NaNoWrungOut

The first time I finished writing a book, I burst into tears and called my mother. I'd spent years working on the concepts behind The Crystal Tree, but start to finish, the writing had occupied only 15 working days--an average of 20 finished pages a day. Think of it as a two-week orgasm, and you won't be far wrong.

Today I crossed the NaNoWriMo finish line, but I am not bursting into tears. For one thing, I have more than 50,000 words, but I don't have a completed manuscript or anything like it. Moreover, my life is different. I'm not a full-time, home-based writer any more. I go to work and do one kind of writing, come home (or go out to lunch) and do another kind. Nor am I a 27-year-old newlywed. I'm 46, divorced, repartnered. It's not May in Stockholm, NJ. It's November in the Bay Area of California.

And yet--this is even better. That first orgasmic rush of words was grand, but this is craft as well as inspiration. This book is fiction, but like the first nonfiction book, it's based on ideas I've been pondering for decades. I have confidence in this book, in my skills, in myself. I'm considerably more sane than I was 20 years ago. I'm going to keep working on sanity and fiction.

Made my 50K? Sure. But I've only begun working on this book. I have months of joy ahead of me. Years of joy beyond that as I work on other books.

And now I have a write-in to attend.

Merry Trucemas!

Yes, already there is an update to the Trucemas story.

As you may remember, Trucemas is a holiday proposed by a nonreligious friend of mine who is also a military historian. He may not care about Santa, but he’s impressed by anything that could bring peace, music, stillness to the notoriously bloodsoaked Western Front in World War I. He started the idea last year; this year it may receive a little extra impetus because we recently lost one of the few who were there to participate.

The last known surviving allied veteran of the Christmas Truce that saw German and British soldiers shake hands between the trenches in World War One died Monday at 109, his parish priest said.

Alfred Anderson was the oldest man in Scotland and the last known surviving Scottish veteran of the war.

"I remember the silence, the eerie sound of silence," he was quoted as saying in the Observer newspaper last year, describing the day-long Christmas Truce of 1914, which began spontaneously when German soldiers sang carols in the trenches, and British soldiers responded in English.

"All I'd heard for two months in the trenches was the hissing, cracking and whining of bullets in flight, machinegun fire and distant German voices. But there was a dead silence that morning across the land as far as you could see.

"We shouted 'Merry Christmas' even though nobody felt merry. The silence ended early in the afternoon and the killing started again."

Troops in the trenches swapped cigarettes, uniform buttons and addresses and even played football in one of the most extraordinary episodes of the war.

Parish priest Neil Gardner of Anderson's Alyth Parish Church in Scotland said he had died in his sleep and was survived by a large family, including 18 great grandchildren and two great great grandchildren.

"He was a wonderful old man: he was gracious, gentle, he had a great sense of humor and a fine sense of wisdom from his experience spanning three centuries," said Gardner, who also served as chaplain to Anderson's regiment, the Black Watch.

Anderson also served briefly as a member of the household staff of Queen Elizabeth's uncle, Fergus Bowes-Lyon.

With Anderson's death, fewer than 10 British veterans of the war remain alive, of whom only three or four were veterans of trench warfare on the Western Front.

Attention has turned to the last survivors in recent weeks, with filmmakers bringing out documentaries in time for this month's Armistice Day holiday, marking the day the guns fell silent on November 11, 1918.

To me, Trucemas is one of the shining examples of the value of recognizing other people as fellow human beings. For my friend, it’s a celebration of peace amidst war. For everyone, it can be a way to strip off the aggregation of tinsel, family demands, cultural baggage, and personal expectations that can make the holidays a burden. I freely admit to giving in to some of those expectation—like the whole question of snow at Christmas, which has everything to do with my childhood in a cold place and nothing to do with the birth of the incarnated Lord.

(Did you know they actually import snow here? You think I’m kidding? The organizers of Winter Festivals rent a snow-making machine, and parents bring their children to gawp at the cold white stuff. There are also snow parks (or as the State of California refers to them, Sno Parks) where you can go for cross-country skiing, snowmobiling, and making snow angels—all conveniently located near a parking lot and Portapotty. Snow is not just weather you can shovel; it’s a feature attraction, like the Pirates of the Carribean at Disneyland.)

For me the religious holiday is Christmas, and the beauty of the Incarnation shines amid the long winter nights. But the secular holiday, the one we all can share, whatever our religious beliefs, is Trucemas: season of goodwill, a time to pause and be kind to others, a time to remember the holidays of your childhood without necessarily attempting to duplicate them.

'Tis the Season

Ever since August, Costco has been decking its halls. The number of catalogues in the mail has tripled. At least one local radio station has gone over to all holiday music, all the time.

