Saturday, 14 October 2017

Black Magic

Reading: The Running Man by Stephen King (writing as Richard Bachman)
Listening to: "Black Magic" by Little Mix
Outside: Warm wind and dancing leaves


In between the loads of laundry,
the jogging and the push-ups and the plucking
of naughty weeds from my flowerbeds,
I raise my sore arms to welcome you!

This! Is Inspirational Autumn. For me, the best time of year.

It is the sacred spin of the earth into winter, tilting its axis at that last golden time before the frost's clinking, bare boughs. This is the particular shallow rise of the sun, the calm letting go of leaves that make a fantastic, haunted, crisp sound when you walk through.


Lena's Autumn Leaf Extravaganza, October 2016.


This is the time of year that sparks, well, sparks: campfire flames that pop and crackle and float up little phantoms of light; the flint-like crunch of bonfire toffee here in the UK; the glow of flame on pints of apple cider. This is the time of shadows and stories. Of skeletons and lost love, of graveyards and dares. I loved this time of year as a child.

And who wouldn't?

Halloween, people, Halloweeeeeeeen!

And, growing up in the farmland-suburbs of central Indiana, I was a child reared on this:


The Wondrous Thing Itself

And with those horrifying illustrations, these folk stories of hunger, love and death all swirled around in my pre-adolescent brain, mixed with the spiders I encountered daily in the loft of my playhouse, where I'd station myself, physically incapable of moving from the musty orange patio-bench mattress where I sat crosslegged, paralyzed by both my fear of arachnids and also for what may be lurking on the floor below. My stomach went cold, my synapses connected - these crones, zombies and haunted children, storied between Schwartz's pages, could come find me, and I was sure they were wheezing by the playhouse door, waiting.

That, and the campfires my sister and I would share with our neighbors, our friends, school kids still thrilled with the new clothes and tensions of a new school year, all of us full on Twizzlers and Cokes. We'd look at each other across the heat of the the flames, right at the edge of the woods, our features changed, distorted magically by the firelight. There were hayrides, Halloween parties and trick-or-treating in the early dusk, when the sun glowed low and orange over the harvested cornfields, all those dried stalks like rows of tangled bones, when the crickets were a symphony every night.

The long strip of our asphalt driveway, its gentle curve onto the cul-de-sac that would lead to my faraway future: My need for deep, dark stories, my aching open invitation for readers to join me in a place where unknown things - things you don't want to see, things from which you can't look away - howl.

...And here I am, age 34, between books, saying Good Luck to one manuscript as it's prepared for New York acquiring editors' desks, and saying Welcome to the World: gently coaxing a new story into being. My latest manuscript is putting on weight; these characters begin to breathe. I'm walking alongside each one of them, every bit a part of the story as they are. Like any good book, this story unrolls seamlessly in front of me, taking me down a dark path. It's a landscape coming to life.

Me, in my writing cave, doing the thing I do best.

I am once again in awe of the beautiful, unpredictable curves of fiction, the way a story can twist under your fingers, weaving around itself, growing like a vine. The inherent black magic of it: the emotional charge of that single lit window in all that darkness. The need to know. A lace-veil swept aside, giving you that glimpse into another world, another heart.

I hope you have as inspiring an Autumn as I do - may those jack-o-lanterns glow in a certain sinister way, just for you. I hope you detect phantoms in the dark, and I hope they pause to whisper sweet nothings in your ear.

Happy Saturday, everyone!


Sunday, 16 July 2017

De profundis

Reading: The Secret History by Donna Tartt
Listening to: "I'll Fly with You" by Gigi D'Agostino
Outside: Summer at its finest


Dim moon-eyed fishes near
Gaze at the gilded gear 
And query:"What does this vaingloriousness down here?"
                                   - Thomas Hardy
                                   "The Convergence of the Twain"



In December 1938, Marjorie Courtenay-Latimer, a South African Museum curator, got a call from a local trawler captain at the shore of the Chalumna River - he'd brought in a strange-looking fish. Could she come and see?

And she did. She pulled off all the seaweed, and there beheld the "most beautiful fish" she'd ever seen. At five feet long, with hard scales and fleshy, bony lobed fins, it resembled a fossil more than a fish. But she wasn't quite sure. Could it be? Was it really something special? Could her friend, Icthyologist J. L. B. Smith, have a look?

Smith, who was away at the time of her correspondence, arrived in the following February to confirm: it indeed was a Coelacanth (pronounced seel-a-canth). He named it Latimerus Chalumnae after his friend and discoverer, Marjorie.

Believed to be extinct for 65 million years, the Cretacious period's signature fish had been found.


The first coelacanth, 1938. Picture found here.


