Manic Monday

I survived Midsummer's 2009.

They should make t-shirts with that as a slogan since every major holiday can be hazardous to your health up here in The Land of the Midnight Sun. Midsummer is a big production of bonfires, barbecues and get-togethers of all kinds. The Sun stayed up all night and so did we.

But the body count, after such a fun weekend...puxa vida! Manslaughter/drowning/driving under the influence shouldn't be eligible for national sport, but watching the news this Monday morning made me wonder why so many set out to prove that having fun without booze is just faking it. Some heavy drinking going on in this part of the world, and when I say heavy I do mean a going for the gold attempt to get wasted.

There are two sets of nations within these Nordic countries, and two sets of peoples: the introvert winter version and the extrovert summer one. This is of course a gross generalization you should pay no mind to while on the other hand there's truth in it. How could the extremities in weather, length of day, the very quality of light here not affect a person? I insist they do, and not only because I feel it in me but because I see it all around me, in the faces and demeanor of strangers and loved ones alike. I'm a child of the tropics so maybe I shouldn't even be commenting on this, and this isn't what I meant to talk about.

In other news: Thunderbirds are go. There were two things in my inbox signaling it's time to get back to work (and the drawing board...) on the ongoing epic drama of getting my story published. First item: a message with a beautiful picture of a beautiful man attached ['Honey, he's mostly...naked,' my perceptive hot man from the cold commented. Oh yeah.], cover art, with my name on it. It gave my heart quite a workout. (Seeing one of the men or my name, you guess which.)

The second message was the heart stopper, or that's what it felt like until I got into it and over myself. Content edits, en masse. Okay, so I don't have a comparison, but my first impression was that the list was long, my second thought oh mi god they hate it, my third why do they want it since they hate it, my fourth that my editor had done a thorough job while I had somehow failed.

This is of course a gross exaggeration with not enough truth to mention in it. I looked at hunk supreme, the one on the cover that is, who urged me to read on and asked would he be standing there and would my editor have done such a thorough job of it if I had in fact failed, the publisher didn't want it and actually hated it.

And what did my editor say that wasn't merited. Things I should know better and do differently if I wrote the story now. Wait. I've been given the chance to do just that, with someone to usher me, with enough distance and detachment I can take the story apart in cold blood then breathe new life into it. As long as I don't pay attention to the Ghost of Midsummer Past, the one who started talking while I first read the content notes, the one who wrote the story some twelve months ago. I should hope I've learned something, a lot, enough, during the past year I can now get down to redeeming the characters and the story without that ghost hovering about.

Picture a chunk of clay. Picture a beautiful vase. Take clay, remove what is not the beautiful vase. Let dry. Add whatever enhances the beauty of vase in question. That is my next challenge on the way to ensuring you'll get to see that beautiful man and that cover, the one with my name on it. Honoring the time put into making that cover, editing the manuscript, reading my submission, writing the story and every person and lesson in between.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have an exorcism to perform, and some pottery to attend to.

Bittersweet symphony

What a weekend. A christening and a funeral, drops of joy and sorrow and rain, laughter in remembrance, giggles and giddiness under the sun and at the door of things to come. I looked at those faces, old and young and younger still and hoped they would honor the promises made. That promises once made had been kept and that good-bye was not tainted with remorse.

I wondered do they know that the next two minutes and twenty seconds is all they may have? Would they be able to let go there and then without pain or regret? Many of the people who even choose to talk about this say that if it's a full life, a fulfilling life, you couldn't let go, you wouldn't want to. Think of all you'd miss out on. If it's such a full and fulfilling life, shouldn't you be able to, with everything said and done? Things usually aren't, are they, said and done, hence: pain and regret. Enter scapegoat: Death. But come on now, he didn't do it, or leave it undone. It wasn't his choice of words, or his silence. It is always ours and we're only projecting.

To make a life and a work complete requires playing all movements from a composition. As beautiful as any individual movement may be, it is only a part of the whole. Leave one out and have someone asking about it later on. Leave something out and start wondering why the sweet doesn't taste as sweet anymore. Disown whatever makes up all the heaviness and be burdened with it.

What if being on a first-name basis with the Grim Reaper is the only way to guarantee he has nothing on you? Call his bluff, let him know you're onto him and watch his act fall apart. Invite him in and cast him an understanding glance and see him take off that cloak. Grant him an understanding word and he will be crying on your shoulder in no time how all the world hates him and how he knows it's a dirty job but he honestly forgot to read the fine print. He won't smell your fear (he gets that a lot) but Life most certainly will and she will resent you for it. So take a fearless bite out of the bitter and taste how sweet the sweet tastes once more.

What a monotonous piece life would be without the tensions, the contrasts and counterpoints it takes to write a symphony. Leave a part out and it doesn't sound right. Leave another out and it doesn't ring true at all. Let the music play in all its complexity and dance as slow or fast as you dare. And show some sympathy for the devil, will you; poor Reaper has two left feet.

Viva la vida

"This week I 'ave been mostly writing about Immortals." (Picture Jesse from The Fast Show.)

Not vamps but characters of the death-defying, undying kind all the same. I have a short novel well under way and another thingy outlined I will probably hack in two, but I'm sure the characters won't mind, it's not like it will kill them.

