Morse or of Anne Tyler or Ann Patchett, (and I am a fan of all three) this book is for you.
Full disclosure: I have known and admired the author, Eleanor Morse, for over a decade. She’s a brilliant writer with a kind, gentle soul. All of her novels are just as thoughtful as she is, so if you’re not familiar with her work, now’s the time to consider picking up one of her books.
As a fan of Gretchen Rubin and Elizabeth Craft, of course I made a “22 for 2022” list. After four years (I think) of creating these lists of things I want to do within the current year, this year I remembered to include some fun, relaxing, and immediately achievable things.
So I ordered earbuds for my Mac: check. Twenty-one (or so) things to go.
Hubby and I have already had one date night, with four dates to go. (All five count as one item. Slick, aren’t I?)
There are other items on my list that are in progress, such as painting the bathroom. I’ve mostly completed that, but it needs touching up. Badly.
I sprained my ankle climbing up and down the ladder and am waiting for it to heal before I complete the job. But the color is a gorgeous lilac. It makes all the difference in the small room.
One of the things I am most excited about on my 2022 list is having a day devoted to reading. I asked Barry if he’d like to join me, and he gave an enthusiastic yes, so this Saturday is the day!
Even better — we are going to read the same book, Daisy Jones and the Six. I read it a few months ago, and it affected me so much I couldn’t even talk about it. I added a t-shirt with one of its best lines to my Christmas wish list.
When I opened the gift and teared up, Hubby asked why it moved me so much. I finally mentioned the book, but I still couldn’t talk about it. It gutted me, that book. I don’t know why, but it’s exquisitely written, so there’s that. And I’ve just written a novel about songwriting, so that may play into it.
One of my favorite Christmas presents.
Nope, I’m still not ready to talk about it, but I am ready to re-read it. I can only hope Barry enjoys the book as much as I did. And devoting a whole day to reading? What a luxury.
I can say this much about the book: it explores the seductive power of co-creation, and how the result of personal heartache can be damn fine art, though at what cost? The author, Taylor Jenkins Reid, has said it is loosely based on imagining what happened in the band Fleetwood Mac. (If you don’t know that story, it’s worth an internet search.)
We both have a pile of backup books if we’re not feeling Daisy. If I know Hubby, there will be a stack of comics beside his reading perch just in case. I’m 100 pages into a novel I’ll probably abandon, though I rarely do that, but reading it is an option. This is the third time I’ve attempted to read this author, and she just doesn’t send me, which I hate, because everyone says such good things about her work.
I’ve been meaning to read Daniel Deronda for a few years now, so maybe it’s time to dip into that, if I need to change it up. Winter is the best time to read lengthy tomes, don’t you think?
They are making a miniseries out of Daisy apparently featuring Elvis Presley’s granddaughter, Riley Keough, if the reports are accurate. I both want to see it when it comes out and not. I have a love/hate relationship with screen adaptations of most books. It’s complicated. Well, maybe it’s not: if it’s too much like the book, I prefer the pictures in my head. If it’s too dissimilar, I get indignant at the liberties they’ve taken. I had a friend once say I’m a complicated woman. He’s not wrong.
If you have any free time this weekend, I invite you to spend some of it reading. If you do, let me know what you read.
This beautiful children’s book, When Children Ruled the World, by Sena Jeter Naslund, is a gem. From its heartwarming story featuring little Una to its exquisite wood engravings by Joanne Price, this is an instant classic. (Una is a name familiar to Sena’s readers. If you know, you know. If you don’t, go acquaint yourself with the parallel.)
Barry holds our newly arrived copy of Sena’s book.
Oh, and it mentions pine cones! Have I ever said over here how much I love pine cones?
I don’t want to say too much about this slim volume, because I don’t want to give away its glories, but ah, read it if you want a cozy, holiday read.
Full disclosure: Sena is one of my favorite people in the world. Her gorgeous writing is only one of those reasons, but wow can she write! I want so badly to share some of the vivid images found in this book, but I won’t. The discoveries along the journey are part of the fun of reading, aren’t they?
I found myself studying her sentences as I devoured this Christmas cookie, following each word eagerly. Perfect, each! I’m so, so happy this gorgeous book is a part of our world, and particularly, a part of my world now.
Brava, Sena. Brava! This is going on our bookshelf right beside A Christmas Carol. We love it!
Order yours today! It comes wrapped in brown paper just like a gift, and you can only order it through the mail, which I also love. What a thing of beauty.
P.S. Barry and I have had the privilege of meeting Hugo, the bright young grandson to whom Sena dedicated this book. I know he will cherish it just as much as the rest of us do and ever will.
It came wrapped like an old-fashioned parcel from a store. How fun!