What makes the coelacanth so interesting, you ask?

Its amazingly unchanged genome, for one. All of the genes that make up this creature have stayed the same, remarkably, for a long, long time. From approximately 400 million years ago to today, this particular fish has maintained its evolutionary features that make it so perfectly suited for its deep-sea existence. Armor-like plated scales, bony leg-like fins and special, light-sensitive eyes, respectively, take the pressure of the deep and help this carnivore stride and search the pitch-black for food.

And those legs(Calm down, me, they're lobed fins.) But it's unmistakable: this fish, classified as a lungfish, is more closely related to tetrapods - things with backbones and legs, like frogs, reptiles and mammals, than it is to the far more common ray-finned fish (think clownfish, Nemo, Dory) one normally finds in the ocean. It is a one-of-a-kind ancient mystery. Evolutionarily-speaking, this fish is a real and rare treasure.

Why do I love this fish so much? Is it the smoothness of its name, something that unfurls off your tongue when you speak it, like loosening sails made of silk? Is it the horrifying sea monster look of it, something looming out of the darkness like something out of Grimm or Coleridge, an ancient story, a lesson for us to learn? Is it the size and heft of it, the fact that I, swimming alongside, would be dwarfed? Or maybe its fossil fins, a pocked mermaid's tail wafting the ice-cold water? Is it the pure secrecy of this Goliath, its survival as baffling and beautiful as the thing itself?

It is all of these things and more. It is my paralyzing fear of the ocean, of open water, of the tickle to your toes in the black depths. It's my helpless fascination of the things I fear the most: that singular weightlessness of the sea, and then the pressure: Who can help but imagine going that far down, far enough down into the suffocating depths that you would need a tank of oxygen and a whole f*ck ton of bravery, far enough to go deeper than the light can reach? And to see the gaping mouth first, large enough to eat a baby - its slow, dreamlike gulps - and its glazed, prehistoric eye flicking over you, blind and not blind, as it channels your motion. It measures you, watches you. You are food or you are nothing. That heart-stopping mammal-fear as you converge upon its life in that second of stillness.


Picture by Mordecai 1998 [CC BY-SA 4.0via Wikipedia Commons



This is a true story about a lot of things: What women in science can accomplish. What we can find if we search the sea, the staggering scope of which we as a species have only explored about 5 to 10%. And why it is so important, and what we must do to conserve the water and the animals in it. We have so much to learn about them, and by doing so, learn about us.

The problems we have made: Oil spills, contamination, whales washed ashore with their stomachs filled with plastic. Imagine, they are eating plastic, there is so much of it in our world's oceans. The bleaching of the Great Barrier Reef. The species of coral, fish and sea-birds that have been lost to us. Forever.

Rewind to 1905: Oscar Wilde, hurt beyond all repair, dying in the damp, pleaded with his lover, Bosie, for understanding, compassion and freedom, from Reading Gaol. It was, perhaps, the finest love letter ever written. "De Profundis," it was called, in Latin meaning, "Out of the very depths." A Biblical story turned reality, his cry of help went out to an unsympathetic world, and went pretty much unnoticed. A treasure was lost to the world forever.


I can imagine, given the chance to Scuba suit up and kick those flippers down, thigh muscles burning into the press of Earth's darkest, most languageless time, down into a time in which Triceratops ate their stones to help them digest their food, one might hear the gill-drawn sorrow, the un-words of a millions-of-years-old species. It would loom up out of its very depths, cast upon you its moon-like eye, and would say nothing and everything: Have compassion. Let me live.

Here is my love letter to you, Coelacanth. Here is my compassion for you. I hope you live forever.


Happy Sunday, everybody.

Sunday, 11 June 2017

Fail with faith

Reading: The Secret History by Donna Tartt
Listening to: "Heartbroken" by T2 (Ft. Jodie)
Outside: Rain on the horizon; wind tears at my laundry on the line


This past week I have failed at so many things.

I nursed and cursed my sty, which flared up in my right eye and tried its hardest to turn me into the Elephant Man. In this, fortunately, it failed. But it turned me into a miserable, complaining, lumpen mess, driven only by the constant and desperate need to sleep.

In my Igor paralysis, hiding away from the sun and sky and neighbors, I huddled under couch cushions and willed the buffering to stop while my child tried to enjoy Cloudy With A Chance of Meatballs, and then, when that failed, Monsters University. The movies each were like my current week: a series of stopping and starting, slowing until stunned, then back in movement again in confusion. Like our tiny Mike Wazowski, I was just trying to get a grip on life, to find my place in the pain which rose up around the right side of my head every time I blinked.


