Dear faithful readers–

I owe you an apology.  I took a break from the blog, and in so doing, broke a cardinal rule of blogging:  I left you hanging, with no explanation.

Sorry ’bout that.

I’m glad I took the time, though, because it gave me a little distance in which I could think about what I’m doing here.

This is what I’ve concluded:

1–I like my tiny little space in the blogosphere, and I have no desire to give it up.

2–I do not, however, enjoy feeling pressured to blog every day, so I’m not going to do that any more.  My blog, my rules.

3–Sometimes I don’t have enough creative energy to devote to the blog and the novel, so when I’m feeling that way, the novel wins.  Priorities.

And that’s it.  From now on, I’m going to write blog posts only when I have something I’m excited to tell you all, and only when I have time.   That’s the only way I can think of to maintain some semblance of balance in my life.

So for now, I’m off to clear up a little point-of-view problem in chapter 3, then I’m going to make my Thanksgiving grocery list and wash the pile of laundry Toby brought home from his weekend away.

I’ll be back, I promise.

This is a mildly interesting concoction:  it’s sort of a mayonnaise, but without any egg yolks, with a whole lot of pureed garlic mixed in.

I made it a while back, in the middle of a slightly obsessive quest to duplicate the whipped garlic served at a Lebanese restaurant we go to sometimes.  The garlic, which they serve as a condiment with some of their dishes (but not all; you can ask for some, but it doesn’t just appear automatically), is a sort of amazing sensory experience–it’s creamy, but in a solid, substantive way.  The first time I tried it I was baffled, and immediately started trying to figure out how I could replicate it.

After a number of visits to the restaurant, and extensive grilling of various waitstaff, I started experimenting.  I bet I tried it half a dozen times in two weeks before I gave up.  I had gotten close, and had made some interesting dips/spreads/sauces (as well as some spectacularly awful ones).  But I hadn’t gotten it quite right.  Meh–win some, lose some.

We were back at that restaurant last week, and I was reminded how much I love that spread. Once again, I peppered our waiter with questions.  He finally went back and talked to the chef, and came back with a new tip that I hadn’t heard before (add some ice–yeah, I never would’ve figured that out), and the best affirmation ever:

Two out of three times, the chef screws it up, too.

Wow.  I feel so much better now.  It’s nice to be reminded occasionally that some things are just really hard to do, and require a lot of effort, even after you think you should’ve mastered them.  Really excellent work doesn’t come easily, even for people who are good at whatever the thing is. (Of course, I’m thinking about writers, and it’s good to remember that even the best, most gifted authors have to practice and draft and revise and sometimes even start over.)

I also feel totally justified in not messing around trying to make whipped garlic anymore.  I’ll just go to the restaurant when the craving hits.  They have better equipment than I do, anyway.

You need to watch this TED talk.  It’s beautiful.  Delaney is obsessed with it.  I’m inspired by it.

Find yourself a quiet spot, turn off your phone, and devote twenty minutes to this brilliant young poet, Sarah Kay.  Trust me on this.

An update to yesterday’s deep-blue funk:

Seth Godin, author-entrepeneur-marketer extraordinaire, writers about something he calls “the dip.”  The dip is that darkness-before-dawn moment when you’ve worked hard at something, you’ve put in the investment of time and energy and faith, and you can’t quite get it off the ground.  That’s when so many of us throw in the towel.  Seth argues that if we could stick with it just a little bit longer, give it another good effort, one more rewrite, the tide will turn and the project (business, book, idea, etc.) will take off.

Yesterday?  I was definitely in the dip.  I believe I called it the black pit of despair? Okay, maybe I didn’t use those words exactly, but that’s what I meant.  That’s certainly what I was feeling.  And I sat with it, all day.  Just . . . accepted it.  I didn’t have much choice–I couldn’t figure a way out of that dark place in my head (you know, the place of self-doubt and loathing; the place where words like useless and failure seem reasonable).  Somewhere in the back of my mind I knew it wouldn’t last forever; I hoped so, anyway.  Phone calls and blog comments and hugs from my people helped, but mostly I just walked around in a gray cloud, like Eeyore.  Blah.