What possessed me, I'm not sure. The aftershock of one Moebegone day? Our constant fight against The Great Nothingness? What's even more baffling: I can't stand the thought of living forever. It's not uplifting, it's exhausting. It takes away the immediacy, the beauty and poignancy of living knowing I might go on and on. Why work for the betterment of all we're brought to task over, why look after you while you watch my back if we got all eternity to get this right? I don't want all eternity. I want the here and now; no excuses, no explanations, one shot at kindness and loving and forgiveness, not all I dare ask for.

The only way I can think of going on and on is through the Celine-Dion-My-Heart-Will-Go-On method. (No comments from the peanut gallery, thank you.) That I can live with. I like the idea of epigenetics, of the ghosts of our ancestors haunting our genes. The Iroquois were onto something with their law and idea of seven generation sustainability. Or, for the biblically inclined: sons bearing the sins of the fathers? Same difference, basically. I'm haunted, you're haunted, she's haunted... Everybody! In my life we'll always go on... (Quiet in the peanut gallery, please!)

I'm more than the sum of all my parts, biology and sociology combined; every inherited susceptibility, every country and culture my parents introduced me to. I know most of what there is to know about the sociological bit but close to nothing about the biological part. I've seen quite far down the line but only on the surface level. Still those ghosts lurk inside me and what activates or inhibits them, we'll just have to wait and see.

I can't defuse those little time bombs. I don't know the combination or where they keep it. But there is an army inside me ready to save my life and with any luck my children's. Whether they want those particular pieces of inheritance or not it's theirs. Sorry, my sweetie darlings, Mom isn't all-powerful as you'll soon discover, and I agree Dad is quite fabulous but he isn't master of the universe no matter what he says and you might think.

So this week I've been mostly writing about what I don't know. I usually do. What I want to learn more about, what thrills me, terrifies me, haunts me and taunts me. Writing about what you know; now where's the challenge in that? As for the resting in peace business? I sure hope I get some sleep when I'm dead.

Saturday night's alright (for writing)

So I don't have a life. Or I have my friends' life and they have mine and the chances of making a simultaneous sweet escape are few and far between. Now that summer is here, it says so in my calendar and it is unseasonably warm, people with their surreally long vacations scatter like forest fauna fleeing fire. Away, away! You come back here, I say. Don't you dare leave me. Stellaaa!!! Ah shucks, she's long gone.

Every other person living in and around the capital seems to have come from somewhere else. I guess that's where they're headed and it is as if they could not get there fast enough. (Scandinavians are big on summer houses and cottages, preferably by some lake in the middle of nowhere. Amenities aren't necessary; peace and quiet are.) Or they're on a plane to Spain or Greece or Italy where they will run into the neighbors, colleagues, relatives etc. they were running from in the first place. (I've yet to visit London without running into someone I know who doesn't live there either. Small world? Microscopic.)

Hubby's working, the kids are sleeping over at his parents, and I'm living la vida loca sitting in our garden reading and writing. Ever grateful for the amenities, even more so for the peace and quiet.

Secret garden

Who knew there was a story central hiding in my garden? Who could have imagined a city girl would enjoy roughing it in the bush and digging in the dirt this much? Hubby is Nature Boy, I'm only learning, and gawking openly at said shirtless guy's abs and chest and biceps gleaming and straining while he swings that shovel and it's getting hot in here and I digress but you would too just looking at him working or working out or just standing there. (I swear love is one major distraction no matter who you are or what you're trying to do.)

There we were, discussing perennials, or Hubby talked while I tried to deduce from Latin and the context before he caught on to my confusion what sort of plants might those be. And something came to me then and there, a storyline that had absolutely nothing to do with plants or gardening, and I was forced to excuse myself and leave poor hunk hanging in mid sentence while I rushed off for my notebook. He knows by now I'll drop anything except someone's baby when my hands shoot up as if I was about to catch a ball, my eyes focus on some distant spot and my mouth opens the tiniest bit as though I was going to say something. It's funny as hell, his impersonation.

It happened several times during the weekend and I don't know whether it had something to do with concentrating on some rather mundane tasks, from where the wind blew, me or him, but I got so much done in the garden and orchard as well as by way of filling that notebook with ideas, dialogue, questions, and even some answers.

I've noticed that doing things as a meditation is conductive for creativity. At least it works for me. One of my favorite torture racks and methods of getting my mind flowing: indoor rowers. Yes, I know there are gurus out there to teach you to do the same without moving a muscle but I'm a run for the bus kind of girl; I absolutely need to use mine or I will get cranky and restless.

I know what the guru would tell me is of the essence. It's all I focus on when I row row row my boat not so gently down the stream. Having nothing to concentrate on but your next breath, being able to concentrate on nothing but breathing can be oddly liberating. (And, shameless product placement: forget about the latest fitness fad, you'll outlive it anyway, try any Concept2 rower, it will outlast you, and get the best no frills strength-endurance work out ever no matter what your current weight or starting level. No, they didn't pay me to say so. Would they? If I asked nicely? No? Dita who? Damn. I still love those machines.)

I've found new motivation to learn the ins and outs of gardening. The fact that my kids get to eat berries, fruit and vegetables they've planted and tended to themselves is no small bonus. And we supposedly live in a city, the second largest in the nation. I don't think of this as a city, not compared to most cities I've lived in and considering we actually grow food on our lot. I've never had a garden like the one we have now. I love it. For the foodstuff, for the inspiration, and especially for its patient, loving and understanding head gardener.