a dangerous formula.

So, just to warn you:

If you happen to read Hula Seventy's brilliant posts about train travel, follow them up with Chez Danisse's beautiful musing on escape, and do it while listening to this song...



Well.

You might find yourself checking your savings account, just to see what's in there.

You might find yourself booking a ticket, or at the very least, tying a few things in a kerchief, hitching it to a stick, and setting off.

You might find yourself on a train, next to a girl in huge sunglasses. By her side: a stack of blank books, a clutch of new pens. She just might be me, going as far as she can.

And you can't say I didn't try to warn you. You can't say I didn't try.

book crush friday: A Year in Provence

The year began with lunch. -- Peter Mayle, A Year in Provence

I missed the sounds that marked the passing of each day almost as precisely as a clock: Faustin's rooster having his morning cough; the demented clatter--like nuts and bolts trying to escape from a biscuit tin--of the small Citroen van that every farmer drives home at lunchtime; the hopeful fusillade of a hunter on afternoon patrol in the vines on the opposite hillside; the distant whine of a chainsaw in the forest; the twilight serenade of farm dogs. -- Peter Mayle

This is the book I indulged in during the deadlines and chaos of my senior year at college. It was like anti-stress medication: I'd take this book and crawl into the cavelike safety of the bottom bunk... and escape to Provence for as long as I could.

And if you read those quotes, you can already see why... A Year in Provence is a warm, fantastically conversational memoir of--well--a year in Provence! Which Peter Mayle and his wife spend fixing up a farmhouse and learning about the people and customs and villages around them.

I let myself read it quite at leisure, dipping into it now and then, or soaking it up for an hour or two. I love snooping around in the lives Mayle writes about, learning about his acquaintances, and all the trials of fixing up a house. And traveling vicariously through southern France.

Maybe this book is dear to me because it's about so many of the things I love most. Community. Food. Travel. Living well. France.

... And especially, enjoying food among French community.

(I am such a sucker. Combine food and friends, and I'm there. Combine them in a great setting... well then. Even better.)

Recommendation: A glass of wine. A sunny room and a comfortable chair. And this book. That's my prescription.

book crush thursday: A Writer's Paris

I am only asking that you use Paris not as a tourist destination, but as a place to write, and that you make Paris one of the stopping points on your creative journey. It is that creative journey that I am really talking about. -- Eric Maisel, A Writer's Paris

There are always reasons not to write. ... Entertaining those reasons even for a split second is the path to uncreativity. Write, even if you have a twinge, a doubt, a fear, a block, a noisy neighbor, a sick cat, thirteen unpublished stories, and a painful boil. Write, even if you aren't sure. -- Eric Maisel

It's never someone else's fault that we aren't writing. -- Eric Maisel

It's all right just to stare at that beautiful book cover for a while. Perfectly okay. I do it all the time. Or, actually, since I've read this so often that the glue holding that little half-cover-thingy has come off, this is what I'm looking at:
.

Mmmm. Still lovely. This book is one of the most perfectly designed little volumes that I own, it really is. The fonts, the pen-and-ink illustrations, the size, the fabric cover... it's all gorgeous. (Go here for a peek inside...)

A Writer's Paris is one of those books that's been absolutely essential to my writing life. It's one of my desert island books: if I could choose only five books for my writing practice to depend on, this would be one of them.

And that's even factoring in all the arguments I've had with Eric Maisel. I disagree with him on just about every philosophical point, except writing and the motivation to write. So every time he strays into other discussions about humanism or athiesm, I'm usually snarking at him. (The chapter on "Maya and Lemonade" makes me scream every time.)

So why the recommendation? Why do I love this book, in spite of our disagreements?

Because Maisel sells me on his writing plan every time. Every single time.

See, he wants me to go to Paris for six months and write a novel. He wants me to write for six hours a day, in three two-hour stints. Write for two hours at a café, then go for a walk. Write for two hours at a park, then browse a little museum. Go back to my cheap Parisian studio apartment, and write for two more hours before bed.

And I am there, every time. I can see it all, see myself there, and what's more, I can see myself writing, writing, writing. He pulls away any excuses, all excuses. And before I know it, I'm back at my desk, scribbling notes, pecking away at my keyboard, finishing a sentence, a paragraph, a chapter.

