Processing and processing

Some time back in early November, I reached the one-year mark for a writing goal I didn't realize I'd set for myself.

When I finished my thesis for Little U. on the Prairie in 2011, I wasn't sure how I felt about writing. I'd spent four years wrestling with words in an environment that was meant to give me the time and space to do just that. And yet, after being put through all the academic paces that went with that luxury, I felt like I'd trained for a foot race only to learn that the event I'd signed up for was for swimmers.

Writing in real life is not a process bookended by predictable deadlines at various points in the semester. Nor is it something you're lucky enough to do with a preselected set of peer reviewers. Not that the work that comes out of all that is at all good, either -- in fact, some of my worst writing happened at Little U. Forced into artificial final form for the end of each term, my work was undergoing revision -- prematurely, it seemed -- before I had even had time to get distance from it, much less consider all the feedback from my professors and their workshops. I hated my thesis. The first five chapters felt like mine, but the rest didn't come from my writing brain; they were a strange, out-of-body text generated to make page count.

Somehow, in creating those final two chapters, I lost my voice and my way. When I got back to Seattle after my defense, I couldn't understand why something I had once loved doing and felt confident doing, despite its difficulties, was suddenly like trying to do calculus without knowing any basic math.

So I stopped writing for two years. Partly because life happened -- I'd been sick for more than half the time I was a graduate student with no explanation in sight and I wanted some answers. We got them. And then we had O. Any hope I'd had of getting back to the page evaporated with my claim on a proper night's sleep for the first nine months of his existence. In the haze of new parenthood, the idea of a writing life was so implausible that spontaneously sprouting a third arm was looking more likely (and at the very least, more useful in baby-wrangling).

But in that mid-fall of O.'s first year, I sat down in front of this screen and put words there, one by one. Not the random notes on life with O. that I'd been posting infrequently, but words from my writing brain. It felt strange. It wasn't the voice I'd had in the past nor the stand-in text generator from my final months of work for Little U. I didn't question it. I just wrote.

And I kept doing that. In fits and starts, yes, but always with the knowledge that I would come back to whatever I left behind, as long as it was giving back to me some measure of mental energy that being a mother wasn't. And suddenly, it was November again, and the work was no longer an exercise but a comfortably demanding habit or practice, which is what I'd wanted it to become all along. I think in returning to the screen, the words, the ways of thinking I had abandoned, I was hoping to make them the part of my life I had failed to establish in a meaningful manner in my previous attempts.

I am still at my keyboard even though there's been little to read for a while here. Words are finding their way to the page, so much so that what I'm working on is no longer a reasonable fit for this space on sheer length and scope alone. So if I'm silent, it's not for lack of news or thought. I'm just working.

This is more than I ever expected would come of going back to something that felt more and more exacting with less and less benefit to anyone when I left Little U. If it hadn't been for O., I might not have pursued it at all. But having him has given me a different lens through which to consider the subjects I write about -- the nature of family and its ever-evolving dynamics -- and with that change, the old sensation of being lost has gradually faded.

I still have no map for the path forward with my work. But for now, I'm no longer trying to see a way out of it.

Printed and mailed!

And good riddance.

I can't say I like the revision I sent to my committee on Monday afternoon, but in the limited time I had to address all the comments from my advisor, I did the best I could with the file. The hard copy, which goes to the graduate college review board for more technical assessments (formatting for the purposes of binding, archiving, etc.), went out from the post office today.

So I am, until my defense a week from Monday, free of responsibility for this draft!

The last two weeks have been disheartening because the writing really did become an endeavor for the purpose of finishing my degree, to satisfy my advisor's concerns rather than adhering to the larger vision I had (and still have) for the book project. Because the work is by nature incomplete -- writing a book and writing a thesis are not on the same scale -- and because the thesis also needs to be "complete," i.e., must set forth enough evidence of thought and inquiry into my subject to merit a sense of a focused investigation, I found myself revising at cross-purposes when I tried to satisfy my instincts and my professor's. Obviously, she and the rest of my committee will determine whether I graduate, so I ended up making some changes that I will be taking out again once I have the degree in hand. (I'm trying not to think about the remaining round of post-defense revisions that I'll have to complete before that happens.)

Life here has calmed down some since my last post. It's a relief. Thank you to the lovely people who sent private words of encouragement -- you know who you are. You helped me endure a craptacular two weeks where everything seemed to go pear-shaped and I had no choice but to get through it.

In the interim before my defense, I'll be doing some serious decompression (in between a lot of backlogged household chores). And I have a new project. Not one I'd say I elected to take on, but one that has taken on unexpected priority. More on that very soon ...

Pruning and grafting

My manuscript is somewhere over the U.S. today.

I'd e-mailed the full draft to my advisor last week, as instructed. She wrote me a harried reply late Sunday night to say she'd only started reading it that day, was halfway through, and was exhausted. (She's teaching an overload and is on seven other thesis committees, she said, as she's said numerous times this semester.) She'd been writing directly on the hard copy she'd printed off. Could I give her my address so she could mail it to me, two-day air? Just the first six chapters. On the seventh, she'd had nothing to suggest.