I was so frustrated.  I love that little short story.  I know it’s the best story I’ve written; part of me thinks (is afraid, actually) it’s even better than the novel I’m trying to get published.  I so, so wanted that magazine (the magazine I most want to be published in, because they pay better than most–how’s that for a blunt reason?) to take it.

So I put the story out of my head, and worked on other things.  I wrote that blog post.  I made some changes to a story that I’m going to send off to my writer’s group this afternoon.  I tried to think about some revisions to my first novel, but that felt sort of overwhelming.  So, yes, I might’ve done some knitting, and some blog-surfing, and I might even have dragged Lee and Delaney to the mall last night to buy a garlic press (ooh!  new garlic press!  exactly like this old one, because it has started mangling the garlic).  Sometimes you just survive the day, right?

Late last night I crawled into bed with a stack of notes about the novel.  A month ago or so, a friend (thank you, Miller!) convinced a friend of his (who is an amazing writer herself–more on that another day) to take a look at it.  She made a lot of suggestions that have been rolling around in my head ever since (somewhat like a tumbleweed blowing through an empty desert, admittedly).  I understand the words, but haven’t quite been able to make the leap from her words to mine.

And then, out of the blue, it just clicked.  It was one of those lightbulb moments, sitting there in the bed, shivering in my jammies, grumpy as all get-out, suddenly, I totally understood what I need to do to fix that book.

I still have to actually make the changes, of course.  I figure I’m looking at something like forty pages of fresh writing.  But that’s okay:  at least I see the path now.  And that short story–I woke up this morning making a mental list of other places I can send it.

Back in the saddle.

The annual running of the New York City marathon will be held this weekend. It’s one of the biggies, attracting upward of 30, 000 runners. Admission is by lottery; some people try for years before they get in. The course takes runners through all five boroughs of the city, ending in Central Park. Some stretches of the route are famous for the “wall of sound” created by millions of cheering spectators. It’s truly a peak-life experience for any long-distance runner.

I ran it in 2004. I hated it. This makes me sort of an oddball, I think–people love that race, remembering it wistfully years later. I, on the other hand, remember it as one of the more miserable experiences of my life.

I got my period. My stomach was upset. It was 70 degrees. New York is a lot hillier than you’d think. I was elbow-to-elbow with 37,000 strangers for 26 miles. By the time I got into the later miles, the water stations were surrounded by a treacherous carpet of wet, sticky, slippery paper cups. I was afraid I was going to slip and fall in all that nastiness. When I’m exhausted, my senses are heightened. New York was loud (so loud–I felt trapped by the noise) and smelly and miserable.

I like to run in the woods, with pretty trees, and birds singing, and perhaps a nice babbling brook. Silly me–I’m so spoiled.

But last night I heard a piece on the news that made me think maybe I’ll run New York again one day, just to remind myself how lucky I am.

One of those Chilean miners will be lining up at the start this Sunday. I’m not going to link to all the news reports; you can just google for it. But it’s a pretty amazing story.

The man was marathon training the whole time he was down in that mine. He was running six miles at a time, in the dark and the heat, wearing his heavy work boots, not knowing if he was even going to be rescued in time to run the race. Not knowing, for sure, if he was going to be rescued at all.

If that’s not dedication (and persistence, and hope, and faith)–I don’t know what is. I am in awe.

As I write this, I’m about to head out the door for a 20 mile training run. It’s a beautiful day–the sun is shining, the temperature is a perfect 50 degrees. The trees are showing off their fall colors, and autumn camellias are in bloom all over town. It will be a lovely run. When I get home, I’ll have some chocolate milk and a sandwich, and I’ll spend the rest of the day reading and writing and being vexed by my children.

I will remind myself to be grateful.

I went away for a long weekend, to a writer’s conference in South Carolina. I had a hotel room all to myself for three nights, and I spent the days going to workshops and panels, learning about the craft of writing and the business of publishing. I was with my people. You’d think I’d have come home rested and energized.

