seduced by the written word

If you’ve been following this blog you know December has been active. Last night we drove into San Francisco

to see Black Swan www.foxsearchlight.com/blackswan/cache 

at the Sundance Kabuki Theatre  www.sundancecinemas.com/kabuki.html

It was scary and Hannah and I kept grabbing each other and making terrified faces in the dark. The storytelling and filming choices were original and interesting. But I wasn’t writing.  And who could pass up dinner in Japantown where the Udon vs. Soba noodles debate raged until I finally made up my mind? Once again, the writing wasn’t happening.  

Writing: It comes down to the writer, the page, and the language the writer chooses.  If you want to strip it down further: Writers Write

Bill and Hannah are traveling so I’ve been given an imposed writing retreat – and I’m taking full advantage of the time and solitude. While I’m revising the first 100 pages of my work-in-progress, here are some photos of our houseboat ‘floating home’ community, taken last night. It’s been raining and there aren’t as many lights as usual

But it was a pleasure to stroll along the dark docks in crisp December air

And here’s a lovely Zen garden, in case you ever want to sit and meditate late at night

For a self-proclaimed home-body it’s been a busy week with early morning meetings, middle of the night trips to the airport and dinners in North Beach, Mill Valley, Union Street and the Castro. But somehow we managed to light the menorah. Here are two Chanukah loving friends who came dressed for the festival of lights:

And last night a group of us heckled-along, I mean, sang-along, to The Sound of Music at Castro Theater:

 Yes, I laughed until tears ran down my face….but now I can’t get Edelweiss out of my head. Yikes:

While walking to the theater we ran into crowds of totally wasted ****-faced inebriated Santa’s from Santa Con. Let me make my disclaimer here and now: as your photographer, I let you down this week. Somehow I couldn’t bother to peel my mittens off when I had a clear shot of hundreds of bar-hopping Santa’s – so here is the pitiful representation you get instead:

But really, whether you’re looking at three or three-hundred drunken Santa’s on a corner – with a few intoxicated elves thrown-in — they all look-alike, even if you haven’t had a margarita…. or two. Stop whining and use that great imagination of yours.  

It may sound like life has turned into a series of dinners and sing-alongs and canine Chanukah parties ……..actually, that pretty much sums it up. But I’ve been writing, as well. I worked on revisions to my current, untitled manuscript. And that’s where I need to turn my attention now. So it’s time to say goodbye. Join me as we sing those wacky Rogers and Hammerstein lyrics:

So long, farewell, Auf Wiedersehen, adieu, 

Adieu, adieu, to you and you and you!

This week I got together with friend and fellow writer, Sarah Glover. Her writing has all the elements that pull me in and won’t let me loose until the final page; compelling characters, magical setting, original story, great romance. We share an attraction for all things Gothic and ghostly….in fact; there are so many similarities in our tastes it might bore you if I were to list them all here.

Still, here goes — well, okay, if you’re going to look at me like that, forget about it.

Sarah’s manuscript is about to be published and she gave me the very real pleasure of reading it before it goes to print. Heaven.

Because she wanted to drill-down on my reaction, she took me to Cole Valley in San Francisco:

Wait. Let’s do the Dr. Who www.bbc.co.uk/doctorwho/dw  time machine thing so you can come with us.

Whoops. Sorry, you joined us just in time to stand in line at Zazie’s, a fabulous — and extremely popular – little French bistro that made it into one of Sarah’s scenes:

And now you are forced to sit quietly as I rhapsodize over her characters while devouring brunch (the St. Trop: 2 poached eggs, smoked salmon, English muffin, salad on the side, please).

Finally your patience wins out as Sarah leads us around the corner to The Sword and Rose, www.yelp.com/biz/the-sword-and-rose-san-francisco- another site that served as inspiration as she wrote. Here’s the first magical arch. Let’s enter together:

And because it really is a crazy, wow-look-at-this-place, Gothic gem in the middle of the City, one arch will not suffice:

Now we’ve come to the private garden:

What’s that musky scent? That’s incense.  The interior is just the way you would imagine it, although it really is too dark inside for photographs. What’s that? You want to have your reading done? Believe me, I understand. After coming so far, who wouldn’t?

I’ll leave you at the door with Sarah, she’ll show you around. Me? I’ll stay in the garden. I have her pages here in my bag; its one of those stories I just can’t put down.

Last night we had a little sushi on Caledonia Street:

With lots of rain — here’s my oncoming traffic as seen through the drenched windshield shot:

All culminating in seeing Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. But first we sat through the previews….

But no — wait! No one holds hands with their date and sits through previews anymore. Let’s all pull out our PDAs and do some social networking….

Which brings us to Harry Potter. I anticipated the release of every book and read each one the week it was released. And I just had to take these photographs for you because I figured you would be as excited to see the movie as me, right? 

It was great. And just like Harry had Hermione and Ron, I had Bill to my left and Hannah to my right. As I snapped the inside the theater shot above, Hannah leaned in and whispered, “My Mom is such a nerd.”

So true. 

Yes, I recommend the movie, but what I really recommend is the book.  I love that final battle….well….you know. In fact, I think I’ll go read it again. But before I do, I’ll have to pry it out of my daughter’s hands.

While I’ve always been a promiscuous reader, dragging any book into bed at the end of the day, stealing a quick clandestine read in the car between appointments, I’ve also always been a monogamous writer, faithfully spinning just one story at a time, slowly building that story from beginning to end and then revising with the rapt attention of an obsessed lover.