Nothing? That gave me some pause. They say any editor, when she's giving your work the attention it ought to have, should be able to find something.

I gave my advisor the information, hoping she'd keep duplicates in case what she was sending got lost. I almost asked her if she'd do that for me, just for my own peace of mind. But I couldn't quite ask her to make copies. She was already fried. She didn't need to hear my implied mistrust -- of her judgment, the postal service, the universe. I'm working on that last one, but old habits die hard, especially after last year.

When that package hits the front porch tomorrow, I'll need to be in the frame of mind to dive in, assess what and where to add or subtract with my advisor's guidance, limited as I'm afraid it might be. And I knew that, when I sent it off, given her increasingly frazzled notes in the last two months. So I took the last days of the previous week and the weekend to leave the draft completely, to prepare myself: laundry, yard cleanup. I can't edit well when I'm surrounded by clutter.

The lavender we planted two summers ago is turning green again after the winter. And it was looking leggy. I squatted for an hour, clipping away dead wood, tidying, shaping, peering at tiny silver shoots, trying to determine how the plants would look in a few weeks' time when they had filled out.

This morning, I saw them from the kitchen window -- six little fuzzy globes by the flagstone walk -- and mumbled some kind of prayer: let me be able to see what I need to see tomorrow and for the rest of this month.

The routine my advisor and I have kept for the past two years has been more like this: I send her pages; she writes a note back summing up her general impressions with a list of specific concerns at the end. It sounds like I'll be getting the specifics as they appear in the margins, but the big picture, right when it really matters? That's what she won't be pulling together for me; she asked my permission, in a way, to be excused from that. I'm disappointed. If there was ever a time that the larger impression felt crucial -- but I can't worry about it. There just isn't anything more I can ask of her, so enough. I'll make do.

Six little fuzzy globes, six hairy chapters. At least it's not a delicate bonsai ...

Addendum 4/6: No package as of 8 p.m. PDT. Insert choice expletive here.

Feelers

I've been quiet here, I know. It's a mixed silence, some of it imposed largely out of respect for the devastation in Japan. What sorts of things that I normally write about here have any importance in the face of the aftermath there? I've watched the headlines, counted my blessings. Inched forward with writing elsewhere -- thesis, primarily, and other notes to self.

I'm on the home stretch, despite my advisor's rejecting my most recent plan to get my page count where it needs to be. We don't do analysis in this program, she said; it's not required. By which she meant, no, I don't want a report. I want more of the story.

So I went back to my draft. She'd looked it over and sent good comments, so I had new ideas on how I might make Chapter 6 grow. Early last week, I forwarded a revision to her. Now, with Chapter 7 under construction, I have just nine pages or so to go.

It's a relief -- April 1st is my goal for the final chapter -- but it's also meant a certain amount of living under a rock (beyond reading the online news). I'm taking it in stints. Each weekday, a morning session, an afternoon session. Nights off. At the worst part of the struggle to get Chapter 6 started, I was staring at the screen at all hours, still getting nowhere.

To counter the feeling that I'm turning into an earwig, I've imposed mandatory outings that involve interaction with people. To get lunch with new acquaintances during the week (a girl has to eat). To peruse an art exhibit on a Saturday afternoon, to attend the symphony with D on a weeknight, even to ski. For that last one, I took the thesis with me and nearly got carsick working on it while D drove into the mountains, but it was worth the effort. I wrote until I was nauseated and then skied until my legs threatened to buckle. Went back home with a clear head, which, above all, is what I need to keep my writing brain moving.

It's not what I expected my writing process to be, but it's true that you can't write well if you spend all your time with your attention turned within. So I'll take it, even if the workaholic in me keeps tapping my shoulder and pointing at the time.

Nine pages. The end's in sight.

Addendum 3/22: Airline tickets for the defense have been purchased. No turning back now!

Less-than-retail therapy

It's been a hard month. And not just because of the medical stuff and relationship adjustments.

You know when your thesis committee tells you to give them a draft of your work no later than the first week of December so they can get back to you before the craziness of the spring semester starts up? Well, that's what I did. Did they actually send me feedback?

Of course not.

My advisor has been in regular contact, thank goodness, but the rest of the folks who have to sign off on my work in order for me to graduate have been incommunicado. One of the committee members has a very good excuse -- major surgery. Another member also had minor surgery over break and came back to find that all three departments s/he works within were either getting eliminated or folded into some yet-to-be-created umbrella department, so s/he understandably has his/her hands full dealing with the administration. And s/he e-mailed me to let me know what was going on. But the last committee member? Not a single message. Yep, despite my numerous gentle inquiries, s/he didn't even bother to send a one-liner to say, "I'm too busy. Bug off."

I FINALLY received a note from that last professor yesterday, with brief, customary apologies, but still no feedback. Unfortunately, after a month of being e-snubbed*, I'm not really in the most charitable mood, given that I'm paying for this person's expertise. I know I'm just a lowly grad student, but that doesn't mean it's okay to ignore me for weeks on end. That's just rude.

