I started to write a book before we left home on our RV journey in 2013. I've gone back and looked at it, reread what was written thus far, and decided it actually sounds pretty good. But the real problem is I can't quite come up with an outline let alone flesh out complete personalities, situations and scenes. The overall premise is quite good in my opinion but the length of a story, whether short or long, is in the details and I'm sorely lacking in those. The years of creative atrophy have withered all but a shred of the literary imagination I once possessed. I've definitely put the book on the back burner—indefinitely. One day may the lightning bolt of inspiration strike me before it's too late.
Why then are you writing right now, you might ask?
I was reading. I was reading the final, final book of my most favorite author of all time who died in July 2012. Maeve Binchy had one other book published posthumously, which she had finished but not completed the final edit prior to her death. I've read all her books with the exception of, I believe, a couple of her compilations of short stories. I have never read an author who can bring (brought) characters alive as she does (did); who has (had) the extraordinary ability to write stories that, when the book is done, you want to cry, "Noooo! It can't be over yet! I want to keep reading about all these people and their lives!" You feel like a fly on the wall in all her characters' homes.
Maeve was Irish and all her books are set in Ireland. In her earlier work, the images in my head as I read were rather dark (not in a bad way), and dingy, as though everyone lived in black and white—actually, more like sepia. The characters seemed to have simple lives and many seemed to struggle financially. Her writing reflected, without words even though one is reading words, the feel of Ireland at the time. As Ireland's economy improved, Maeve's words provided me images that seemed lighter and brighter, again without quite having it spelled out. What a remarkable talent! And I'm not the only one who feels this way. She has legions of fans and many, like I, who had shed real tears when she passed.
The book I am currently reading is one that her husband had published of Maeve's columns written for The Irish Times starting in the 1960s. As a young woman and school teacher (since that and being a nurse or secretary were the only career avenues open to women at the time), Maeve had a desire, no, a need, to travel and see the world. She would write letters to her father telling him of her experiences and he thought them so good he sent them to the newspaper removing only the 'Dear Daddy' part. This began her literary career.
I'm about two-thirds through the book and I'm reading the bits from the 1980s. One column spoke to me in which, I assume, Maeve was invited to speak at a writer's seminar or convention and she was asked a question about writing. Her advice: Write like you speak. Otherwise, the words come out unnatural, more complicated or loquacious (which I'm known to be), than when you just talk. I would love to write exactly like I speak but you'd be sadly disappointed. I write like I'd like to speak. What this means is that, in a conversation, you'd be waiting a hell of a long time for me to search the databank of my brain to remember the more descriptive words I mean to use. Writing, at least, allows me the time to ponder words, coax them out of the file deeply buried in the :C drive, which is also deeply buried somewhere in the right side of my brain, before typing them. Dictionaries and Thesauruses help when that same brain decides it would rather occupy a deep-freeze than spit out the word for which I search and know is there. Somewhere.
This column Maeve had written for the November 30th, 1983, publication. I'd only known Rob for almost 8 months and my daughters were only 4 and 7 on that date. Wow. A long time ago. But it inspired me to sit my butt in my chair and talk to y'all. And because that time was when words were easy for me and I wrote and wrote. A lot. I'd say it was mostly ramblings. I remember, at times, that I felt as though words were channeled through me rather than by me. I sure wish I still had them so I'd know what I was thinking then—and so I could admire the flowing vocabulary I once had before my hard drive randomly deleted files.
Along with not feeling like writing for the last couple of months, I've occasionally told myself that no one really wants to read my blog, that no one cares, so I feel very grateful that an old friend and a good neighbor brought it up themselves, on separate occasions and places, that my blogs matter to them. You know who you are. Thanks. Very much.
I feel I can safely assume that many people want to hear about where we've been and what we've seen, and maybe come back for my photographs, too. And, as I gave thought to all of this, it reminded me of a favorite scene in the movie Dances With Wolves in which Lt. Dunbar and Timmons, the wagon driver, come across the sun-bleached bones of a pioneer family and the implication their demise was facilitated by natives (because saying 'indians' isn't PC enough). Timmons, full of frontier hardened humor says, "Somebody back east is sayin' "Why don't he write?" Well, I wouldn't want to keep you wondering when I'm quite alive and well.
And just so I don't leave anything out, after leaving home in October, we spent a week at Bass Lake, south of Yosemite (where we spent a wonderful day with our daughter Susanna and son-in-law Terry); then, a week in Ventura with daughter Kristie, son-in-law Matt and grandson Cayman; and, now, we are in Quartzsite, Arizona, and will be here until April 1st. And, for those who haven't seen it on Facebook, I've taken up Pyrography. I'll show you photos of what I've done another time. I'm exercising my creative and artistic muscle. I don't need words for that.
Just a few photos from our day in Yosemite:
|Terry and Susanna|
|A geological wonder.|
|Looking for an easy meal.|
|What happened to the lake?|
|Half Dome. Of course.|
|Reminds me that Christmas is coming soon.|
|Dad and daughter resting a bit.|