Fuerte Ventura, June 2013. I'm pretty sure a shark 
biting my head would have felt the same as a sty.

I didn't even go running.

I never not go running.

With aches and fatigue that settled under my skin like a snakebite, I did my best to be the Enthusiastic Mom, flying a backyard kite in playful wind. I saw stars. I made breakfasts, lunches, dinners. I lit scented candles in the vain hope I could raise my spirits, dwelling in my disasters.

And on top of this, my mom's ghost stood over me as I attempted to write a new novel.


Lena helps edit my novel LEMONADE, July 2015.

And I failed.

Now, here's a little backstory: Since I was twenty-one, I have written novels with Stephen King-like efficiency. I followed, with pure, singular devotion, his writing routine (gleaned from his memoir On Writing, perhaps the best book on the craft) with some few changes to suit my lifestyle, once I swallowed my fear and got my ass in the chair and started writing seriously, if secretly. I may not have cranked out as many novels as the King of Horror, but my passion for writing is there, just the same. During pregnancy and raising a baby, my word count stumbled, coughed and died. As I got a handle on diapers and the needs of a child, I got back into the saddle of writing, traversing the varied windswept plains, the throat-cracked deserts, the leaf-veined jungles and alpine permafrost of Writing Again, and since my daughter was born I have flax-spun three new books. If I have two working hands and a slightly functioning brain, I write. So there's that. And exactly eight weeks ago, my mom died, and here's my blog post about it.

I tore through the first five thousand words of my nascent novel, only to trash it a few days later. Its subject, based on the recent events of my life, cut too close to the bone. Each word a slice going deeper. I couldn't hack it.

And then: I scroll down my Facebook feed, the singular best way to make me respond almost physically to the things going on around me. The latest things - the Manchester bombing, the London bombing, the confusing UK General Election - make me feel like I am powerless in a world teetering out of control.

And I scroll past my friends and family members on vacations, their sun-kissed thighs propped up above white sand, their unhurried toes, their palm-tree dreams against the flawless open sky, enjoying their beer and mojitos and their late nights in Cuba and Spain and Florida under thumping neon lights while I am here, whipping the hair out of my face while I pin another threadbare winter sock up on the washing line.


My feet on the long-ago shores of Crete. July 2010

And all around my back yard, all my hopes still missing: the outdoor bar I would love (pouring a chilled bottle of White Zinfandel for this friend or that, glasses clinking in the sun); the new fence with each board strong and fresh and level, no longer the slanting, graying gap-ridden planks; the paddling pool we have yet to get, to bring splashes and smiles to our daughter and her friends and cousins; the chance to maybe (maybe! finally!) relax on a beach blanket under the sun, hedges dancing in the breeze; the confidence and reassurance I need for a future I must to see to believe.

The wind tickles the wind chime from Mom's house, and it sings its bittersweet song, a song so full of memories I can't think, and I will my throat to unclench. I answer the call of my responsibilities, the dishwater cooling in the kitchen sink and the next load ready to go in the washing machine. I pick up, hang up, fold up, put away and sneeze. I wear my wants like the half-orphan I am, asking for more.

And I am all of these things: want, regret, hurt. I am the product of those emotions that are my lifeblood. I am also, in the descent of this exhaustion, this burnt-outness, this I'd-love-a-holiday-ness - yes, and I know you'd love to get away, too - a renewal, an escape within myself: the summer dawns upon me.

Here it is: We must choose present over perfect.

We would be nothing without the present and all its imperfections. We would have nothing to strive for if things were exactly just so. We would have no story, no us.

Living in love. Messy hair, twisted bra-strap, fussy baby and all. Summer 2014.



My favorite picture of the two of us: tongues out and resplendent. Autumn 2016.


So, I've failed.

But I've failed with faith: I believe in myself enough to know that things will work out right, one way or another. My sty will disappear, and my summer flu with it. Heartbreak mends in degrees, when one has built oneself up strong enough to handle it. In the meantime, I pull at the weeds - the meaty hunks that have tried to encroach upon my happiness - and I rip them out cleanly, one at a time.


May your (gardening) days be as good as mine.

Happy Sunday, everybody!

Saturday, 29 April 2017

Brace: a tribute to Mom

Reading: Hot Milk by Deborah Levy
Listening to: "Halo" by Beyonce
Outside: Tame gray clouds, April begins its May transformation


From my seat on the plane at Manchester Airport, here's what I wrote in my journal on Friday, April 14th, 2017:

Brace. Brace. Brace.

The emergency position, preparing for collision.

I'm on the plane now.

She was on Page 6  of The Girl in the Glass. That's the last page she got to before the fall that ended it all.

