Complexities in my writing.

I’m slowly getting through my work in progress. And I mean slowly.

Given it’s a revision from a previous version, I have pieces I can put in there and revise, but then there’s all the romance parts to put in and then there’s the flow and …

This book is less fun and more work. Just plain work.

I don’t understand why I keep putting it down. It seems like a simple story. It’s a love story of two people with unusual gifts and a destiny they’re not aware of. And an antagonist who seems like they’re involved in mundane affairs but is trying to keep them from their destiny. Ok, so maybe it’s not so simple. I think there are four or five plots running here:

Jeanne and Josh fall in love
Jeanne and Josh face their destiny despite obstacles:

Jeanne tries to get full professorship despite opposition
Jeanne and Josh explore Jeanne’s talent
Jeanne’s talent gets exposed at Barn Swallows’ Dance
Battle with opposition

Jeanne’s development
Josh’s development

Ok, The subplots make it difficult, but they’re needed because the situation changes from the first to the second half of the book. The

protagonists think everything will be okay once Jeanne gets full professorship, and then they find out that’s just the beginning. And they explore Jeanne’s talent, but they don’t discover the talent is the reason for the persecution until Barn Swallows’ Dance. All this for a romance novel.

Yes, other than the Kringle novels, my writing is pretty complex. I forgot how complex. AAArgh.

Layers of story

Sunday. Coffee and classical time. We’re listening to Max Richter, because I have the control of the music. Otherwise the Sunday classical would be Mozart or Beethoven. I am the more exploratory of the two of us, but I’ve actually gotten Richard to tolerate Philip Glass.

I want to write today. I need some earth-shaking ideas to motivate me. Right now, I’m plowing through potential plot difficulties that require some research and thought. I want to be thinking more fancifully; I feel that’s what I’m missing lately in the book. I’m frustrated with this book, because it’s like the inspiration and development is coming in layers, and I keep having to go back and review and add.

I thought the romance rewrite of this book was going to be so easy! Gaia’s Hands proves again to be the most difficult thing I’ve ever written and there’s no reason for it to be so.

Once again, writers’ block

I’m making progress on Gaia’s Hands, BUT. I just got to the second half, and inspiration is not sitting over my shoulder and whispering ideas in my ear. I am currently in search of a muse, because I bid the last one farewell (it was time).

I know why the block is happening. I’m writing a romance novel, and this is the part of the book where everything goes south and … I have trouble writing breakups, even if I assure myself they’ll get together three chapters later (there’s actually a formula for romance novels. But there is also a formula for all good novels, supposedly. Google “Save the Cat” for details).

It’s the weekend, and I’m alone most of the day, so I want to write. I’ll set a modest goal — 1000 words and/or at least 2 hours editing a day. I think I’ll need to lay down some backbone notes to get this going.

Wish me luck.

The Death of Snow Days

Once upon a time, not that long ago (pardon me the cheesy intro, but it’s that kind of topic) there were snow days. Snow days existed so that students, teachers, and staff didn’t have to venture out into a blizzard or major snowstorm to get to classes. However, snow days became a random winter treat to students (and teachers) .

Snow days gathered their own folklore. Everyone believed that their school had fewer snow days than any of the surrounding schools. Winter weather was counted in number of snow days.

Students treated this as a day apart from routine, to celebrate the novelty, and to watch tv or play indoor games. Teachers as well took it as a welcome release from routine, a day for a late breakfast and time to catch up at home.

COVID, it seems, has killed the snow day.

The same technologies that have brought us synchronous distance learning (i.e. teaching/learning in a classroom remotely using Zoom or other conferencing software) have taken away our snow days. Why? Because the teacher can teach at home, the students can learn at home, and nobody need venture out in the snow.

This morning, Maryville MO is in blizzard conditions. Only 4-5 inches of snow, but it’s blowing pretty hard. And instead of a snow day, we were instructed to teach from home. And thus the snow day ends, a victim of technology and the perpetual need to be productive, which snow days gave us a welcome break from.

First Day of Classes Woe

First day back to work (in a couple hours), and the beginning of the new semester. And this is what I’m expecting:

Students who won’t turn their cameras on on Zoom
Me making some stellar mistake on Zoom that my students get me out of
One student who shows up in person despite two emails that said we will meet on Zoom for the first day.
At least one absolutely urgent task over email
A student who has figured out filters! on Zoom
Me almost forgetting my mask on a run to the bathroom
Kittens on Zoom!

This being said, there should be at least one totally unexpected thing happening today. Like another water main breaking (we had that the other day) or an Internet outage.

This is the fun of teaching. You never know what to expect.

A excerpt of my WIP

An excerpt from my work in progress:

Across the floor of the café, Jeanne wrestled with the program with which she laid out her permaculture gardens. In particular, the app balked at selecting a single clump of plants in a permaculture guild, and instead she lifted the entire 2-acre garden diagram off ground level and into the impossibly blue sky. She needed a better computer, one which could handle the graphics better. She sighed and turned back to her computer. When she glanced up after a few more painstaking minutes of moving the clumps of greenery, she spied a young man sitting across from her. She knew his face: the unruly straight black hair, brown almond-shaped eyes, a sensuous mouth. The slam poet. The man who had looked over at her earlier.

