Writing | Bethany Bassett

Tag: Writing

Arpeggios

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It’s that month again. A cough here, a drippy nose there, and then increasingly miserable viruses playing arpeggios on our lungs until spring. Poor Dan and Natalie always get the worst of it… bronchitis… ear infections… antibiotics and nebulizers and mountains of damp tissues. I usually weather through the mess with the special dispensation granted to mothers, but this past weekend knocked me flat. My personal cold settled in with a sonic-boom headache, and at first, I felt pretty trendy—finally joining the ranks of migraine sufferers and all—but spending the whole day in bed is not nearly as glamorous as it sounds. Especially when your own head is staging a coup d’état.

After a rush of writing productivity last week, I’ve been melting into the couch… playing a lot of Lego Indiana Jones, watching a lot of “Alias” re-runs, and pretending I don’t notice November sneaking by. Thanksgiving #1 is this coming weekend, and I am not ready for it. In the States, we always invited over college students and friends with no where to go for a feast and games; it was always a special and relaxing day. Even last year, for our first Thanksgiving in Italy, I cooked the traditional meal for a large extended family who had taken us in, and we had a fantastic time. However, I’m dragging my feet this year… maybe because of lingering sickness, but more probably because I’m reluctant to face the stark reality of a whole year gone. Time moves quite a bit faster than I do now.

Blah, blah. I’m sorry, it must the head cold talking. Have I told you about my new dishwasher yet? (Love.) Or that all-from-scratch pumpkin pie with dark caramel sauce and swirly whipped cream is on the menu for Saturday? Or how Sophie travels the house all day long finding books and toiletries and DVDs and dishes and laundry and dust bunnies to bestow on me? (With creation’s cutest smile, of course.) Or that I found strawberry-mango tea and Southern Comfort in the same grocery trip? Or how my sweet husband cooked for me all weekend, including a scrumptious Greek dinner? Or about the possibility of a girls’ night out next week (the first I have taken in… um, two years? for reasons entirely my own fault). Or about Natalie’s hugs?

So many things to be thankful for… even head colds, which help me slow down and inspire Greek cuisine and draw our dear little family together under blankets and heaps of love.

Handy considering it’s that month again!

1Oct

Puffed-Sleeved Authoring

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I’m still dabbling my toes in this new school-year schedule. Natalie’s pick-up means much less of the afternoon coffee calm I have grown so fond of, but the mornings are now sacred to writing. While Sophie sleeps away the hours (bless the child), I fix myself something hot and drinkable with one too many spoonfuls of sugar and pick my brain for usable words. Sometimes they come, sometimes they don’t. Always, I feel like a charlatan in an artists’ world.

It’s so very easy to believe that other creative types spend all day in enchanted studios with brightly-lit idea dispensers and chocolate fountains spewing time. I love my little corner, but I have a horrible suspicion it’s only a playhouse where I make-believe what real adults do. Stephen King advises writing six hours a day, every day of the week, and then reading books the rest of the time to keep the mind fit. Anne Lamott instructs her students to plow through “shitty first drafts” and then put the bulk of time into rewriting. Julia Cameron recommends free-writing three “Morning Pages” every day to stimulate thought flow. Good advice, all. But they might as well advise me to write in Chinese.

I see my main job as loving my sweet husband and precious little girls by scrubbing, mending, doing umpteen hours of dishes a week, traveling, dancing, and taking afternoons off to play at the park. It’s the very best kind of hard work, and I’m happy to fit my writing in around the edges. But is that allowed? I can’t help thinking as I vacuum that Stephen King would tell me I’m obviously not committed enough. As I daydream and deliberate over an artful first draft, I can imagine Anne Lamott kicking me out of her class, and Julia Cameron’s “tsk tsk” rings in my ears as I bustle my early morning away with bottles and cereal and Winnie the Pooh backpacks.

I guess I’m just struggling to feel legitimate. And confident. And comfortable with the push-pull of a multi-faceted life. And less squeamish and crumbly about creating differently from everyone else. Oh, I hate being different. This feels an awful lot like being the only girl in seventh grade wearing lacy puffed-sleeve dresses while all the others look like Bratz models* and publish a best-selling novel each year and are swamped with incredible freelance gigs and have their names in the running for a Pulitzer and wear snappy glasses and never wash dishes because they’re too committed to leading brilliant author-y lives. I think I could be unequivocally happy with my present lifestyle once I get over this different complex and accept that maybe my way of finding fulfillment in writing is just right for me. Or if they start giving out Pulitzers for vacuuming. Either way.