Mom died the evening of Tuesday, April 11th in Dothan, Alabama. Jenny held her hand as it happened.

When the plane's going down, that's what you do. Head down, hug your knees. And brace. 

I wasn't ready for the hit.

My plane is nosing its way out now and we prepare for takeoff. A tired baby cries up ahead. Baby knows how I feel. We point toward Alabama, toward my mom who is and is not there.


Great memories and devilish good looks - Mom and me, Halloween 1987.

Grief comes in waves, just like my friend Matt told me it would. "And the best thing to do is just let it happen," he said, and I believe him. It rushes over me on the train home from work, when my mind wanders from the page of the book I'm reading and revisits the way her hands looked in the coffin. It churns around my feet as I walk home from the train station, when I walk my daughter to school, trying to trip me up. It's there, pulling me under, when I'm trying my best to stay afloat. It knows when I'm tired, when that last sour swirl of wine in the glass opens up a new memory: the last words she said to me, the last photo I took, I'm sure grief's current will pull at me for months and years to come. I brace myself.



My snapshot: Mom visits Panama City Beach, Florida, her favorite place.
My stepdad Jim captures the moment, too. Christmas 1999. 


Her funeral was the hardest thing I have ever been through, a world apart from the physical hurt of drug-free childbirth and all that breathing and heaving and pushing. Mom in her Elvis-pink Cadillac coffin. The pictures of hers, mine and ours on every TV screen in the funeral home, each snap of a moment of a life scrolling past. My sisters and stepdad, each wielding the weight of their grief in delicate dabs. Their linen handkerchiefs. The stained glass window rising up over Mom, the dark wood panelling, the Titanic first-class beauty of it all. The conversations with known and unfamiliar cousins and Joycie and neighbours, handshakes and hugs. Mom put on a pedestal one last time.

Among other things, here is what I said at the podium:

The following is a letter I wrote and sent to my mom a couple years ago, just before my daughter’s first birthday.
(Sunday, November 16, 2014)

Dear Mom,

I’m listening to a song on Youtube that debuted on the radio in 1996 (“Standing Outside a Broken Telephone Booth with Money in My Hand” by Primitive Radio Gods) and all at once it takes me back to what was happening when I heard this song back then – I was an early teen, still eager to start my period, anxious about starting high school. I had gone to Ball State Swim Camp – or would be going soon – to live like an amphibian in Muncie’s finest chlorinated. I still dream about swimming those lengths.
          And at the same time, this song reminds me of how much things have changed since then. While I haven’t gotten much taller, I have done a lot of other things: I walked the halls of Mt. Vernon High School, and even graduated a semester early.  I learned to drive. I learned to fall off horses (and climb back on). I took a full time job, several. I went to Ball State University, met friends I love and keep in touch with today, graduated. I jumped over the Atlantic, sleeping alone next to my luggage at London Heathrow Airport, and learned all I could from my wine-drinking professors in their Victorian terraced offices at the University of Leeds. Graduated. I’ve gotten married and I’ve had a baby. I’ve had serious consideration from dozens of literary agents. Rejection. And hope. Lots of hope.
          Most importantly, I have learned to live with the Skeleton Woman. There are lots of other names for her, but I prefer this one; she is the very bones of everything. She invites each of us to deal with things. The low things, the sad things. Deep things. Some folks run from her all their lives, scared and exhausted. They have poor relationships – they cut ties from everyone and everything as soon as things get bad (or, at the very least, not so pretty). I once did that – I tried to run away from things that didn’t make me happy.
          Your divorce from Dad was one of the hardest times in my life. As it was for you, too, I’m sure. It was the dying of something big, and I almost couldn’t deal with it. Skeleton Woman knocked on the door then, all tangled up and waiting. She wanted untangling– a leg bone from her ribcage, a wrist pulled from behind her spine – she wanted sorting out. She needed to be unfolded and lined up, gently put right again. She was introducing me to a new beginning that I didn’t know could happen. (She waited.)
          An even harder time for me was when you battled breast cancer. I lived with you at the time. I was seventeen, eighteen. We shared the same apartment. I went to high school and you gave yourself the “F-ing Shot.” It was a horrible time for both of us. I will never forget the day you got your hair shaved off so it wouldn’t be so obvious when it fell out. You were deliberate and uncomplaining. You still made me dinner every night. Your enthusiasm for The Brit must have taken super-human effort. It is hard to be enthusiastic about anything when you’re nauseated and not feeling well.
          This time, it was so bad that I blocked it out almost completely. Well, Skeleton Woman has caught up with me now. I’ve untangled her and this is what I see: an apology owed to you for a long time. This letter is to apologize for not being the supportive daughter I should have been. I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I should have cooked, cleaned, listened. I should have been there. I wish I could turn it all back and do it right this time. I just hope you can forgive me for being a selfish teenager, a girl who couldn’t accept such a big change.
          Life’s crazy: we spend so much energy running.  But eventually we take a rest, unfold, and discover that without things to run from, we never learn what to run to. (They are the same things!)
          Since I’ve had Lena, I feel closer to you than I ever have. I can’t explain it, and I don’t know if it’s something that can be explained. I can see your foot tapping the air when I hold her for her bedtime bottle. I can see Lena gripping your finger as she wobble-walks across the floor. I can feel your frustration when she won’t stay still on the changing table – a deep, reassuring breath – yours. Because, this time, I am you and Lena is me. This is the most beautiful thing about Skeleton Woman – she’s there for every cycle, every mood, every ending and every beginning. She wants us to learn to start again every time, and to embrace it. I feel like I have a second chance now to do the right thing.
          From the very depths, as soft as the jingle of a yellow baby-rattle, my hope rises from this page: that you read this and smile.
          Thank you for being such a great mom. I only hope I can do as well with my girl as you did with me.
                                                          Love you forever,                             
                             Your last-born,