“I’m Josh Young,” he announced in a light, dry tenor. “I’ve seen you around here. I hope I’m not interrupting you.” He grimaced; she chuckled when she saw his rueful expression. “Was that as awkward as it sounded?”

She silently applauded his straightforwardness. “I’m Jeanne Beaumont,” she replied, extending her hand. He gripped her hand firmly, which she appreciated. His grip fitted with his graceful movement. “But I think you know that, for some reason.” She caught his eyes; he grinned.

“Green Things and Felicitations,” Josh chuckled. “The episode with the Jeannie Beans.”

“I remember you. You went to my Thursday Night Lecture — ” Jeanne scrutinized the young man, trying to discern his motives for meeting her.

“Three years ago,” Josh responded. “My senior year. I went to grad school from here to get a double Master’s — MFA and MS in English. Then I came back here. I’m in the Writing and Languages Department. I teach Composition and wrangle the Slam Poets Society.”

Jeanne calculated in her head — Josh had to be 25 or 26. Twenty years younger. So, are you waiting for someone? Or are you here to talk to me? she wondered to herself, thinking how unlikely the latter would be. Reflexively, she swiveled around to check whether a cluster of young, ragged poets stood in the background laughing behind their hands at the scene. To her relief, she saw none.

“No, actually, I came here alone — I felt restless, so I came out here to check out the scene.” Josh looked up at her, his mouth quirked. “Am I disturbing you?”

Only as much as darling young men usually do, Jeanne reflected. “Not at all. Would you like to join me for the music tonight? We can drink coffee together.”

She thought she heard the answer in his grin. Illogical, she thought. Just like the whiff of apple blossom that wafted by.

The Beginning of Spring Semester

Work is starting to leak into my last days off — revising the syllabi (already written) for the university records, fielding emails from internships, meetings, trying to locate all my masks …

And rewriting my schedule, so I have time to write despite work coming back into full swing.

One of the pluses of teaching at a university is that we get more time off than other people. Actually, we don’t have as much time off as it looks, because we have to do class prep, take emails, have meetings and the like. Still, we get at least more flexible time to get these things done. (Note, I work summers supervising interns, so that’s not a vacation either.)

I have to get back into the mindset, though. The routine. Getting dressed for work, grading, getting ready for classes (which will be taught online and over Zoom simultaneously.) Meetings and more meetings.

I can start that on Thursday.

Am I ready? Am I ever?

Classes are starting in a couple days, and I hope I’m ready for them. I always feel like I’m not quite ready, but I also feel assured that none of my colleagues at the University feel like they’re ready either. It’s the lament of faculty everywhere, I guess. (Just as I started writing, something broke in one of my online course sites and I had to fix it. So much for being ready.)

It will be another semester of social distancing, because vaccines have not been widely available in the US yet. I will meet with half the class at a time again, giving the same activities to each section. Tuesday and Thursday will be my busy days. Office hours will be Zoom or live. Everything live will be with masks on.

I have gotten used to COVID protocols, strangely enough. I’m accustomed to not going places, wearing masks, Zooming. I miss live teaching, but if distance protocols are how I have to teach, I’ll keep doing so.

So I’ll be as ready as I can on Thursday when I start teaching.

Mourning the wreckage of a noble experiment

It’s not over yet for the US.

There are rumors of a big insurrection hitting Washington for the inauguration, with Twitter verifying. I’m hoping that the National Guard and the Capitol Police are enough to stop it if it comes. This is all very scary in a country that thought it was above all this.

That’s one of the definitive factors of the US — our hubris. Our famous last words are “It will never happen here”. It is happening here, and those of us who predicted it would feel vindicated at the same time we wish it wouldn’t have happened.

It’s still a scary time, and I feel very unprepared for the results. I wonder if I’m looking at the wreckage of a noble experiment called democracy in the US. I guess we had our time as a country, with the best days during my early childhood. I can’t help but feel our politicians don’t know how to do the hard work anymore, with most of the political energy expended into power struggles and equivocal statements that, in the end, mean nothing.

I would like to have faith in the US again, a version that doesn’t let white supremacy up to the front door of the Capitol nor let it walk in their halls. One where the White House can truly mobilize the COVID response, and societal ills can be addressed.

But if I had the money (as my job prospects at age 57 are marginal), I would move to Canada.

Where I stand (not with Trump)

In case there’s any question of where I stand:

I want to see President Trump impeached for inciting sedition.

It’s too late for the 25th Amendment (relieving Trump of duties because he’s unfit for duty) because that would just absolve him of what happened at the Capitol on Wednesday. He could claim insanity and avoid prosecution.

Trump needs to be prevented from trying for another term in 2024, which would happen if he were impeached and convicted. I’m not against Republicans per se. I’m against seditious Republicans, and that includes Cruz and Hawley. There is a process for addressing grievances, and a Congressman (or even President) doesn’t always get their way. You don’t order a mob onto the Capital just because you don’t get your way.

I’m not arguing anything novel, anything nobody else has thought about. I’m not that genius, I’m not a policymaker, I’m not a pundit. I’m an ordinary American scared of what I’ve seen.