Title: When Children Ruled the World, A Christmas Story
By: Sena Jeter Naslund
Wood Engravings: Joanne Price This book was handset in Cloister Lightface type, printed on a hand-fedC & P , then handbound. Regular edition (paper): Handsewn with a paper wrap: $28.00 Regular edition (cloth): Handsewn and bound in red Japanese book cloth over boards: $36.00 Send Orders to: Larkspur Press, 340 Sawdridge Creek West, Monterey, Kentucky 40359
MAKE CHECKS PAYABLE to Larkspur Press. For special editions with marbled papers by Debbie Shannon and two-color engravings by Joanne Price, signed by author and illustrator: $175.
I have been staring at a particular wall in our house every time I pass it. Why, you ask? Because I spent part of an afternoon painting that wall!
Previously, I hated that very wall. It was a paneled “accent” wall that did anything but. It was kinda off white with burgundy and tiny designs. Yuck!
For some reason, I have tolerated it the entire time we have lived in this house, sixteen years now. Once the pandemic hit and the world started with the daily Zoom calls, I had to face facts: I could no longer bear that wall behind me on calls.
Side note: if you’re like me and you’re not a fan of the phone, try adding on video. So. Much. Worse. Why, world, why? I’ve grown accustomed to it, but at first…
I have had “paint the dining room wall” on my list now for months. I kept moving it forward. I put “choose a paint the wall or pay” date on my calendar. What I meant was if I didn’t paint it by the date, I would hire our neighbor (a professional house painter) to paint it. But I’m frugal, and I like to do things on my own schedule.
Still, I couldn’t seem to get that wall painted.
The week came, and I chose a date, because I try to follow my calendar. It’s how I get things done even when they are things I don’t enjoy. Especially when they are things I don’t enjoy. (Never underestimate the power of crossing items off a list.)
Reader, I’m sorry to report that the appointed day came and went and I DID NOT paint the wall. Sigh.
So I put on the calendar “PAINT YOUR DAMNED WALL.”
I tried focusing on the new message center I’ll be adding to it, and how I will be able to put my two prints of Victorine in that spot, and how I won’t have to wrinkle my nose every time I passed the wall, but for some reason, I couldn’t make it happen.
Except.
Except when I told the manager of the cafe I often work out of that I likely wouldn’t see her the next day because I was going to make myself stay home and paint, she commiserated with me, having a similar project she has been putting off herself.
When I explained to her what was holding me back, it no longer seemed so difficult. So what that I had to move a few things, find the paint and painting supplies? And as for not wanting to make a mess, hadn’t I been saving those annoying free newspapers they send every week (The very paper at which I once worked! I was halfway there.) for months? So what that I couldn’t immediately lay my hands on the painter’s tape. Couldn’t I simply buy more if I needed to? (I found it, btw.)
Not that I started it on Friday after all. But I did start it (and finish it!) on Saturday.
I did it in stages, another trick that works for me. I stripped the artwork off the wall. I shifted my guitar from its spot by the wall (Yes, I play. Rarely, but I do a tiny bit.). Barry helped me move the furniture.
I located the roller refills, the paintbrushes.
After brunch last Saturday, after Barry and I had spent a fun half hour buying Christmas decorations, after we took a gorgeous fall drive (and I told him to get me home while the caffeine from brunch still had me energized enough to dive in), I rounded up the last of the supplies, put in my earbuds, and closeted him in his music room (because it’s just off the dining room) with instructions to knock and be sure I’d heard him before he exited the room so I wouldn’t accidentally paint him!)
Barry was in his music room for a particular reason: we are going to be part of an opera workshop in February. I’m not sure how much more we’re allowed to say about it yet, but I am so excited to be performing with him. The opera he was in last year was on PBS recently. I’m always so proud of his performances.
So he was learning his music, pounding out notes on the piano while I was listening to The Book Review Podcast by the New York times. (I inevitably don’t get to it until Saturday afternoon.)
I took the project step by step, which is generally the best way to take projects, especially when you’re like me and randomly suffer from anxiety over nothing and everything. I taped the trim. I stirred the paint, did a bad job of it, called Barry in to look at it because I wondered if I’d fetched the wrong can of paint. He stirred it better than I had (oops) and then it was fine. Go figure. (Has a Tom Sawyer and the fence vibe to it, doesn’t it? I promise that wasn’t my intention, but it worked out that way.)
Then I just did it. I just started painting. It didn’t even take very long.
Afterwards, I browsed Etsy for new outlet covers, laughed to see that the ones I wanted cost almost $20 each, and promptly watched a YouTube video on how to decoupage some myself. Now I’m having all kinds of fun deciding what paper to use. (I kinda already know — I’m probably going to use my vintage art postcard collection. I can’t wait to dive in!)
My point is, we all have an unpainted wall. Whatever yours is, I encourage you to paint it. This weekend. After all, now I get to pass mine every day and admire it. I’m going to have a wall behind me on Zoom calls that prettily displays things dear to me. That means a lot.
So go paint your damned wall. Bonus points if you come back here and tell me what yours was. I’ll be here, rooting for you. As always.
dremadrudge.com 
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