Mom asked me to call her after she received this letter. She told me over the phone that I had been the caring, supportive daughter that she needed. She said I wrote the checks and paid the bills. She said I did the laundry, the dusting, the ironing and the dinners. I made her apartment a home. “You must not remember it, but it’s true,” she told me. “I couldn’t have done it without you. Thank you so much.”
         And so my guilt evaporated. My faith in myself was restored. As a daughter and a mom and a woman with a memory sometimes flecked with darkness, Mom was there to light me up. It’s what she did best.

And now the Skeleton Woman is back again. She’s waiting at my door all in a tangle. This time, I take these bones, one by one, and lay them gently out and remember. This time, I will place them piece by piece, dusting off the memories of who I am because of you, Mom.
        Because of your wit, your wisdom, your practical jokes. Your fierce love.
        This time I will be untangling, remembering and recovering, and loving you deeply for the rest of my life.            



Thank you.

The last photo I ever took of my mom. She shares a story with Lena. December 16, 2016.


So, wow, Mom. Skinny-Minnie, mixer of fruitcake, harvester of pumpkins, cleaner of floors and dabber of tears. Sea-lover, sun-worshipper. Voracious reader (gosh, I wonder where I got that from!), practical joker, artist. I certainly have a lot to live up to.


I touch the Gulf of Mexico at Panama City, Beach, Florida, Christmas 1999.
Mom's last picture of 16-year-old me.  

I'm now tied to the tide of grief. The tangled-seaweed surge of the surf, it pushes and pulls. The salt of it. But here's one thing: its swirl-of-hurt current brings up the good memories in all of this, and the thing she loved the most: the expanse of the sea, the priceless warmth of the sun on her skin. And here, I wade into it, imagining the beach again.

Thanks, Mom, for everything.


Sunday, 5 March 2017

The art of losing

Reading: Cosmopolis by Don DeLillo
Listening to: "Million Reasons" by Lady Gaga
Outside: Night's fallen; the last raindrops sleep in their puddles


"The art of losing isn't hard to master; so many things seem filled with the intent to be lost that their loss is no disaster." - Elizabeth Bishop

On March 1st, 2017, the sale closed. My dad and stepmom sold my childhood home, lovingly called Bucklandville. 

I have been bracing myself for this for months and months. Because I live 5,000 miles away, unable to sit in a car sobbing at the end of the driveway, wracked with remembering, I had to satisfy myself with trips to the bathroom at work, in which my grief visited me privately, fully and relentlessly. And unable to let the event pass without some kind of ceremony, I wrote and mailed the new owners a letter. Here it is. 


Dear New Owners of Bucklandville,

First off, welcome to your new home!

And secondly, this is also to say how much your new home means to me, a former Bucklandville resident. (This is what we came to call the wide swath of woods/lawn/pool gorgeousness over the years.) It's been more than ten years since I actually lived there, having moved across the Pond to begin my life in England in September of 2006 at the age of twenty-three, but its walls - inside and out - defined my world ever since I was three. I have carried close to my heart my wealth of memories since the day I left. (I’m not going to lie – this isn’t easy for me to write. I have done much writing, because writing is my way of processing, of finding that single exquisite truth in the complex tangle of life. )

Below is a journal entry, the last one I wrote at Bucklandville. I wrote it during our Christmas visit, for my own catharsis, but also to share with you a little bit about what your home meant (and continues to mean) to me.