Holidays are difficult. I'm thousands of miles from my family and the newest generation of awestruck children. It never really feels like Christmas here, and all those songs about Jack Frost's icy mucus and winter wonderlands glazing the garbage dumps with magic are pure bilge when there are roses blooming in every garden and no frost for 87 miles.

One way I avoid the holiday season is by immersing myself in NaNoWriMo until my eyes fall out. Or rather, until Thanksgiving is well past and the Christmas season is upon us. And then I'm too bleary-eyed to care much.

However, there's one holiday I can seriously get behind. I like the idea of Trucemas, and I'm one of those people who celebrates Christmas as the birth of the incarnated Lord.

Some suggested ways to celebrate Trucemas:
* Avoiding all malls, shopping centers, parking lots, and big-box retailers until at least January 15
* This goes double if you are employed in any of these
* Playing “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer” a minimum of once per day
* Playing “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer” a maximum of once per day
* Being kind to people who annoy you
* Yes, even family members
* Yes, even the ones who give you fruitcake
* Sincerely thanking annoying family members for the lovely gift of fruitcake
* Cramming the gift fruitcake into the public address systems of any mall, restaurant, school, or big-box retailer that is currently playing Christmas Muzak
* Binding and gagging anyone who comes to fix such systems (mince pie makes an excellent gag if you're out of fruitcake)
* Reading or rereading Terry Pratchett's Hogfather and similar uplifting holiday tales
* Watching the Mr. Magoo Christmas Carol
* Watching “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” and lamenting the absence of elf-ridden electric shavers from the commercials
* Watching “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” and replacing “Rudolph” with “Adolf” and “Reindeer” with “Nazi”
* Arguing over whether Goebbals or Goering should be Yukon Cornelius
* Arguing over whether Goebbals or Goering should be the Abominable Snowman
* Having more eggnog
* Threatening to sic the Blackshirts on anyone who uses canned, pre-grated nutmeg on your eggnog
* Honing a butcher knife while explaining the role of suet in (A) the human body and (B) mince pies to anyone who does not display the appropriate Trucemas spirit
* Getting enough sleep
* Reading “A Child’s Christmas in Wales” aloud
* Remembering that you do love at least some of your family, at least sometimes

May your days be merry and bright, and may all your Trucemasses be covered in blooming roses.

Poem

It's been years since I wote poetry, unless you count snarky haiku (a special form I particularly enjoy). Today for some reason two undersea poems came to me. Here's one of them.

For Diana

Under a clear sky, cloudy water.
The scarred stone moon, blind, diminishing,
Scatters her light like ashes on the milky sea.
Sunk beneath the waves, the fallen 
Statue of Diana rests. Her eyes -- stone-lashed, brine-stung -- 
Stare tearlessly skyward, past elusive jellyfish
And eels like moonbeams trapped in tanks.

A kind hand would seal those eyes.
A kind heart would smash them.

No algae clothe her breasts and sex.
Naked, unyielding, her will is armor 
Stronger than the chisels that chipped this form from stone.
Once violated, she chose to be invulnerable. The swordfish
Have more tenderness than she,
The jellyfish more mercy. She is her father’s daughter.
The huntress, amused by mortal pain,
Played Herod to Niobe’s brood. 

     Now she watches
Austere, unblinking, as otters mate, as fish devour their own 
Scattered offspring, as sharks rise to snap
Their unsuspecting prey. Even Olympian calm 
Cannot survive immersion. Baptized into the world of desperation,
She sees but cannot mend the damage she has done. 
Even the tepid-blooded oysters feel too much.
She prays for lava to melt her memory, 
For resurrection as unthinking stone. 

     —Lynn Alden Kendall

copyright 2005 Lynn Alden Kendall

Now I Have an Excuse

Even when reading is impossible, the presence of books acquired produces such an ecstasy that the buying of more books than one can read is nothing less than the soul reaching towards infinity.... We cherish books even if unread, their mere presence exudes comfort, their ready access, reassurance.

A.E. Newton

MISSED CONNECTION: Small Classic Cars, Sunday Afternoon on 880

Sunday afternoon I was driving my partner’s serviceable but unglamorous Saturn, going north on 880 between Fremont and Hayward. Then I spotted you – three gorgeous cars in a row, putt-putting along in the slow lane at about 60mph.

Each of you was tiny yet elegant, with a charming two-tone color scheme. Sunshine yellow and white, turquoise and white, black and white. At least one of you had bug-eyed headlights. The three of you together might not have been as long as a Humvee, but you’re smart. You know that size does matter, and smaller can be so much better when slipping into tight spaces.

Let’s face it—you know you’re adorable, with your blocky body neatly sandwiched between hood and trunk. (Or boot and bonnet, if you happen to be British.) So much classier than the flashy new sportscars. They remind me of sneakers—all hood, no trunk, and a heel in the driver’s seat.

