Ministrations of the Moon

And then it rained no more,
Save in the domes beneath the leaves,
And through the tin of downspouts
And from a stranger’s sleeves. The birds

Had seen it coming — the finch
And morning dove, the ordinary robin —
And the squirrels had gone off
Like slingshot ammunition, hurtling

Between trees. The storm interfered
With the dying of the day. There was dark
Without the benefit of dusk, and then those
Star tattoos and, last, the ministrations

Of the moon. If you were anywhere you were
Watching from your own kitchen window
Through your own green eyes,
For that’s where the likeness is between us:

In the jewel set of our eyes. I learned
Watching from you: Yeast to rise,
Sun to set, rain to rinse,
Forgiveness.

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Amaryllis

Just a bulb in a pot with dirt up to its knees, it got the morning sun and sat. For weeks hardly anything stirred and then the first signs of a stalk stole in, the tease of new leaves. Some days I'd work all day and feel it crunching highward. Some days I'd think I could hear its slow ascent, and then finally the buds were there, pregnant with bloom, and still I waited.

Two days ago, the first unfurling. Yesterday, the bright red bells pealed. Today there was sun and the heavy-headed amaryllis had begun to lean, a precipitous angle, and I took a photograph for fear that tomorrow all this going forward, gaining mass, would be lost to gravity.

I wanted a record of the beauty that had been.

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Flying High

We tend not to think about how physical writing is until we spend ten days (as I just have) writing 27,000 words for a client. The fingers burn, the palms go senseless, the arms feel like leaden weights. Let's not even talk about the slump-ache of the spine.

Why, I've been asked a million times, do you spend most of your time working for others—climbing inside their stories, putting their narratives down? I ask myself that question too, sometimes, but it always does come back down to this: Working is bridging, it's listening to others. It's trying to see past. It's dangerous, I think, to get too lost inside ourselves, dangerous for us as people, of course, but dangerous for us as writers, too. The more we know, the better we have heard and tussled with the dreams, disappointments, and ambitions of others, the better we ultimately imagine.

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Interviewed by Little Willow (and grateful for the conversation)

There are some fiercely well-read and thoughtful people out here, in the land of the blog, and one of those is Little Willow, whose blog I've visited, admired (she's an artist, on top of being a reader and a writer; she's a dancer, too). This weekend I had the privilege of sitting down to a virtual conversation with her. She made me think, asked me questions no one ever has.

The result of that conversation, along with Little Willow's reviews of both UNDERCOVER and HOUSE OF DANCE, can be found here.

http://slayground.livejournal.com/335269.html

Thank you, Little Willow.

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Guitar, Floated Gently

Another panicked morning—the ledger of a life I've forgotten how to balance—and as I rushed out of one deadline and toward another I became aware of my husband's guitar, a Spanish song. It doesn't matter how many years you've been married; you stop for that. You stop and you remember the first time you heard him play (a borrowed room), or the once you sang together (a mirrored room), or all those hours in the kitchen, while you've chopped the celery or stirred a pot and he's sat one room away, balanced on the arm of the leather couch, singing softly to himself.

When my husband plays guitar and sings, he drifts, he floats, he dissolves the now, and this morning, listening, I thought of how a musician's journey is like a writer's journey—how necessary vanishing is within the walls of home.

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Fox Chase

Last evening, escaping the desk, I went out for a walk. The stars were just making ready for the night, the moon was dusting itself off, and it was just me on the streets I never grow tired of.

Down on the low part of the hill, I was stopped by something—a thought, something, I'm not sure—and while I stood perfectly still contemplating whatever it was, a fox appeared from out of nearly nowhere and came toward me like a cat might, or a dog whose name you know. Nose in the air, big tail swinging, its red coat dulled by the dusk light, it moved with seeming purpose, took a good long look, then mosied on.

Those of you who have read UNDERCOVER know how this creature compels me. How it is there for me, beneath the writing surface, a touch of the mysterious, a sign. I chase the fox in my mind like I chase the moon, but last night there was no need to run. The fox was right there, unhurried and within daring, inscrutable reach.

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Fruit

Driving earlier, I again was chasing the moon—a little past full now, its flesh like the flesh of a fish. You don't realize how east-west roads north-and-south themselves until you try to keep your eye on the moon. The moon chase is a futile chase, but still you get somewhere.

Tonight, in the midst of more work, I remembered the moon, then remembered the apples I'd stacked together last summer, when the days were longer and answers seemed more within reach.