May you and especially your children find the same magic within its walls as I did. I know it’s in good hands. I hope it paints their imaginations in vibrant colors. I hope they love soaring across the lawn like I did as a child in the summer dusk, running so fast they fly. Here's to a new generation of lightning bugs and tag-playing nights.


Yours,

V. L. Buckland





Tuesday
November 29, 2016

A Light in the Attic

To borrow the title of Shel Silverstein’s beautiful collection of poems – nothing sums it up better. Ah, Bucklandville, the first place I ever really lived. The strangeness of the fact and feeling that I’m sitting here, among plush oatmeal carpet and slanted walls, in this bright, empty cavern of what’s now called a Bonus Room. In what used to be the attic.

     
Lena, my attic treasure found: a blur, soaring faster than time can catch her. 
December 10, 2016
 
  
              Gone are the unfinished plywood shards of attic flooring, the pink toxic cotton candy puffs of the insulation we were never to touch, and the shadows that sharpened and blanketed the corners and boxes and stacks and rows and rows of things, all the things that made up our lives. The lives of my mom, my dad, my sisters and me. All the stuffed animals, dim-eyed in the dusty dusk under a bare lightbulb or two, closed off, stored. The alien Snoopy sleeping bags, their navy blue slickness turned black amongst wafting cobwebs. The sawdust smell of all of it, pervading it, catching your breath in the winter freeze, in the summer swelter. All of the things I couldn’t see, all the things I didn’t understand. Twenty or thirty years’ worth of construction business taxes in those boring white sheet-covered boxes, looming like the hull of a moored ship along one back wall. The retro arched nickel-plated lamp, the tall one that reached over you like a giant’s arm reaching past you, the lamp that once graced my mom and dad’s bedroom, the kind you snapped on and off with your foot.


From small beginnings great things grow: August 1985.
Bucklandville was nothing but my parents' blue van and an empty lot.


November 6, 1985: Bucklandville takes shape. Built by my dad himself, owner of Buckland Construction. 
The first house on the street. A sun-dappled bicycle ride from Geist Lake, back then still swampland and mystery.


Rough Grade: July 1986. My sister, Nicki, and I, shirtless and gleeful in the dust.


1986 Flourishes: the porch goes in. In our matching Indianapolis Zoo t-shirts,
Nicki and I claim our new territory.


Our new stairs! OMG we love stairs!

           Now all of that Attic Past is reduced, gone, until a single old table and four chairs are left. This table, my step-mom Linda’s antique, is the only thing in this now clean and somewhat lonely room. (Lonely now, and waiting, patient for a new family’s bed and blankets and things). This antique table, glazed and round, sits next to a window with the grandest, richest view in Indiana. In the Midwest. Perhaps the world. Its view, the light that comes in on this November afternoon, is the light in the attic.
               
             I look and look out this window charged with my childhood. How many windows do you look through in your life? And why? To escape where you are, if even for a moment? To remind you where you are, to remind yourself what’s beyond these walls? This window, here, is a window freshly made, bordered in white, which goes directly into my past. I see the tree Jenny once stood beneath, pushing me on our first swing in 1986. I see my three-year-old self, tow-headed and intent, squatting on the dirt, ruffling up dust in pursuit of a mud pie. I see a different view now, what the birds might have seen, fifteen years ago, when we labored up the sledding hill among the Christmas run-way lights in our snow suits, swish-swish-swish with our sleds bobbing at our heels, aching for another ride. I see our Cliffhanger moments, screaming for Gabe, crying for a lost teddy bear.


       
Nicki and I on our old porch. Circa 1988.

         I can see the Creek down there, curved and luscious, its present muddied swell clearer, finer, slimmer, as Nicki and our neighbor friend and I played Chicken on the one-log bridge, and then the two-log bridge, and then the old plank bridge that used to be our porch. Little knots of foam burbling along the sand.

                Little three-year-old Lena down there this morning, the soft shuffle of wet leaves, me walking her along a great rotting log, supporting her weight.
              
              The woods that’s in my dreams.


My sister Jenny pushes me on our first swing. Circa 1986.

                I can see the bare patch where our jungle gym once stood, grass grown now over its invisible wooden feet, the blue protective plastic sheath over the chains as our swings creaked, creaked just one more time, just five more times. I can see the playhouse side-on, now decorated for Christmas and, at last, child-friendly (no studded nails, bare-walls finished, weathered trunk, with its sentient snapping lid, removed), its Christmas lights waving as if waving hello or waving goodbye, or asking me to come and see, or telling me it’s time to leave.


Can she hear the whispers of ghost stories we used to tell?
 Lena visits my old playhouse at Bucklandville,
November 28, 2016. 