Dreaming of croissants and French-speaking pigeons and views of the Seine, but writing just the same.

I pull this book off my shelf whenever I feel bleak about my work. If I've been talking about too many people about my writing, I usually feel dry and cold and want to be anywhere but my desk. (Weird, but true: talking about my current projects usually deflates my will to write.) A few chapters of Paris is like a shot in the arm: my heart is in Paris and my fingers are on the keys and I'm a writer again.

And as my family can attest: I am a thousand times happier when I'm working. So this book really is my best medicine.

In fact, reading a handful of the best chapters is like a mini writer's retreat. If I reread, say, "Apricots" (on accepting your flaws), "Writing in Public Places," "Your Novel in Six Months' Time" (which says wonderful things like Celebrate by writing or Exult. Exult by writing), "Three-Week Books," "Not Writing" (The plan in a nutshell: Get up, go out, and write.), and "If Not Paris, If Not a Year" ...

If I read all of those in one sitting, perhaps with a mug of coffee at my side, well. The literal caffeine will hit my heart rate, and the literary caffeine will hit my spirit, and off I'll run back to my novel, unstoppable, working again.

And I think that, if you're skilled in translating such things for yourself, this book could be well-applied to any creative endeavor. "Celebrate by writing" could also be: celebrate by sketching, celebrate by sauteing, celebrate by scrapbooking, celebrate by sewing.

Wherever your creativity lies, I think you'll find this book a stirring invitation to dive back in, and let nothing stop you, whether in Paris or Grand Rapids or Nashville or St. Louis.

Recommendation: No contest here. Strong coffee (from a French press, if you can manage it) and a croissant, buttered. It can be a golden afternoon, or a bleak rainy day, either one works. Just don't forget the coffee.

this & that

So, I've been gone for a few weeks! I know, I didn't say anything. Evidently it's bad form to announce that your house will be empty for a while. For all I know, people would break in and steal my Dickens novels and all my Billy Collins poetry.

At least, that's what I'd take.
.

Me and Moxy, my traveling buddy. We have very serious conversations.

But, yes: my sister, Mom, and I spent about eighteen days driving through Georgia (stopping with my cousins at this awesome doughnut place) and then hanging out with my little sister and my niece. We had a fabulous time, of course. Lots of conversation, cooking, and playing games with my amazing little niece.

it's been a corn salad summer


When we did get home, I was so exhausted (though happy) that I just moved really slowly for two days. (Not missing Florida itself--our two weeks in Florida set the record for "most times I've been leered at by old men." What a weird place! I mean... seriously.)


I spent the weekend looking through all the great photos from the trip, watching that one movie--the one where my niece lets loose her contagious laugh--over and over.


And then on Sunday, I had a wonderfully indulgent crafty moment: thanks to Elsie's blog, I found this. Made myself a pair late on Sunday, and have been tromping around in them since.
.
(The careful observer will notice that the pattern is for Mary Jane Slippers, and, well--it just doesn't look like I'm wearing Mary Janes. I guess I was using a big crochet hook, and I have tiny feet. So... it's not exactly a Mary Jane, is it? Still cute.)

I still have a massive amount of laundry to finish, and plenty of writing to do. One novel is screaming toward its first draft, and I am oh so happy about that...

Otherwise, this week I'll be plaguing my librarians with interlibrary-loan requests, helping plan a culinary tour of St. Louis, knitting new things for our store's fall season (I know, it's been ages since a real update!), and planning a new feature for this blog!

And of course, I'll be back tomorrow with a new idea for your I just have to read this next! list. (You have one of those, right? Me too.)

book crush thursday: Educating Alice

One of the sneaky, hidden agendas of curiosity, I believe, is to make you go forward in the face of fear. -- Alice Steinbach, Educating Alice

If Amalfi were a man, I thought, he'd be dressed by Calvin Klein and reading Tom Clancy. Positano would wear Armani and carry a book by John le Carré. But if Ravello were a man--ah, Ravello!--he would be in chinos and a fresh white oxford shirt with no tie, buried in a book by Graham Greene. -- Alice Steinbach, Without Reservations

I'm not a big fan of nonfiction, in general. (That is actually a massive understatement.) I will, however, stay up terribly late at night reading travelogues. If I can't be touring the world myself, I'm very happy to read while someone else does it.