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Nested In

My, what a day it has been. Or rather, a day that became night that again became day, and is this still me, now hours past dinner, at my lonely desk, in my chilly room, banging away at client work? I am aware that we have had a full moon and that the small fringe of ice on my car outside has not (in three days) melted and that my son went off at daybreak and took mid-term exams and then returned (I hear him now, in the kitchen, crunching on something magnificently calorific). I believe I've seen the laundry sprawled upstairs, across my bedroom floor. I'm not sure, but chances are I'll wake tomorrow and find that I am fresh out of mascara.

I'm miles from being close to done with what I've promised my clients I will do. Let's face it: I'm weeks away. I'm thinking it's time to curl up beneath a bright, winter sky and let some of the world pass me by.

Oh to be nested in with nothing much, if only for a little while.

Let me tell you something, let me no more delay: Those of you who write the exquisite things you write, in the blog right here? You have no idea how you fortify.

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Loving?

Something has happened to my abilities as a reader, and I'm not at all happy about it. Books I'm certain to fall in love with (seduced by the idea of them, or the look of them, or the lyric of the very first few lines) begin to dissipate before my eyes, fall apart and away from the cradle of my hands. The stories suddenly seem preordained, or the ideas devolved to gimmickry, or the language too embedded in code, or—well, really, I don't know. Desperate to fall in love with a newly bought book, I don't, and what does that mean? What could it? That I am too overwrought with work just now to be a faithful reader? That I've gone and made myself too preposterously analytical? That I've lost my talent for suspended disbelief? That I am not finding the right books? That I'm lost?

It doesn't feel generous, not being in love with my newest books. It feels lonely, frankly, and raw. It feels like it's time to start this affair all again. Find a new reading chair. A new lamp. A new winter blanket.

Find calm.

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Mission Accomplished

If books are the puzzles we authors give to ourselves to solve, then today I finally solved a puzzle of my own, rising at three to finish the final draft of NOTHING BUT GHOSTS. I wasn't going to let myself get away with another day of not pushing through the final gate, was going to let myself stew, if I had to stew, until the pieces fell into place.

Everything seemed to turn on a single sentence; is that possible? If I could get that to work—if this one scrap of dialogue could tell me something deeper about this story—then all would be well. Oh, how I wanted all to be well.

I wrote that dialogue scrap a dozen times, two dozen times. I stewed my way through time 25, and finally something happened. The big ah-ha, where forces definitely beyond myself conspired, as if to say, All right, you weak-minded sister, you. If you can't figure this out for yourself, I'll give you a hint.

I took the hint.

I ran with it.

I finished the book.

Oh my.

Company is coming for lunch—dancers of the most extraordinary kind. The kitchen awaits me. I must rise and work my way toward normal.

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Embraced

I've been battling a migraine for a week or so now, and yesterday it erupted, full bloom. Which is not, of course, blog worthy (or anything worthy), except for this: I was expected to give a talk last night, a reading from my book FLOW: THE LIFE AND TIMES OF PHILADELPHIA'S SCHUYLKILL RIVER. All day long, I couldn't put two words together. My head felt oceanic, tidal, swirled.

By the time I arrived at the Acorn Club I was literally seeing double, and there was a reception to be attended to, the talk, a dinner. I was listing, literally, and decidedly underdressed in a room wall-to-wall with elegant people.

No, not just elegant people: Philadelphians. Husbands, wives, friends who love my city the way I love my city, who are rich with stories, who are decent, well-read, kind. What can you say about a city that is on the verge of a renaissance, the way my city is, that has a mayor who seems poised to transform us, that is populated by the sort of good souls who accept you for the way you have arrived (ugg boots, wind-blown hair, a scarf bought from a street vendor in Venice), who offer to drive you home, who open and close the door behind you? What can you say about an evening during which you were rescued, again and again?

Some of you read this blog from places all around the world. Come to Philadelphia some time, I say. Come and meet my city.

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Split

I am stealing hours from myself these days—rising at three, desperate to get some writing in before the workday begins. The moon shifts overhead. The headlights of a lone car swoosh by. There's a single lit lamp above my neighbor's stoop, but darkness otherwise.

I woke with a scene in my head. I struggle to put the ghost of it down. I know that if I don't record this present mood, this conjured moment, this possible arc and bridge, these things will, this time tomorrow, be gone or tampered with, replaced by another mood, another apparent urgency.

I am reminded of the serendipity of this business. A bus rolls by, a loose cat cries, and something in the story shifts. There are no mandates.