Not so much. I didn’t knit, I didn’t read, I didn’t run, I didn’t have umbrella drinks by the pool. I was focused like a laser beam on getting everything I could out of the conference.

I am re-invigorated, intellectually. But emotionally? I’m exhausted. Drained. Completely overloaded. Three days of making small talk with strangers, networking with agents and editors and published-writers-who-know-how-it-all-works, and basically offering myself up for rejection wore me slam out.

One of the authors–Joshilyn Jacson, whose Gods in Alabama is both lovely and heartbreaking–said something in a workshop that cracked me up. She said that on the Meyers-Briggs scale, she’s 51 percent extrovert, and 49 percent introvert. The reason that made me laugh is I’m the exact opposite. On that same Meyers-Briggs scale, I’m 51 percent introvert and 49 percent extrovert. What that means, practically speaking, is that I love people. Really, I do. I love to chat and flirt and meet and mingle and all that jazz. But after a couple of hours of socializing, you can ahead and stick a fork in me, because I’m done. Cooked. I want to just crawl back to my hidey-hole and talk to the people in my head.

But by Saturday afternoon, I didn’t even want to talk to my imaginary friends (which is fine–they understand when I need to be quiet). I was so far out of my comfort zone I actually had to go back to my room for a quick cry, just to decompress a little. You know you’re stretching yourself when crying is the only thing you have energy for.

And that was the best part, I think. I learned a tremendous amount, I made some excellent industry contacts, and I met several wonderful writers I’m going to try and keep in touch with. But what I value most, I think, is the stretch. Being there without a single soul I’d ever seen before, and pushing myself to be present and on, was incredibly difficult. It was WAY out of my comfort zone.

And it’s only when I get out of that comfort zone, that place where everything is predictable and easy and everyone already likes me, that I know I’ve really grown. Growth is hard work, but it’s worth the effort.

How do you stretch yourself and push your emotional boundaries? What are you doing to grow in your life?

Today’s run: 20 miles. I had to go earlier in the week than I usually do, because I’m going out of town for the weekend. It was really just a get-’er-done kind of day. At this point in training, the challenge is as much mental as physical–I know I can run 20 miles, but do I really want to? Not so much.

So I played a couple of mind games with myself. First–I plotted out a route that was basically three laps of the neighborhood next to ours. It was, as planned, mind-numbingly dull. Just dreadful. Purpose: practice for the marathon itself, which is a double loop. You can’t imagine how difficult it is to pass the finish line when you’ve still got half the race to go. We have a cousin (who has done a lot more marathons than I have) who has never done Kiawah, and never will, because she knows just how mentally hard it is to run the same loop twice in a row. So–I practiced, making myself turn around 2 blocks from home and do it again. And–a third time.

To balance the agony of running the same roads all morning, I gave myself a treat. Actually, Delaney gave me a treat. She got herself out of bed (she’s on fall break all week) and rode her bicycle out to join me for the last loop. Yay for having a pacer! I know I won’t have the pleasure of her company on race day, but I figure it’s a reasonable training strategy, because I’ll have a whole race full of people to chat with.

I was pretty exhausted by the time she caught up with me, so we moved at a plodding pace. We chatted a little bit, and she played some songs for me from her iPod. Mostly she just kept me distracted and thinking about something other than my own misery.

It worked brilliantly, and I got through that last loop. When we got home, and I was having a big glass of water and trying to (carefully) stretch out a little bit, she made an interesting observation: she said that while we were out there, trudging along, I seemed much better than she expected me to. I was whining less than she thought I would.

I told her this (and this is the most important lesson I’ve learned from running): whining never helps when you’re trying to get through something unpleasant. After the fact–help yourself. Whine to your heart’s content. I sure do. But while I’m in the thick of it? You won’t hear a negative word out of me. I try to avoid even the miserable thoughts (more easily said than done), but even when my mind slips into a negative train of thought, I never voice those thoughts. Negative words cannot possibly be helpful; on the contrary, they are usually destructive and self-defeating.