—

*Please pretend that’s not a true story. Please?

23Sep

In Between

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Sweet vanilla chai this morning in a quiet house, stuck in between paragraphs of a story. My mind wanders as always. To the four neat publication packages tied with invisible bows, probably somewhere over the Atlantic right now in a gray bin of papercuts. To my wilderness of a kitchen, ravaged as always by the elements of children and smallness, stickiness concentrate. To the jewel of a morning outside but never inside, no matter how many windows are open or how earnestly I coax the world to slip in and bustle with me awhile. To my baby’s runny nose and the doubt-gremlins in my head and my chipped nail polish and the dust in the cracks of my keyboard and the photos my old harddrive took down to its grave and the marching ranks of to-dos.

When I’m in the groove, words sprinting from warehouses in my brain to my fingers to the page, I have no trouble with the world. Dishes could be heaped in the bathtub and bills perched in a line on my desk, but as long as I had written something to be proud of that day, Polyanna herself could not be more optimistic. On the flip side, writer’s block makes me forget how to be content.

Today I need to remember.

Fresh pumpkin waiting in the fridge (and not having to pull anyone’s teeth to acquire it this year)
Sweet baby gurgles and quacks from the other room
Natalie’s sunny change of heart about school
Cinnamon cocoa
My favorite ultra-petite laptop, The Organicow, suddenly being back in commission when I need it most
The luxury of hours to spend as I choose
Anne of the Island
Bright orange flowers sunbursting on the balcony
10 minutes mapping out melodies on the piano (and discovering my fingers aren’t quite as rusty as I thought)
An afternoon espresso date with Dan
Always, always, fresh starts—new bursts of oxygen to the brain, new ideas, new hours with opportunities all their own

16Sep

Fill-In-The-Blank

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Buried deep in cover letters, doubts, and the concentrated strangeness of having time to work. I spent a large chunk of this morning doing research, which always leaves me cranky and limp—overwhelmed by information while sinking under the intangibility of it all. No words on paper, just the worn-out click of a mouse. This necessary homework along the path to publication bogs me down, is “hopelessly unromantic” as Anne Shirley would say. My brainwaves get tangled in grammar and protocol. Can I say this? Who do I contact in what order? Will these laborious search-engine hours pay off in some recognition, or do I need a big dose of Tyler Durden—“you are not a beautiful or unique snowflake,” just stick to your little sphere of homelife?

It all makes me need a thoroughly unique moment, like screaming into an abyss from the back of a Garden State tractor. A voluntary suspension of grammar. Homemade hot chocolate, but only if I don’t have to do the homemaking of it. A fill-in-the-blank poster, all blanks.

I’m up to six submissions for this year. Only one heard back from—a contest I didn’t expect to win anyway. Five crisp white hopes still out in the world and not a clue whether they will find dry land or fling themselves back at me like boomerangs. I’ve never done this before. (I blame my husband for all this optimism and bravery and trying of new things, and it still took him five years to convince me to do what I longed to do.) Either I’m an imposter or I’m reinvented, sharing my words and wobbling on stilts with my chin up… but it’s good. So good.

10Sep

Muse Playground

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I spent a sizeable chunk of today spring cleaning my studio in preparation for new writing hours next week. Dan finds it endlessly amusing (or perhaps endearing? yes, let’s go with endearing) that I claim to have a studio when all I really have is a desk tucked into the corner of our bedroom. However, I take the J.M. Barrie approach. With just a pinch of color and some imagination, I have a magical playground of muses, a bright little world brimming with good ideas and serenity.

Here it is, my corner of the universe where I intend to find magic this coming season:

And here is the view from my window where the muses gather to play:

It may be tiny, but it is sunny, whimsical, and the perfect mix of interesting and organized—exactly what a studio should be. Here’s to good things coming in small packages and to an inspiring fall!