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Lucky Days

I try not to do this too often, but today I am posting the first official review of Zenobia: The Curious Book of Business, a book I co-authored with Matt Emmens, the CEO of Shire Pharmaceuticals, and which my husband and business partner, William Sulit, illustrated. This slender book somehow took more than two years to write, and while I'm fond of saying that I'm keen on literary risk-taking, don't think that I haven't been over here shaking in my boots.

Reviews represent one person's opinion; I'm well aware of that. But I thank the kind soul at Publishers Weekly for taking the time to read Zenobia, and for reading so generously.

STARRED REVIEW/PUBLISHERS WEEKLY/JANUARY 14
Zenobia: The Curious Book of Business: A Tale of Triumph Over Yes-People, Cynics, Hedgers, and Other Corporate Killjoys
Mathew Emmens and Beth Kephart, illus. by William Sulit. Berrett-Koehler, $19.95 (144p) ISBN 9781576754788
A business fable in the tradition of Who Moved My Cheese?, but more closely akin to Alice in Wonderland, this work from pharmaceuticals CEO Emmens and poet-novelist-journalist Kephart (Flow: The Life and Times of Philadelphia’s Schuylkill River) concerns a topsy-turvy organization which should prove oddly familiar for anyone who’s worked in a corporate environment. Our heroine, Moira, is a newcomer to the once-respected Zenobia company, now in physical and psychological disrepair. Without signs or helpers, Moira must navigate the bizarre office layout (“countless drab-green cubicles, like so many Brussels sprouts attached to a stalk”), overcome the entrenched mindset (“We excel at the familiar”) and find the elusive Room 133A, where she’s been summoned to help the flagging enterprise. Emphasizing the power of imagination, innovation, people and possibility, Emmens and Kephart’s tale of against-the-system heroism illustrates well the intangible human resources that business-as-usual can squelch. Though it may initially strike serious-minded readers silly, this tale makes an enchanting and worthwhile trip into the rabbit hole of nonsensical corporate culture, drawing out plenty of X-ray insight into the modern workplace. Whimsical line drawings from Sulit complete what could be the most enjoyable, readable business book in recent memory. (Jan.)

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Mystery Making

Yesterday Laura Geringer, my wise HarperCollins editor, sent along her editing notes for Nothing But Ghosts, the book that will come off the presses a year or so from now. Nothing But Ghosts is a mystery and a romance—a story in which an unresolved riddle concerning a reclusive heiress enables a high school senior to come to terms with the loss of her mother, and the lonesomeness of her father. It's my first mystery, the riddle I gave myself to solve, for I have come to think, after all these years, that the only way to make your next book your best book is to endlessly move yourself out of your comfort zone—to make every story feel as if it is the first story you've tried to tell.

There's an element of the mystery that isn't working quite yet—I suspected as much when I sent the book in, and now Laura has confirmed it. I've placed the wrong things inside one of seven boxes. I have exactly 30 days to get this right.

If you sense a tremble in my corner of the world, you'll know why for. If you see some just slightly bedraggled writer standing still and staring into a complex sky, then you'll know that's me.

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Stalking

Not long ago I'd mentioned the buck who, on a Sunday afternoon, let me draw close—merely lifted his regal head and observed my coming.

On the best days, the writing is like this. The scene lies directly within view. It neither buckles nor flees upon closer inspection. You just keep walking toward the story, and it just keeps staring back at you, unguarded, unpestered by your presence.

Those are the best days. The ones where, afterwards, you keep the page that you wrote.

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Why blog?

I have a friend who asks, Why? Why are you spending so much time blogging? What is its value to you? Shouldn't you be writing your novel instead? Talking to clients? Pounding the pavement for work? Figuring out what you'll be making for dinner?

(OKay, so my friend didn't actually make reference to dinner, but come to think of it, Shouldn't I be doing that?)

And I said: Because the blog is the daily problem I give myself to solve. Because the blog is, like all art, a danger and a vulnerability, and because life should be lived on the edge. Because it awes me, humbles me, settles me to hear from those who so generously stop by.

I said, Because the blog sends me out into the world for images, and into myself for ideas. Because it pulls me back and rears me up, because it pushes me into the wind.

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Braiding

A friend yesterday told me a story. She is a writer, my friend, an extraordinary one, the sort of person who can be gone for a very long time but emerges, is present, when you need her.

The story she told is her story, hers to tell. I want only to say that it is a narrative about what happens when one writer asks another for help, and help is given. We can't always peck our way out of our own fog, as writers. Sometimes we aren't given the time. Sometimes the only cure is another's voice in our head, provoking questions, a willingness to sit in some sort of communal silence until the haze of not knowing is lifted and replaced with knowing just slightly more than before. A willingness to help stave off the incomplete, the failed.