Yesterday I found myself in Mill Valley on a quick errand.

Afterwards, as I nosed the car out of a parking lot toward the street, I was forced to stop as a man and woman crossed in front of me on the sidewalk. They were strolling toward one another, yet their eyes never met. And suddenly, there was no turning back. Words began to form and I knew – just knew – I would have to write about my observation. I would need to turn it into a scene. Those two strangers on the street would become characters.

Yes, it was wrong, but as I drove to the next errand the words kept appearing. I could have turned on the radio and ignored them but, instead, I encouraged them. By the time I returned home and raced to the keyboard I had two paragraphs and the desire to flirt with those words to see if I could make them mine, to see if I could coax them to go all the way.

And although there is a growing manuscript I’ve been working on for months, last night I shamelessly spent time with both pieces of writing.  

I could pretend to feel guilty, but it was too much fun. Besides, I just can’t seem to help myself.

This morning I added eggnog to my coffee. Usually that small splash of cream and spice is enough to brighten my day. But I’m feeling homesick for this view:

That’s right, I miss drinking my first cup of coffee with General Oglethorpe over in Chippewa Square at Gallery Espresso. I’m jonzing for Magnolia trees and, Live Oaks and, stairs leading to parlor floors on Jones Street something fierce. I don’t have a photograph that does it justice. Not. Even. Close. You can only guess at the way light filters down through all those leaves you can’t see. If you squint, you can almost pick up the red of those bricks that make up the sidewalk. If you sit perfectly still, you might hear birdsong and the clop of horse’s hooves from a carriage ride. You’re just going to have to trust me on this.

It’s a beautiful day right where I am; there’s a high tide and earlier I could see blue sky and clouds reflected beneath me in the glass-like water of Richardson’s Bay.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful. And yet, I still long for Savannah.

Just read the title of this post to Hannah, whose response was a very wistful, “Oh, yeah.”

Seems the only antidote I can think of, short of buying a plane ticket, is to write about it. So excuse me while I return to my manuscript.

Michelle was behind the counter filling a box with my favorite rugala from Sweet Things Bakery in Tiburon. She’s nice and she always remembers to ask about Hannah, but after she had done so she looked up and said, “How’s your book coming along?” I gave her the abridged version because, really, I’m not fond of being the reason someone’s eyes glass over. But then she asked, “So, do you write things down when you get ideas?”

Well, yes I do.

And upon reflection I would add that I usually get these ideas that must be remembered in extremely inconvenient places; the bath, driving over a bridge in heavy traffic, or, here’s the one I can count on; in bed after lights are out. 

There’s something else I do to capture moments of inspiration…..and here is today’s example:

An hour ago I was on Union Street in San Francisco and I felt compelled to photograph this doorway. What do you see?

I see one of my characters in need of an entrance – and here it is, just waiting for me to describe and for them to walk through.

It’s been months since I’ve posted about living on a houseboat. So here’s the deal: it’s the first storm of the season and we’re moving. I’m staring out the window and the houseboat next door is moving to the right and then back to the left.

Except the reality is that our house is moving, too. The queasy, motion sickness feeling hits so I stop looking. Because we’re tethered to a dock inside Peterson Bay in Northern California the movement is mild and without a point of reference the queasiness goes away. But we are moving, and to remind me of this, the boat pitches and the upper half of my body lurches forward in the chair where I’m writing. Where are my cowgirl boots when I need them?

And let’s not forget about the sounds. Throughout the night the wind roared down the dock and the rain lashed the windows in the loft where we sleep.  The lines that tie us to the dock stretch and moan – and here’s the thing I must mention – there are intermittent BANG sounds – as if a door or drawer is being slammed. There are no drawers or doors being slammed so your guess is as good as mine. Maybe it’s the Ghost of Houseboats Past paying us a visit.

And yet with all that atmospheric stuff happening I’m tucked inside, warm and dry at my desk, happy its Sunday because I won’t need to slosh down the dock to the car in the puddle-zone parking lot. And here’s the great part: my main character is still in romantic Florence, so that’s where my imagination leads me.

But geez, wouldn’t you know it? It’s raining in Florence, as well, and she didn’t think to carry an umbrella.

This time last year I was on a break from revising All Things Unusual. Bill and I were exploring Rome, Florence, and Venice.

It was my kind of trip; slow, seductive explorations of food and wine that meandered for hours spiced with intimate conversation. Vigorous walks that made the second gelato of the day guilt-free. But mid-way through our trip, as we were climbing the terraced walkways of Giardino di Boboli

 an idea appeared, and once it had, I was obsessed with finishing All Things Unusual and beginning a new manuscript.

It’s one year later and the writing is well underway. Now I’m engaged in a different kind of trip; this time I’m seated at my desk, walking with my protagonist instead of Bill. She’s taken me to a club in Firenze and Palazzo Pitti and Giardino di Boboli are just a maze of streets and the Ponte Vecchio away. This woman has left her Nikon in Savannah and has no interest in visiting the Uffizi’s collection. She thinks it’s time I write a thriller and  I have the distinct impression she’s planning on kicking butt.

It’s a subtle thing, but unmistakable: the light has changed.

Darkness comes earlier and morning brings a deep chill to the houseboat. I tighten the sash on my robe as I flick on the heater. A playful wind gusts up fallen leaves.

There’s something romantic about changing seasons; a special October valentine from Mother Earth.

Perfect weather to brew a cup of tea. Time to pull out the mulling spices. Time to write.