heading away from May

A girl steps away from the world and into her story for a few minutes and what happens? Blogger updates. gaaaaaaaa. Let's see if I can figure it out.

May was a pushing-forward month for writing and traveling. And for reading, which you'll see in the sidebar. I want to talk about what I'm reading, but first I want to say thank you.

Thanks to everyone, especially librarian Cathy Farrell and the 7th-grade team at Potomac School in McLean, Virginia, for a fantastic writing day earlier this month. Potomac is a school full of stellar teachers and exceptional students, and I am always honored to be asked back to work with students on personal narratives. Thank you, thank you. Such an inspiring day.

May was also for visiting Mississippi once again, for research, and for family. Soon I'll post some photos of Sunny's world in Greenwood, Mississippi, the location for book two of the sixties trilogy. I'll give you an update on book two as well.

In Greenwood this trip, I found Sunny's house, and I used the time in Greenwood to map routes Sunny will take from home to the pool, home to the courthouse, home to her friends' homes, home to downtown, home to her father's store and on into the land of -- literally -- the other side of the railroad tracks, where SNCC's offices are, where Jo Ellen is staying with a black family, Raymond's family, during Freedom Summer in 1964. Whew.

More soon. Let's see if this will post. Where is the "publish" button??

and now it's april

What have I done with the first three months of this year off? So much. And now it is April and book two of the sixties trilogy is once again under my fingertips. So is a little girl named Cambria Bold. She is seven. She loves to cook. She makes me laugh. She has a little sister named Miss Moss and a dog named Old Dreadful No. 7.  Her best friend is Queen Esther Washington who does not love squash.

April is shaping up to be the month I work on two stories. Maybe three. And, just as I allowed myself to find my rhythms in the first three months of the year, I'm allowing these stories to stand up and shout, to wave wildly at me, to occupy my days (and nights), to insist I sit at the page and take care of them -- all at once, sometimes. It's delightfully ridiculous, and sort of like chasing after an active todder. I'm trying to keep up.

March was for family. We celebrate five family birthdays in a two-week time frame in March. For the first time in ten years, I was home to celebrate every one of them.  And now it's April. The characters that have been brewing in my head for months (years) are capturing my heart and asking for attention. I'm right here, I remind them. Start talkin'. One at a time.

My new friend Cambria reminds me a whole lot of a certain one-year-old I've been hanging around with. Her dog reminds me of my new granddog, Wesley. (Or Westley, as I have been calling him, in honor of Buttercup's true love in The Princess Bride...)

When I think of that one-year-old, I itch to get to the page and write a new picture book I'm calling Abby's Kitchen. Maybe I will. This familiar, welcome itch tells me that new ideas are bubbling up, words are coming, and stories are being born. Finally.

It took the time it took. I'm grateful I had the luxury of that time to be home, to be still, and to listen. The list of what I did from January to March is long and was necessary. Some of that list is reflected in the sidebar of this blog where you can see what I was reading (and doing). The entire list is at my bookstore, here.

I've got a long, long reading list going right now, all culled from my public library. (How much do I love being able to find and hold the books I want online, then send my sweet husband to the library to pick them up? I feel rich. I am.) I've got holds in for another long list.

I'm reading memoir because I love that form of personal narrative and I'm going to write one. I'm reading books about food because I'm learning how to take very good care of myself. I'm reading fiction mostly because I love being held captive in a good storyteller's hands, and partly because I'm looking for models.

And I'm writing. Finally writing forward with book two of the sixties trilogy. There's a girl named Sunny Fairchild in Greenwood, Mississippi in the summer of 1964. A boy named Gillette. Another boy named Raymond. A best friend named Polly. A young woman registering black voters in Greenwood during Freedom Summer. Her name is Jo Ellen Chapman -- you know her already; you met her in Countdown.

There's baseball and Willie Mays and missing Civil Rights workers and a World's Fair and a bus named Further and four boys from Liverpool... I'm right there with them, breathless, listening hard, capturing their stories.

march

In a year of being home and listening to myself, I have just entered month three.

February was for.... lots of things. Some writing, yes. And more staying still, more creating routines. More discovery. It's hard to put into words. I didn't know making the decision to stay home this year was going to bring me feelings this... deep. I don't know when I'll write about writing again. I'm sorry if you've landed here to read something about writing... or the writing process. I don't know what that is right now. Everything seems up for grabs, but well-grounded at the same time, if that makes sense. 

I feel like I'm back in school, educating myself. I can't "make" anything happen. It's all coming along just-so because it's time to come along. This makes no sense whatsoever. So sorry. Just trying to put into words something that's probably more a feeling than some sort of statement.

There's a definite feeling of "breaking through" into something, although I don't know what it is. Ten years on the road is a long time to be away from the known rhythms of home, and the home (and town) I live in now is still new to me, even though I've lived here almost 8 years.

I've enjoyed this house when I've been home, that's for sure. Now I want to *know* it. I've been steeping myself in this being-home thing -- I don't have a choice, really. It's just what's happening now, and I am glad.

I looked up the other day from my perch at the kitchen island, where I'd surrounded myself with cookbooks, and said, "This reminds me so much of my life long years ago, when I had time for everything. There was time for cooking, gardening, friends, family, taking good care of myself, and writing as well... what's that word, Debbie? Balance. There was balance."

Maybe that's what I'm feeling. It's healthy, whatever it is, and I'm trying not to judge how many pages I've written (or not) or how good it is (or not), just like I'm not judging my housekeeping skills.

January was for study and putting beginning systems into place. In February, rhythms began to emerge, and I followed my nose. I listened. I took my time. I slowed down.

March so far seems to be for getting quiet. I'm not sure what will happen with the blog. And you already know how wishy-washy I am about social networking. I've deactivated twitter and facebook. I can't right now. I need all the time I can get for staring at the wall, for listening, for loving up a new grandbaby, for enjoying my peeps here in Atlanta, for home-making, for writing the next book and the next, for just being here. Walking the park. Soaking up home. Grateful for this year off.

I have dropped 25 pounds since Thanksgiving as well. For such a long time I haven't recognized the woman smiling back in all those pictures of me. I surely did morph and change on the road. I forgot who I was. Or maybe I just missed myself too much.

In any case, it is a delight to welcome me back to myself.