                And beyond, just out of view, the pile of construction equipment (sawhorses, tarps, big buckets of whatever) next to Dad’s detached garage. The pile of stuff that’s always there, always been there. The work always among the play, the adulthood rubbing up to childhood. The missing trees, the little battered 35 ¼ playhouse mailbox gone, the autumn leaves gone. The flush of youth, gone. My face in the newly remodeled bathroom, gauging myself in the mirror, my eyebrows and nose and eyes. I blame the fresh lighting but deep down I know it’s just me. My thirties, my sleepless nights, my years of anxious hope of motherhood and publishing life catching up with me.  The wrinkles that come when I smile or cry. The flaws of my face. And that’s okay, I tell myself, biting my lip, afraid; that’s life.

               I look out this window and already, like a ghost, I’m hungry for it:
               Those squeals of the summer, the shouts in the snow, mayapples tapping our knees as we run down the hill (now it’s a jungle), around the corner, bike reflectors flashing past, the dinosaurs that chased us the year Speilburg made my Jurassic dreams come true.
               
               The woods, forever, that made my dreams come true.
               

Bucklandville in Technicolor: September 2015

I tap away on my dad’s laptop now in what was once the attic, still doubting it, still not deserving it, still not believing it, that life can flip-flop, can change this much. As my little girl naps in her big bed down the hall, in my long-ago little girl room, her fist still crammed in her eye. What it’s doing to my heart, this goodbye.
               
                The jetlag catches up in this rare moment of quiet. Just me, a table and a laptop and a view.
                
                Unseen squirrels clutch trees and flick their tails, encouraging.
                
                November trees against the sky. The crows where they used to congregate, and, when the time was right: fly.
                 
Here’s to Bucklandville, Sledding Hill, and Attic of my Youth: I will miss you -
        
             (Cake-faced birthdays. Swimming races and campfire marshmallows. Halloween parties, makeup and candy. Reading under a blanket with my best friend. Our garage as a rollerskating rink. Chicken pox and my first crush. This first place I ever really lived.)


Daughters of the Next Generation: My childhood best friend, Kassie, and I
in my old room, with our girls Maizy and Lena.
December 4, 2016.


In love with the woods, forever friends: Maizy and Lena.
 December 4, 2016.

Thank you, Bucklandville, for the time we had, for the millions of stories you’ve given me to tell.

Thank you for helping me get to know myself so well.

Thank you for being my universe, sun and sky.



Goodbye.


Lena and I and the turning of the tide: Geist Lake's waves as we wish it farewell.
Child pulls me along like Time itself.
She is my faith in the future when I lack it -
when I need it the most.
I go willingly, trusting her grasp.
December 5, 2016

       
          

Saturday, 25 February 2017

The beauty of the prose

Reading: Cosmopolis by Don DeLillo
Listening to: "Move Your Body" by Sia
Outside: The flagging gusts of Storm Doris whip across our fallen fence


"The passing seconds became dangerous and spacious. The rules tinkled silently as they broke."
                                                      - Frances Hardinge, The Lie Tree





My fantastic bookish friend kindly recommended this, and I only gave the back-cover blurb a cursory glance; as usual, I liked to leap in with little or nothing known about it, the way you'll follow a trail you've never been down. (Do you always want to know what to expect? No.) All I knew, as the cover of her edition boasted, was that The Lie Tree won the 2015 Costa Book of the Year Award, which is, ahem, major news

And after having read it in a whirlwind of train journeys (how many times did I almost miss my stop? Several.) and late night I-will-keep-shifting-positions-to-get-comfortable-in-bed sessions, I can say that Hardinge's climb to the top of the Costa pile is a staggering accomplishment: the product of hard work, love, and the blood and sweat and tears of true art. 

My friend probably didn't know how much I love Victorian history, or paleontology, or the history of women's slow clawing away at the social norms that once held them so tethered and constricted inside the whalebone stays of the home. The questioning of and colliding with family expectations.

I fell in love with Hardinge's prose immediately. I fell in love with Faith Sunderly, our fourteen-year-old protagonist, who wants so desperately to do what she loves but constantly finds herself tripped up in the layers of her skirts, as it were. She is a burgeoning scientist in a world that doesn't find girls scientifically capable. Faith, aptly named, is the bridge between the old and the new, between the child and the adult, between innocence and experience. She is a leap personified. I loved her ability to navigate the heartbreaking politics of the upper-class English 1860s household, surrounded by somewhat unlikeable characters - her mother, a Nicole Kidman-like Myrtle, attractive and trying to find a foothold in impossible social norms; her father, the Reverend Erasmus, is the Sam Elliott dad - hard-edged, unforgiving, a man tied to an unspoken promise.

