Word Doodles

"Often when I write I am trying to make words do the work of line and colour. I have the painter's sensitivity to light. Much (and perhaps the best) of my work is verbal painting."
- Elizabeth Brown

The late, great John Updike once said he'd write about anything, even the pencils lying on his desk. Makes me think of an artist's doodling, sketching the world around her for the satisfaction of committing the image to paper in a certain way. Doing so fulfills a creative need to sort out a thing, tell a story.

Why not sketch the pencils with words?

How is the light falling on them, indicating time of day? What was the last thing written using them, and why that and not something else? Are the ends of them pocked with teeth marks? Were they tossed aside and left to roll off the desk, or laid down side by side with care? Whose pencils are they, and why are they lying there?

It's not unlike some of the writing exercises I've done over the years to kick-start a story. Matter of fact I think I'll go and doodle about pencils right now.

But first I'll shove the knitting needles out of the way.

And then I'll re-read Elizabeth Bishop's hilarious and insightful essay, The USA School of Writing. The first time through, I laughed so hard I jumped over words.

And then I'll get doodling.

Birdsong, Submissions, and a Sock.

"Get five rejections in a day... Making rejection a goal also takes some of the sting out of it."
- Carolyn Cutler

Someone needs to tell the songbirds it's still winter, but it won't be me. I'm enjoying their arias too much. They accompanied me on my way to the gym today, pealing and burbling through the crisp, -8 Celcius air. I walked on and off the sidewalk, nipping around the four-foot-high frozen-solid snowbanks lining the roads, in my efforts to avoid the one icy patch I'm destined to fall upon. I'm pleased to report I haven't yet found it. Maybe I won't this year.

I finished knitting Sock the First, and am inordinately pleased with myself. It's a fine sock, red and brown stripes not of my doing, but of the clever yarn manufacturer's. The ribbing is a bit loose and there are a few mystery holes, but it seems to fit. Sock the Second is well under way, and is turning out to be rather more svelte, which means I must be finding my groove with the business of knitting with four needles. And it may well mean Sock One becomes also Sock Three, if I can stand to rip it out and knit it all over again, following the philosophy of Writing is Rewriting, ie Knitting is Reknitting.

Or not.

This week's submissions have been most interesting, including a couple of stories sent to an anthology looking for stories written about the sea. Given that the working title of my short story collection is - ahem - Harbour View, this one grabbed my attention. Another story went off to the UK to a print publication that supplies London Underground commuters with reading material - a considerable readership, I should think, looking for a literary diversion to brighten up the ride to work. What a great idea.

It feels good to get my hands on my stories and push them out the door to the ring of birdsong in the cold. They're quite good, I think. The stories, that is. As is the sock.

Four Hats, Four Pages

"I'm writing a book. I've got the page numbers done."
- Steven Wright

Winter has firmly asserted itself with a thick blanket of snow that recently had Halifax socked in for half a day. While the Business Guy toiled with the neighbour's snow blower ("No, honey, really. You just stay warm while I dig us out. Really."), I knitted my fourth hat in four days, reasoning with myself that a) last winter while the Business Guy was away on business trips, I did the bulk of the shovelling, b)I have stitched, with love, four Christmas presents for friends and family, and c) I have written four fresh pages in as many days. Seems about equal. Truth be told, the hats have garnered most of my attention as I plotted colour combinations and stripe patterns appropriate to the recipient. Maybe that's why I've been feeling slightly uneasy.

But why should I feel uneasy? Since September I've been writing hard and fast, cranking out nearly 100 pages of fiction. I've got Novel/Part I tucked safely away in three separate files, including web storage for safety (thanks to all for your great suggestions), and I'm well into Part II. Of course I see the need to come up for air and think about what's next, but the working mother in me can't help but worry about Time Wasted. After all, ten short months are all that remain of my writing sabbatical.

If a friend were in the same situation I'd be lecturing her on the virtues of Time Spent, not Wasted; about how sometimes a writer needs to stare out the window, or walk the dog, or knit a hat. And I would expect my friend to lap up my wisdom and make the best of staring out the window for a while. I needed that very lecture, so I turned to Mary, who assured me that once the hats dry up I'll discover "deep wells of words waiting to be poured out by the pailful."

With her wisdom ringing in my ears I settled on a colour for the final stripe of my brother's Christmas present. And then I surprised myself by writing, almost in one breath, an entire, brand-new short story.

Who needs a hat?

The Yarn-Whisper

"I don't believe in writing every day though I'm at my desk every day. So much of writing is thinking before you write, reading, or simply brooding."
- Stanley Kunitz

There's snow drifting down. Earlier it was rain, then as the mercury headed towards zero, it turned into thick rain, and now it's that wet, sloppy variety of snow - snowdrops, really.
It all points to knitting.

After spending most of last week compiling and editing Part I, Draft I of my novel, I found myself curiously inert. I needed to do something, but Part II was not forthcoming. So I fussed around the house, cleaning dog-hair-bunnies (created by this fine creature) and baking cookies. I tried all manner of procrastination techniques, but drew the line at scrubbing the toilet for the third time in as many days, and got to work preparing story submissions to journals and contests. Then, drawn by the deepening cold, I pulled out the knitting needles and some scraps of yarn, and started what I thought was going to be a cowl. But when I listened to what the knitting was telling me, I realised it was actually not a cowl, but a hat. In no time I was finished. The thrill!

After admiring my newly-knitted hat for a day, and deciding on the spot that everyone's getting hats for Christmas, I climbed back up to the writer's garret and listened to what Part II was trying to tell me. And then I got back to work.

And no, the metaphor of knitting words together is not lost on me.