From your details, you looked to be about my vintage—late 1950s—but I could be off by a few years. Clearly you’re mature, driving so carefully, but you also look like a lot of fun.

I know I may never see you again, but I’m dying to know who you were. Make, model, and any additional information would be much appreciated.

Edited to Add: The cars I saw were a Nash Metropolitans, sold between 1954 and 1962. At 149.5" long, they were smaller even than a VW bug. And the pictures show how charming they were. There's one for sale in San Diego for less than ten grand. I bet it gets great gas mileage, too.

The Gift

Today a woman I know got a chance for a new life. Stephanie is a professional composer who has also worked as a mathematician and a computer programmer. More than a year ago, she had to move back home because Type I diabetes was killing her. Her kidneys had failed; she was sick all the time, on dialysis, not sure she would live to receive a transplant.

Today, in a grueling 12-hour operation, she received two donated kidneys and a pancreas. The kidneys are working; in 48 hours, we’ll know if the pancreas is, too. If it is, she won’t be diabetic any more. Cured. Free again to create music, to laugh with her friends, to work hard and support herself.

I don’t know much about the young man whose kidneys and pancreas are giving Stephanie a future. He was 21. He fell off a roof and died. He and his family were generous enough to share the healthy organs he couldn’t use with someone whose life would have ended without them. This way, only one family has to grieve an early death. And all the people who know Stephanie, everyone who hears her music, will be blessed and enriched by that young man. Many of us are praying for his family. He will live on in his final act of generosity.

When Diane was killed, it took a long time for the EMTs to get her out of the car—so long that only her corneas were suitable for transplanting. They were taken, and today someone sees better because Diane gave that final gift. It’s a tiny consolation in the vast desolation of heartbreak that her death left behind.

I have the “Organ Donor” option checked on my driver’s license. More than that, my doctor, my HMO, my family, and my friends all know what I want done with my body when I die. I’ve left detailed written instructions with my family and medical advisers. When the organs are taken, there will be plenty left over for a funeral. I could even have an open casket, if anyone wants that. And no, my family will not have to pay for the organ removal. That’s an urban legend.

Half the people waiting for transplants will die without getting them. Stephanie could have been one of them—a young, vibrant, talented woman whose music would have been silenced forever.

Keep the music playing. Become an organ donor. Document your decision, and tell your family. Give life.

Reports from the Front Lines

Half a dozen of my friends have spent time on the Gulf Coast, working in disaster relief or reporting the hurricane. My new landlady, who just moved to Houston, spent her first weeks there helping out with hurricane evacuees and then preparing for Hurricane Rita.

Many of my friends are blogging their rescue and relief efforts.

Mike, a nurse and a Catholic deacon, volunteered in various clinics. He illustrated his blog with photographs.

Badgerbag was deeply involved in connecting people looking for lost relatives.

Tim Walton, a news cameraman, posted his photographs when he got home. Take a look at his fire and Iraq pictures, too.

And my beloved Alan Bostick is now in Biloxi to work in hurricane relief with Hands-on USA. he's posting occasional stories of his work; he even wrote a poem about it.

I'm proud of him. I miss him. I wish I could be there to help people directly, and I curse my allergy-ridden body for making such a trip impossible. And did I mention I miss him?

I'm doing what I can. I've donated whole blood, and I have an appointment to give platelets next weekend. I give time and money to causes that matter—yes, including causes closer to home, which tend to be neglected when big disasters occur. And now I've donated my boyfriend.

Not Even for the Sake of Books

The National Book Festival is being held in Washington, DC, this coming Saturday. Sponsored by the Library of Congress and First Lady laura Bush, it's a significant event in literary circles, bringing together authors as diverse, popular, and respected as Neil Gaiman, E.L. Doctorow, John Irving, Donald Hall, Sue Monk Kidd, Bobbie Ann Mason, Buzz Aldrin, Kay Bailey Hutchison, Marcia Mullen, Diana Gabaldon, R.L. Stine, and Laurie Smith. Dana Gioia, the eloquent California poet, will be there. So will Lynne Cheney, whose most famous book is probably the lesbian Western she wrote years ago. (Brief bios of all these authors are available on the National Book Festival web site.)

These very fine writers will read from their work, speak, meet readers (an estimated 85,000 attendees), be interviewed by the Washington Post and other newspapers, and do all they can to promote reading and writing. It sounds like a lot of fun, even though John Irving did once observe that writers are not necessarily sparkling conversationalists: "Novelists in particular drag themselves around parties like gutshot bears." It's also a great honor to be invited.

At least one invitee, however, will not be present. The distinguished poet Sharon Olds refused the invitation from Laura Bush.

But I could not face the idea of breaking bread with you. I knew that if I sat down to eat with you, it would feel to me as if I were condoning what I see to be the wild, highhanded actions of the Bush Administration.