In-progress work is fragile work. Our job, when we are friends with writers, is to be gentle, always, and honest, always, to help the other crawl, swerve, leap, wonder her way back to her truest impulse.

Which is what my friend for many weeks was doing, and what I wish to honor here today.

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What Next?

Today I am sitting and thinking: What next? I have broken a cardinal rule of writing, which is, Do not leave the work at a chapter's end; always give yourself a thread to pull tomorrow. So that I wake to a blank page 63, the beginning of a chapter, and because I am moving across time with this book, because there are multiple voices, because I have given myself freedom, I have choices. Choices are either liberating (and wasn't it only yesterday that I was celebrating choices?) or confounding. Today I feel confounded.

After two hours of circling, two hours of opening lines backspaced over, I move to another room, open an old book, and look at photographs, read anecdotes, statistics. I feel myself settling in toward something, but need the day, perhaps two days, perhaps a week, for the scene to ripen.

I'll keep the thoughts tucked in my head. Address the work of my corporate clients. Read the media's accounts of the inauguration of my city's fabulously wonky new mayor. Return to the page when I'm ready.

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Floating

I made progress this weekend on the novel I've been writing. I found myself inside the shell of a possibility and took the time to look around. I'd planned on going one way with the story, but an unforeseen entanglement proved seductive. What would happen if?... I wanted to know, and because I am the only one writing this story, I had to swerve in the new direction to find out. I got lost, and loved being lost, inside past tense, future tense, old photographs, a 125-year-old book that arrived from my friends at Alibris. I walked two sisters down a Philadelphia street and let them vanish, for just a moment, inside a cloud of baker's flour. I walked them in to a tailor's shop and let them loose within.

This is the intoxication of writing. This madcap, no one's watching rush to learn just what the yield might be. And oh yes, I can be cranky writing, but I can also swoon. This weekend I was swooning, grateful, that I hadn't given up too soon.

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Seeds

Yesterday, in a coffee shop, two lovers sat reading. Intent upon the page, intense, but never the one lost to the other. I watched their faces as they read—flickers of surprise, furrows of anticipation—and when they'd reached some thing that just had to be shared, they'd say to each other: Listen to this. Such eagerness, between them, in both the reading and listening.

This morning, as I woke to this blog and discovered some new, such beautiful comments from readers, I thought of how we are all out here building our own coffee shop—settling in, nudging one another, unbundling those things that we've been on our own discovering. I thought of how earth meets sky, and how wind scatters seeds.

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Imperfect

I am beginning to think that I've taken ballroom dancing on so that I might walk around in the rest of my life in awe of talents that will never be mine. Sure, it takes nothing to settle a hip when the cha-cha music plays slow, but pick up the tempo and I look (I fear) like a wind-up doll. And I can go 60 seconds inside the dream of a bolero before I lose my angles and scrape my heel. I dance with a rising star champion who is half my age and infinitely wiser about all things motion and song. I waltz a waltz with a mid-westerner and feel the impoverishment of my east-coast ways. I slouch sometimes. My chin pushes forward. You are paper, my teacher tells me. And with this dance we need rock.

I want to be good at dancing, shamefully I want this, just as I want to write the one perfect book, the one perfect line, and I'm never in the end satisfied. Equilibrium eludes me most days. Urgency brands me.

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Among Us

We were out, walking, and then they came upon us—dozens of deer cresting with the sun. On a small eyebrow of a hill they stood. In the shadowed spaces between trees. Out on the newly cropped lawn. One young buck among so many females, and if we didn't move, they didn't care. They watched as we watched them.

It was getting cold outside, very cold, and I wondered where they'd find their heat once the moon had replaced the sun. I wondered what about us had made them trust, not run. I quieted all the thoughts in my mind and wanted nothing but this certain companionableness.

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Wide Open

Today felt like this, broken wide open. The peacefulness of a day when no one expects a thing from another. It is quiet, and even if your bones ache and your mind is moving slowly, you think—or I thought—of blessings. Good friends. Rare opportunities. A book that is alive again, waiting.

I looked at old photographs. I took new ones, like this. A buck stood on my side of a forest and let me walk close entough to snap a portrait of his magnificent, racked head. I made a simple dinner, drizzling the honey over the hens. I finished one book and started another.

It's nearly 8, and tomorrow all the work begins again.

But right now there's still time for what takes time.

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