.

And so I loved Educating Alice (and the book before it, Without Reservations). Alice Steinbach is a Pulitzer-Prize-winning journalist, and reading her books feels like having a wonderful conversation with a very smart, cool friend. Who's traveled everywhere. And learned all kinds of interesting things.

.

Maybe that's what makes Educating Alice especially compelling for me. Not only did she travel around the world, but she took a class in each place. So ... she talks about each destination through the lens of the course she is taking, like Cuban architecture, Jane Austen, French cooking, and Japanese traditions.

.

And though I first read it in 2007, I still think about her chapter on gardening (in Provence) every time I stare at a tree, and Border collie training (in Scotland) whenever I "meet" a new dog.

.

Perhaps the best part of this book? It gives plenty of inspiration to plot my own classes-round-the-world tour. I mean, seriously. There is some major daydreaming fuel. What would I like to learn and where? Oooh. I could spend all week thinking about that. Or all summer.

.

Recommendation: Wouldn't it be best to celebrate one of the cultures she's writing about as you read? Two chapters are devoted to French destinations, and I won't argue with that. Have yourself an omelette, or perhaps a crepe, with a cup of strong coffee. Mmmm. The makings of a perfect afternoon.

lost & found

"Well, now that we have seen each other," said the unicorn, "if you'll believe in me, I'll believe in you." -- Lewis Carroll, Through the Looking-Glass

I've been bitten by a nostalgic mood lately. Not sure why--maybe it's my birthday out there on the horizon, reminding me of years past. Or maybe, after straining forward with project after project, my memory gets lonely and insists on a long look back.

.

Whichever it is, I find I'm deeply missing the people I've shared life with. Whether our paths crossed for half an hour, half a year, or half a decade, they're suddenly back in my mind again. So many people that I've lost track of, and others I'm still in touch with but we're far away... Separated by time zones or oceans.

.

Anyway, if this is you, know that you're missed. And that I'm remembering the many cups of coffee we shared, or the late rainy walks through unfamiliar streets, or the long long dinners that were outlasted by the brilliant conversation. That I miss cooking with you, I miss your funny laugh, I miss your off-the-wall insights, I miss your kindness. I miss the way you sometimes finished my sentences better than I could, or the moments when we didn't need sentences at all.

.

I know it sounds like I'm gearing up for a Beatles song--I promise I won't start singing at you. But consider this my love-you letter to all you distant friends, chance acquaintances, people met for only a moment.

.

Katrine in Paris, if by some miracle you are reading this, know that I want to be exactly like you in fifty years. Down to the way you walked, your grace, your enthusiasm, the three dogs swarming around you. You still inspire me, and I'm still grateful to you.

.

And Jane in Michigan, we only talked once, but I still think about your fabulous advice. Steve and Helen, you're two of the coolest people I know. (And I'm haunted by those brownies.) Yuli knew what I needed one afternoon more than I did. Maria is one of the wisest and dearest people, not to mention a splendid cook and a lifesaver. Jen made every Sunday better that year. Karen shared scones and long chats about church. Bob believed in me long before I could. And sometimes Sarah makes me laugh so hard I almost turn inside out.

.

And there are so many others... So, if you're out there, reading this, know that I'm raising this mug of coffee to you. And I hope you're happy, safe, and well. And that we somehow see each other again, soon.

a handful of photos...

... from my recent trip to Florida. Road trips = yay.

Bonus, there is sunlight in these pictures, a winter rarity.

.

Felt soooo gorgeous to have the windows down and that warm Florida breeze slapping at my hair. Weather like that could convert a die-hard winter fan like myself... am I finally thawing?

.

It was so wonderful, of course, to be down there again. Mom and I had so much to chat about on the drive, with our respective book projects, our writing lives...

.

And then amazing to see how fast my little niece is growing. She is just an incredible little person, and our time there flew by!

.

(That was *not* meant to be a photographic pun on the word fly... I'm just surprisingly clever, that's all...)

.

Fantastic, too, talking with my sister and brother-in-law, catching up on all our lives. (This, too, should be known: my little sister makes a mean batch of guacamole. Just so you know.)

.

Now we're counting down the days till we get to see each other again... Visits with sisters don't stick, they don't last. Leaving always comes too soon; arriving is never soon enough.

quick note

I'm more than a little exhausted, after a short night. Complete sentences are challenging. How do you feel about a handful of fragments?