16Jul

Dichotomous Days

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Tension:

Lead-blanket tiredness, every single morning and sometimes until bedtime. I hung onto today by a thread of willpower and finally gave up at noon, when I put my haggard self to bed. (Coffee helps, though I suddenly stopped liking the taste last month. Coffee in a chocolate-coconut frappuccino courtesy of my blender-wielding husband definitely helps. Sleep, exercise, and nutrition do not.)
Owning a house during a major housing slump and losing our renters. Taking care of our house when we lived in it was enough work, but figuring out the details from across the ocean? Without the extra income? Wondering how soon the place will fall into ruin without tenants and become just a pile of bricks swallowed by crabgrass? There’s a chance that worrying about this has impacted my sleep…
Huge possibility of having to move to another city next summer. I knew this home wouldn’t be permanent, but I’ve come to love our friendly little neighborhood and the old, old streets of downtown, not to mention the people who have welcomed us into their families. (Benefits of moving: Will be closer to Florence, Dan’s brother, and IKEA. Very much closer to outlet mall. The other city is still beautiful, AND we may finally get a large-enough house. Oh, and the transfer has the possibility of being long-term. Really, I need to just get over this and be excited already.)

Ease:

Summer-colored fruits and veggies, fresh or bread-crumbed or slathered in yo-cream or drizzled with balsamic vinegar. I love how easy it is to eat healthy in warm weather—salads and fruit drinks every day, and we’ve reduced our grocery budget by €40 a week. I feel all earthy and bright at the thought, like I’ve just discovered a secret.
August just around the corner. We spent our vacation budget (uh, for the next five years) on Sophie’s emergency room trip, so we’ll be coming up with fun and relaxing things to do around here. Which, really? Could not make me happier. I mean, we’re already in Italy; might as well enjoy it! I’m planning to serve meals on paper plates and read books somewhere breezy.
A certain member of the family finally being potty-trained. After what felt like seventeen years of Pull-Ups and puddles and uncontrollable weeping (on my part), we have autonomy. Also, another member of the family recently contracted mobility, and the crawling, cruising, and self-congratulatory giggles are almost too fun to stand! Almost.
Exciting new changes coming soon, like school for Natalie! And hopefully well-scheduled days for me during which I can write and write and write! Plus, a significant raise and talk of a winter ski vacation with the in-laws. Exclamation point!

C’est la vie, non?

7Jun

In Hiding

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I just realized I’m in hiding. I haven’t been to church in three weeks, and I’m feeling nauseous at the prospect of tomorrow. We haven’t entertained guests in even longer; I actually cancelled an invitation to have lunch with friends last week. Grocery trips broadside me, the unfamiliarity of aisles and aisles, the threat of another language. I’ve been grasping at solitude, even tucked away here at home. An hour alone, headphones on.

Is it just cowardice? Maybe I’ve depleted my stores of bravery in these last ten months of culture shock. Or could it be dysfunction finally taking over my sense of logic and social responsibility? All I know for sure is that I’m tired. Inspiration comes in fitful bursts but never stays long enough for me to build up energy. I have projects on the burner, but the pilot light is out. No more fuel.

Sweet Dan gave me the afternoon to write my short-short fiction piece for a contest next week, but the instant I sat down, I slammed into a brick wall. It doesn’t feel exactly like writer’s block since I’m bursting with ideas. It just feels like can’t. So I bit my nails and beat myself over the head with guilt and read bits of Jen Lemen’s beautiful blog in search of inspiration until I found this paragraph in her archives:

Sometimes an internal monologue of shoulds is a sign that some little voice is calling the shots, and it’s not me. At least not the me that understands deep down that love is always the way, that TRUST melts into opportunity, that the joy of discovery is the most creative, fruitful enterprise every single time, that I always finish best in an atmosphere of grace not just pressure.

I desperately need that atmosphere of grace. I suspect I am the only one keeping myself holed up in isolation until the imagined pressure of church and guests and writing deadlines is too hard to face. So here’s a teeny flutter of a plan:

Tomorrow morning, I’m going to go to church without worrying what I look like and say hi to people because at least that I can do. I will breathe.
Right now, I’m going to feed my crying baby and put the computer open on the table in front of me. Maybe I’ll come up with a sentence in between spoonfuls. Maybe I won’t, but it’s okay. This week is not my last chance to write.
And later? I’m going to go to bed early. I’ll stretch out and make happy, comfortable noises and not worry about a single thing because all I should be doing at night is getting enough rest. So I will. It’s a start.

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