For the record, that last lesson applies to so much more of life than just running . . .

We’re still in the mountains.  So far, I’m still running (and writing, so that’s the whole agenda, really).  The running has been . . . interesting.  At home, I have a system.  Every time I run, I have a plan–a goal pace, a route, a specific number of miles I want to cover.  I rarely deviate from the plan, and if I do (like when I sprained my ankle in October) I’m probably not happy about it.

On vacation, though, things are a bit less predictable.  I have less control.  I have to run when it’s convenient for everyone, not just me.  I have to run when there’s a car available to take me down off the mountain (because, you know, up here on the ridge, there are DOGS).  I have to work my runs in between meals and adventures and expeditions (I know–woe is me).

And I’m on unfamiliar roads and trails.  If I want to go run 8 miles, I have to plan out a route, write it down, figure out how to carry the piece of paper, and hope the road signs actually match up correctly with what the map said (and invariably it doesn’t).  One day last week I set out on what I thought would be a nice 8-mile tempo* run, through a quiet, shady residential area.

Let me describe that run for you:

HOT
Steep
Narrow roads with no shoulder and lots of blind curves
Elderly drivers in gigantic cars
Road construction
Still hot
Freshly poured cement
More steep
A dead end where I thought there should be a left turn
Barking (but mercifully not chasing) dogs
Lost, lost, and lost again

But the crowning glory of that run, the piece de resistance, if you will, was the moment when I realized I was lost in a cemetery.  Not just any cemetery, either.  The home of the angel of Thomas Wolfe’s 1929 masterpiece, Look Homeward, Angel.  One of my favorite novels.  The angel–a touchstone in Wolfe’s life–was carved by his father.  The heat, the traffic, the anxiety, even the wet cement on my brand-new running shoes–they all ceased to matter in that magical moment when I realized where I was.

Lessons in going with the flow:  you never know when you’re going to run (literally) across something that speaks to your soul.  Be sure to listen.

This is Delaney with my niece, Brynn.  On Saturday they ran their first 5k, with a program called Girls on the Run.  They’ve been training with their group for several months; the culminating event was a real road race.

Personally, I think it’s a great program.  Delaney is . . . less impressed.  She spent Saturday’s event walking 10 feet behind me, scowling.  She switched on her iPod, put on her headphones, and went into survival mode.  I had to really fight the urge to go into cheerleader mode, or this-wasn’t-the-plan-we’re-supposed-to-be-running mode.  I don’t like deviating from the script, and a race is for running, right?

Wrong.

I’ve been there and done that.  I’ve trained, followed all the rules, built up gradually, and on race day found myself walking.  Slowly.  And I still finished, did the distance, and the world didn’t come to an end.

When I was 8 years old, like Brynn, or even 13, like Delaney, I would no more have covered three miles under my own power, without a darn good destination, than I would’ve tried to swim the English Channel.  I just wasn’t that kind of kid.  The fact that these girls are out there, moving their bodies–and yes, learning to appreciate their power–thrills me.

Just like the pride on their faces when they got their finisher’s medals.

http://www.youtube.com/v/jIwrV5e6fMY&hl=en_US&fs=1&

If you have kids, if you know kids, if there are kids that you care about anywhere in your life, you need to watch this video.

It’s 15 minutes long.  Sit down and watch it; pay close attention.  Share it with everyone you know.  Then watch it again next week, just to be sure you remember it.

Jamie Oliver is trying to change the world.

For the first time in human history, the current generation of kids (that’s um, you know–MY kids) have a shorter life expectancy than their parents (extension of logic:  that’s ME).  Is that really what I want for the people I love most in the world?  To condemn them to a life shorter than mine, marred by obesity and disease and ill-health?

Jamie Oliver has a plan.  He’s already made a difference in England, and now he’s set his sights on the US.  His vision is empowerment–teaching ordinary people how to take control of their food choices, and their health.  Watch the video.  Then tune in to his television show, Jamie Oliver’s Food Revolution, airing Friday nights on ABC.

Know what you’re eating.