And all of this against the background of Vane, an island as cold as it sounds. The swirl and tug of the sea wind, the roar of waves against the sea caves, the scrape of shovels and picks into the sand of history. The Lie Tree is dark, explosive, engaging. It is an excavation of more than just fossils.


Hardinge's novel reminds me of my very own lantern, Ammonite fossil and Filey seashell -
every time I look at these I think of Faith.

And only after I've read it, as I've glanced over a review or two for The Lie Tree, did I realize that this is actually a children's fantasy book, fit for readers as young as twelve. This surprises me (pleasantly!). Perhaps having walked out of my childhood so many years ago, I forgot that children could read and think so deeply (forgive me!). Even as an adult, I am in awe of Hardinge's art. 

A good book is one that makes you see the world differently. This is one of those books.

If you get a chance to read this, please take advantage.

Happy Saturday, everybody!

Sunday, 1 January 2017

Been a long time but I'm back in town

Reading: She's Come Undone by Wally Lamb
Listening to: "You and I" by Lady Gaga
Outside: Rain on the window

This morning I greeted 2017 with a kind of fervent hope. 

The birth of something new - the release (or at least the processing) of the pain of the past.

As I watched the Countdown on TV last night, and the oily darkness of the River Thames, and how the London Eye was wide open as usual, alert and eager, all I could think of was Robbie Williams and his personal demons, how he was battling them even during his outstanding run-up-to-midnight performance on that intimate stage. The stage of his life, made fluorescent and public and with background dancers rolling robotic hips.  His seamless songs, his battle with depression and drug addiction and alcoholism, and his perfectly tailored outfit, so charismatic, so magic, and I thought, wow, he hasn't had a cigarette in ten days. That takes real courage.

And I thought about the sensitivity of all of us: we are each ornate and delicate as blown glass ornaments. We teeter on the edge of a high shelf and hope for sunny skies.

And perhaps that is the best thing.

The year 2016 was certainly rough. My Facebook newsfeed was a constant stream of shootings, bloodstained children in Aleppo, the peaks and troughs of the pursuit of gay rights and equality in the United States, Brexit and the election of a new US president, uncertain futures. So many actors, artists, and activists have departed this mortal coil, and we refresh our love for them by listening to their lyrics again and reading their books, really feeling their best scenes in their best films. We are grateful that these people did what they loved and loved what they did. They believed.

And other things harshed my mellow. I went home for the first time in two years to say hello to my friends and family, and to say goodbye to my family home, which was sold earlier this year. I spent my last two weeks ever in my old house, watched my daughter sleep in my old bed. I braced myself against What Was Happening and watched the water of Geist Lake from Lena's point of view, kneeling in the sand, inhaling the final aroma of autumn, smiling in the sun of the last warm day of the year in Indiana. It hurt too much to think about. The enormity of it (the capturing and bottling of my school bus rides, lightning bugs, Rice Krispies Treats fresh from the kitchen, Halloween parties, the way the crows, flapping and raucous, congregated in the woods, their numbers so thick the trees' canopy turned black one day every fall). I wanted fold up Bucklandville - as well as my family and my dear friends - into a neat, tidy one-inch square and fit it in my pocket and take it home to England. But I couldn't; it wasn't mine to keep. One big lesson learned in 2016. Letting go.








And 2016 was also my triumph. In June, following Lena's achievement of official dual citizenship (yay!), I caught the attention of the best literary agent in New York City for me, like eyes connecting across a room. I will never forget the excitement of those two electric days from Jen's full manuscript request to her offer of rep, and the tailspin of congrats, champagne and emotions that followed.



Other great things: The vastness of the Gulf of Mexico, the pure white sand of Panama City Beach, Florida. Lena squealing in the sea. The sun-sparkles a backdrop to her silhouette, touching her toes in the tide. Her daddy holding her on my mom's porch, marveling at the Alabama rain. Taking her to meet her teachers for the first time, and she, fearless, walking into the room ahead of me. No thigh-clutcher, this one. And this morning, Lena helping me prepare a new, well-cured manuscript for edits (she's a hole-punch specialist).



More great things: Collecting pictures of my life, and entries on my Bucket List that grows by the day. The joy of reading a book to a child. Drinks and shenanigans with friends.

As I bend to further notes for my debut novel, I also tap away at a brand new story. It feels like a long time, this year in which my creativity lay somewhat fallow, but I'm back in town. I'm once again in the dooryard of New Book (and, well, Life): all the fragility of that first page, the first draft, the first day of the year. The giddiness, the fear, the work, the love.

Here's to making it happen.

Happy 2017! I wish you the best year yet.