What kept coming to the fore of my mind was that I would be taking food from the hand of the First Lady who represents the Administration that unleashed this war and that wills its continuation, even to the extent of permitting "extraordinary rendition": flying people to other countries where they will be tortured for us.

So many Americans who had felt pride in our country now feel anguish and shame, for the current regime of blood, wounds and fire. I thought of the clean linens at your table, the shining knives and the flames of the candles, and I could not stomach it.

I don't fault the authors who are attending. But I am profoundly grateful for Sharon Olds, whose poetry I have long enjoyed, and who has so simply expressed the horror of the contrast between the civilized dinner table of the Bushes and their vicious, unconstitutional, and shameful policies.

Nesting

It’s been years since I was overpowered by the urge to nest: specifically, when I moved to Binghamton in September of 2000. Despite some issues with the apartment on Lydia Street, I loved it. I had the whole second floor of a Victorian house: a broad staircase up to a dining room, office, tiny living room, big bedroom with walk-in closet, huge kitchen, pantry, bath, and back porch with stairs down to the garage. (Which leaked, a fact I discovered only after storing boxes in it for months.) I lived there less than a year, but I felt settled there. I nested.

Nesting is more than unpacking. It’s hanging curtains, putting art on the walls, arranging the rooms, puttering in the kitchen, falling in love with the place. You know how a cat will stretch in a patch of sunlight, reveling in it? Nesting is like that.

Sometimes nesting also involves shopping. Things don’t have to be brand-new, but they have to be beautiful (or have that potential), and they need to fit the space. After I moved to Binghamton I bought the Croscill comforter still on my bed, and the beautiful bed and frame that I had to sell, and the one Calphalon pan that disappeared during the move west. Plus plenty of smaller things from the local Salvation Army (which I loved). When I left Billy, I had left behind my dishes and cookware, towels, furniture—the much-loved possessions accumulated in 16 years of marriage. I had to replace them.

The move to California and the subsequent changes of residence were hurried and usually meant fitting myself into someone else’s space. Even in the South San Jose house where we lived for nearly four years, I never felt settled, never felt at home—although I had my own bedroom and office, I couldn’t or didn’t or wouldn’t possess them.

Maybe by that time I was just too tired of moving. (Every night for two years after I moved to California, I had traumatic nightmares about moving.) Maybe I couldn’t trust any place to last long enough to be a home. Anyone who knows me can tell you I get profoundly attached to places. I rapidly became attached to California, but I still felt like I had no home here.

Now I do have a home. And, as is proper, I am nesting there. With the help of friends, Freecycle, yard sales, Craigslist, and the Salvation Army Thrift Store, I’m fitting up my space to be beautiful. My usual style: eclectic, color-conscious, warm.

I’ve got gorgeous Freecycled pale-green Ultrasuede curtains, fully lined, to cover the west-facing French doors in the living room/bedroom. (Sunlight is pleasant, but it heats the studio up to pizza-oven temperatures. Also, I’d like privacy at times in bed.) Thanks to a good friend, I also have the appropriate traverse rods and brackets. (She was glad to be rid of them, and I was glad to receive them.)

Over the weekend I picked up a cream and green area rug with touches of deep purple at a yard sale advertised on Craigslist. The rug and the curtains go with the Croscill bedspread, the purple-and-cream square porcelain plate, the purple-and-green Peruvian tapestry, and the various landscapes that usually hang on my walls. Also with the gorgeous framed Monet print I picked up at the Salvation Army—my first decorative purchase for the new space.

I found a lot of other goodies yard-saling, including a Cuisinart Little Pro food processor missing only the blades, which I figured I could replace. Even with the cost of new blades, the fifty-cent price tag made it a bargain. And a lovely little teapot for one—not something that was a need, but a decorative and useful item. Oh, and let’s not forget the gorgeous new Wamsutta towels—two thick, soft, luxurious, smoky-blue cotton terrycloth that I picked up for three bucks total at the Salvation Army.

I’m already cooking in the studio, too. I don’t yet have space or tools unpacked to make elaborate meals, but I have a working (Freecycled) microwave, the heavy-duty double hotplate my friend Debbie gave me, and a fridge out in the garage for soy milk, cheese, fresh veggies, and other tasty perishables. Half the time or more, I cook in the main-house kitchen (I cannot resist the allure of two ovens and a gas cooktop), but now I have the option.

Still don’t have the TV/VCR/DVD components hooked up, or the stereo, and I still have major unpacking to do. The office furniture is set up, but it will be a week or two before it’s fully usable. I need to hang the tapestry, the pictures, and the curtains. I’m still looking for a rocking chair. But already the studio is home, and at night I can snuggle down into my bed, glance around, and feel secure and loved and at peace.