Florida. Road trip. Two days to sun.

To see family. Friends. Niece.

NIECE!!!

Piles of not-yet-packed clothing littering my bed. Already-packed bags bulge near the door.

Over the phone, my sister and I make our to-do lists: cooking is near the top... we've spent so many hours dancing around each other in a steamy kitchen. It's one of the things we both miss when states crowd between us. (Those darn states.)

Laugh. That's high on the list.

Love on her little girl. (Did I mention my amazing niece?)

There will also be knitting, for me. Last Wednesday, one of our products just exploded... figuratively, that is. A lot of people love it! So much so that I'm going to be a very very busy girl. And altogether sick of knitting with red yarn. Nevertheless: hooray.

Oh, and writing for me. Reading a manuscript to my sister, seeing what she thinks. Showing her my designs for new knits for spring. Explaining (perhaps over coffee) the preliminary planning on this next book, this new idea of mine... And possibly catching a few new ideas, new scenes. Getting them down on paper, if I'm quick enough with my pen.

So good to see them all again. My sister, my brother-in-law, my niece. A week will evaporate, and then I'll come home, just in time to sweep up the last few days of January.

she's not too creative today.

I've been sick for a bit, but I mustered words enough for a post on my other blog--a happy little meditation on being sick and being well, so click over there if you'd like some words today.

I'm not creative enough for a second post, but if you'd like an antidote to grey and rainy weather, here are some beach shots from my Florida trip two weeks ago... enjoy!

(Note: please excuse the spacing on these pictures. My blogging template and I are having a philosophical discussion about it.)

one more postcard.

For the first time in weeks I felt that lights were on somewhere for me. -- Leif Enger (from So Brave, Young, and Handsome: drop everything and go read it. right now. now.)

On my second day in Bermuda, I realized something. Sitting by the window, staring down at Hamilton's professionals walking by, tourists trying out mopeds on the wrong side of the road, palm trees waving back at me... and then looking at the blank notebook in my lap.

And I finally understood why I hadn't been writing, why my poor little book was sitting at a crossroads.

There was a string of calamities, from major to minor, during my spring: a time I'm now affectionately calling "the perfect storm." If I had sat down and strategically plotted a way to uproot my connection to my writing life, I could not have done better.

I desperately needed to get back on my plan, back on track. I'd hoped to turn my Bermuda trip into a page-producing machine, but on day two, I realized I was completely emptied of energy, of words, of imagination.

And that maybe there was a lesson in Bermuda beyond just a score of closely written pages.

All I had to do was look out at the roofs across the street. Bermudians depend on the rain: when it washes those white stairstep roofs, it drains into a cistern and becomes drinking water. If Bermuda teaches one thing, it's this: if there's nothing in the cistern, there's nothing coming out of your faucets. (Ask my sister, who was once caught with suds in her hair when the cistern went dry...)

I was lying in bed one night, listening to the rain outside and the water gurgling through pipes to the cistern, and I finally put it all together. Maybe if I want to write again, I should try putting back into myself. Seeking the creative equivalent of a long, steady rain.

Oh.

That revelation overthrew my plans for the rest of the week. Instead of "words logged," I measured my days by how many hours I could daydream while looking out the window. I took the time to find the coziest places to sit. I drowned myself in reading--a new novel, Winston Churchill's Birth of Britain, a copy of Gourmet... I planned other reading vacations for myself, deciding to spend many more hours reading with intentionality.

It was coming back home that I realized something else: when I need perspective, I need a plane. There's something about lift-off, about watching everything below you shrink to a toy village, and all your problems are so much dust by comparison.

It gets even better at night. I spent the flight from Atlanta to St. Louis with my forehead pressed against the window, feeling all of seven years old, lost in the otherworldly landscape below. Atlanta became the dream of a city, its thin interstates lit with the pinpoint beams of tiny cars. The whole city was a web strung with light, amber constellations forming the cul-de-sacs, neighborhoods, towns... broken by shining green planets of baseball stadiums. (How many stadiums do you have, Atlanta? I was amazed.)