Alas, I'm still powerless to make this process move any more quickly, and I know it's affecting my ability to write. I hate that I'm letting the situation do this to me. I've tried to keep going as usual with my work, but I had the sense that some weighty critiques would be coming any day now -- critiques with things I very much want to consider going forward -- and it kept me from feeling confident on the page whenever I would sit down at the keyboard. I need just to forget about what those critiques might say and delve back into the manuscript with more faith. Easier said than done when you're at the mercies of the committee for your degree.

I spent the weekend trying not to get sucked under by all this, and the product of that is a few small acquisitions from Craigslist and Ross. Am I satisfying my need for some instant gratification? Oh, yes. But at least it's all deeply discounted ...

First, a much-wanted console table via Craigslist for our back entryway, which leads to the garage. We've been using the little valet (pictured below) and various surfaces in the kitchen as the catch-all for keys, wallets, glasses, etc. Now all that can be relocated here:


The cost? The equivalent of drinks and a moderately priced dinner for two. Hey, I'm happy to cook at home if it means I get to eat on a clutter-free kitchen table!

Next, an extremely useful toiletry shelf from Ross for the first-floor bathroom. Until we found this, we were putting the extra toilet paper in a basket on the floor, and the soap dispenser was perched rather precariously on the sink.



Cost: A cheap dinner for two, no drinks.

Finally, a mirror. This was actually included in the price of the console table, along with a very cute lamp -- we decided it made better sense to put those items in our bedroom. We may change out the shade on the lamp some time in the future, so for now, meet my new dresser:



This table had its former incarnation in our apartment bedroom as four large moving boxes draped in a bed sheet. This is actually an upgrade: two wooden bar stools we couldn't find a place for after the move with some spare particle-board shelving from the kitchen sitting on top of them. I just threw a tablecloth and some other pretty fabric over the whole thing and propped the jewelry frame D gave me for last year's birthday against the wall. (Don't worry, I made sure the whole rig was safely weighted.) Add one mirror, and it's actually a very functional vanity.

So now I'm off to put some new sheets from Ross in the wash (ours were getting holes in them after years of laundering). Those were also deeply discounted -- the cost of nice drinks for two. I figure I've gone long enough without one of those to offset the expense here! The set is a pretty chocolate brown to go with the beautiful accent pillow slips Marketing Sis made us for Christmas:


DIY guru that she is, she picked the fabric herself! Here's a closer look at the patterns.



So there, January, is my answer to your interminable limbo. It doesn't fix the problems at hand, but it does make me feel better.

* Credit for this term goes to this article. I only wish (a) that I could figure out how to adapt the remedy described in order to make it work in the academic bureaucracy and (b) that I had the guts to employ said remedy.

Got a minute?

I know, I know, I'm always talking about how I don't have time to write. But I came across this site on the Blogs of Note list and thought it was a neat idea. Read the prompt; write for 60 seconds. A great place to find writing "exercises," as they call them around here, when you've got writer's block.

Lots of good reading for my classes of late. Most recently, I finished Patricia Hampl's The Florist's Daughter. I can't say I loved the whole thing, but the frame that introduces and ends the work is lovely, poignant, and also disturbing: a daughter keeping vigil by her dying mother's bedside, holding her hand in one of hers while writing her mother's obituary on a legal pad with the other. The memoir is about a place and time that are no longer available to the writer in the present, but her attempts to look back and plumb what's contained in her memory of them are commendable. It's so hard to disentangle yourself so you can write about those things sometimes -- I think that's the problem I ran into in the last week and a half while working on my own essay. There's the problem of attachment that makes objectivity so impossible. As Hampl writes:

Nostalgia, someone will say. A sneer accompanies the word, meaning that to be fascinated by what is gone and lost is to be easily seduced by sentiment. A shameful undertaking. But nostalgia shares the shame of the other good sins, the way lust is shameful or drink or gluttony or sloth. It doesn't belong to the dessicated sins of the soul -- pride, envy. To the sweet sins of the body, add nostalgia. The sin of memory.

Nostalgia is really a kind of loyalty -- also a sin when misapplied, as it so often is. But it's the engine, not the enemy, of history. It feeds on detail, the protein of accuracy. Or maybe nostalgia is a form of longing. It aches for history. In its cloudy wistfulness, nostalgia fuels the spark of significance. My place. My people.

My essay gets workshopped on Thursday, so we'll see what people think. I sent a few drafts to D before I turned it in, and he was helpful in pointing out how to fix some things. It's nice to have a reader with fresh eyes -- not just eyes that haven't read this particular piece but eyes that haven't been looking at tons of other essays all semester and are getting a bit glazed over! (I don't blame them.)

I unwound from all the craziness of the week last night by talking to my sister, who is in the fall semester of her senior year in college (also the one involved in the Cork Incident that I mentioned last week). Talk about being nostalgic -- where has time gone? We've been scattered across the country, this sister, my other sister, and me. I miss being silly with them and finishing each other's reminiscences and speaking in the code that only we share. Perhaps another essay will come of that idea.

In the name of nostalgia for silly moments, here's one from a visit that one sister made to Seattle during our first summer there. Clearly, Midwestern girls do not see hills like this one very often. D's driving, Sis is shooting the video, and I'm in the back seat laughing.