I couldn't take my eyes away. It was the mundane made mysterious, I suppose. Streetlights look fantastic and ethereal from 15,000 feet. They wink through the trees, and beyond them are the great black voids without light. Then in the distance, another city like a galaxy.

(saint louis from the air)

A string of thunderstorms at the horizon made it perfect. The yellow flashes in the distant clouds looked like a storm in a romantic painting--that goldeny lightning, bursting in slow motion. Absorbed in the high drama of it all, this landscape so strange, I half-expected the calm, canned flight attendant voice to announce Welcome to the edge of the known world. I came off the plane dizzy, excited, ready for a dozen novels at least...

how do i love thee

Personally, I want the sea always... and with it sunshine, and wine, and a little music. -- Max Beerbohm

I am writing this in a park, not far from our home. A blissful, perfect, clear summer evening. Quintessential, the kind you remember as a kid, along with ice cream cones and sparklers... But instead of absorbing the glories of the midwest, I am thinking of Bermuda, and trying to catch that island in words.

(snapping pictures from the back of my dad's moped)

Though it's home for my dad, it's still a strange place for me, even on this, my fourth visit.

There are times when I love it, and yet many things I don't love--the relentless suffocating humidity, the way everything rusts, and the narrow stacked-on-top-ness of the inner parts. I'm used to the sprawl of fields and fields... pinched lanes make me gasp after a while.

But there is much, very much, to love about Bermuda, and that's what I went searching for on this trip, and this is what I found:

* It is away. Sometimes, there are no prices to put on the value of shedding the daily clutter and chaos, the traps in my mind, the patterns I fall into...

* The houses. I fall in love with the Bermudan palette on every visit. What color would I paint my house, if I lived here? I try to choose, as Dad and I buzz around the island on his moped. Would I pick the rich brightness of pineapple-yellow? Or some mellower pumpkin? Would I be mysterious and stormy, and go for grey + white? Perhaps the oddly safe Bermudan pink? Or would I try to echo the turquoise in the waves?


* The names of these bright houses, and the names of the streets. I'm reading everything, everywhere we go, trying to choose favorites. What's most evocative, most funny... Who lives in houses like Casabella, Loquat, Farleigh, Tamarisk Hall, Woodsea, High Five, or Brightside? And what would you find on streets like The Pampas, Black Watch Pass, Point Finger Road, Fractious Lane, and:

(my younger sister thinks we should drop banana peels up and down this hill, and then retake the picture... i think she's right.)

* In some ways, I love the first drive on the island the best: the taxi ride from airport to apartment. It always reminds me of my first disorienting minutes on the island nine years ago--my first trip. I stared out at this new world, from the wrong side of the road, with taxi drivers far less timid than I about taking the corners...

* Or do I love nights the best? Driving home on quiet, winding streets, breathing in the perfume of unknown flowers, stretching my bare toes in the warm velvety air. Or watching the beam of Gibbs Hill Lighthouse as it fingers Dad's windows after dark...

(Johnny Barnes, perhaps the island's friendliest man, greeting every car and bike on their way into Hamilton)

* Or do I love the accents best? The accents that defy my definitions, but are something like sunwarmed, saltsplashed British? Perhaps I do, perhaps I love the accents best, as every spoken syllable reminds me that I'm far away, far away...

(step over this way for a moment)

There is more, much more, to be said about Bermuda, and I will say it... but for now, skip over to my other blog, to hear about Larry the taxicab philosopher, and what my parents should have named me...

r&r

Mary wished to say something very sensible, but knew not how. -- Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice

This late spring mix of May and June has me completely undone. I have been so tired that I'm tired of hearing myself say I'm tired. (You see? It makes you fidget, too, doesn't it?)

Enough. We're going on a trip, then, writing and me. For a week. In Bermuda.

I'll pack the shreds of dreams and scraps of scenes into a big handkerchief. Tie it to the end of a stick and go far away... Then shake them all out onto pink Bermuda sand, and see what they sound like there. Different latitude, different longitude, a little punctuation mark in the sea of blue...

They'll be competing with the squeaky-swingset call of a million tree frogs, the percussion of Atlantic surf, the lure of pub food, the sunshine that spills out of Bermudan accents.

But I know that after a week of island, this honeymoon-with-book, we will come back stronger and refreshed. And then, look out, Part Three. Look out, draft. We will spin the wiliest storyweb you ever saw...