The Seduction of a Series

Back in the spring when many of us were in full quarantine, there was chatter in various periodicals and on social media about reading: whether people can focus on a book or not; if they are reading, how much; have their reading tastes changed; what are they looking for at the moment. The Washington Post even tried to help you identify what type of quarantine reader you might be.

Pre-pandemic--last Thanksgiving in fact--I started N.K. Jemisin's Broken Earth trilogy and finished it this past February. It's been a long time since I finished a series. And it felt great. There's a sense of comfort when starting a new book in a world and with a set of characters you already know. 

Previously, I've read Margaret Atwood's Oryx and Crake trilogy, The Hunger Games, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, and the Dead is Better series (thanks for the rec, Nicki!). But that's been over the past 15 some odd years. That's it. Thinking back, my childhood was stuffed with the ubiquitous kids' series. In my case, there were the series for horse-crazy girls like the Thoroughbred series, The Saddle Club series, and the Animal Inn series. But as I reminisce, I realize I never finished any of these series. They were more like those TV show syndicates: you pick up the same ones from the library but you never reach the end.

Now I find myself thirsting for comfort and escape and lookee here, SFF to the rescue (as usual, right?). I purchased V.E. Schwab's Shades of Magic series after drooling over it at my local indie book shop Curious Iguana for the past few years and now that Brent Weeks has finished the fifth and final installment of his Lightbringer series, yep, that's on the list this year, too. In prep for the movie release this fall, it's time to re-read Dune and, what the hell, dive into the rest of that series too. Oh, and the Hitchhikers' Guide series. And I picked up the first three installments of Game of Thrones from a local little free library last winter so . . .

Whew, that's a lot of series. Quite a shift from my "normal" reading but as it feels like lately with everything else, what's normal? I demand escape and comfort. And I'm finding it (as usual, right?) in books. Are there any other series out there I'm missing? What are you reading lately?

Resetting the Lens

My view has shrunk. Although I'm aware of national and global issues (at some times hyper-aware), because of the pandemic, resultant social distancing, and previous (and future!) quarantines, my lens has been honed to local: country roads, state and city parks, backyard, front porch, office, chair.

A summer azure in the rain in July

I think time has shifted, too, and lock-down has forced me to alter the way I think.

For example, I'm noticing things right in front of my face. I am focusing on the little things, like local wildflowers. The joy of learning about fleabane has been a surprise. It has become my new favorite flower and it was everywhere, at least in May in Maryland. How could I have never noticed this before?

Fleabane in May

After eyeing it from the car and bike, I picked some (it's neither protected nor rare). I discovered how it is surprisingly soft despite the petals appearing rather pointy. And before the flowers uncurl, they look to me like miniature balls of wound yarn. If you get close enough, you'll notice they have a mild, general "flowery" smell.

This resetting of my lens reminds me of the lab at the vet clinic. When you peer into it trying to look at a smear of ear gunk to find mites or yeast, or count white blood cells, or examine a manure sample to count parasite eggs, and find someone's been messing with the settings, you have to fiddle around to get it right again so you can see properly. Recently, I feel like I've gone from 100X magnification to 400X and someone's messed with the focus. But on the other hand, sometimes at the microscope, you realize that you did need a higher setting, to see things in greater detail. 

Purple crown vetch in June

I'm reminded of my favorite poet Mary Oliver who wrote extensively about nature. I've been propelled to pull out one of her collections from my shelf and sift through it again, as I do from time to time. Her words ring true as always; they are soothing, a balm. And also confirmatory. Here, from her poem "The Sun" (New and Selected Poems Volume One):

"Have you ever seen
anything
in your life
more wonderful

than the way the sun,
every evening,
relaxed and easy,
floats toward the horizon . . . "

And Virginia Woolf, who is not my usual go-to when it comes to observational quotes, but really should be:

"Happiness is in the quiet, ordinary things. A table, a chair, a book with a paper-knife stuck between the pages. And the petal falling from the rose, and the light flickering as we sit."

What small new things have you discovered recently?

One Small Thing

Summer Pierre is a cartoonist I have admired for a few years now after I discovered her on Instagram. I love her style and the fact that she focuses on autobiographical cartoons/graphic novels. Her skills of observation make even the most mundane environment or everyday task seem whimsical and endearing, new and interesting. In a way, now that I think about it, she sort of reminds me of an illustrated version of the novelist Elizabeth Strout, whose novel Olive Kitteridge blew me away, namely due to her sublime ability to describe everyday people in the most interesting and complete ways.

These two creative women remind me that anyone who, in any capacity, can take the ordinary and make it feel extraordinary and wonderful (literally, fill me with wonder), has a gift to be treasured and appreciated. Anyone can make a labyrinth or flying saucer seem remarkable. But try tackling something like the kitchen sink. If you can make that seem novel to me in a way that's both relatable and refreshing, my hat's off to you. And probably my credit card.

Oops, I've wandered a bit.

So Summer Pierre hosted a comics workshop yesterday via Zoom from her home in upstate New York. It was fun and made my brain hurt. You try drawing a cat in three minutes, then one minute, then 30 seconds, then 15, 10, and lastly 5. These are called repetition drills. They get your brain to distill your subject down to its very essence because, Summer says, comics rely on the essence of how things look, not really how they actually look.

My "cat in three minutes". You do not want to see the five second version. Trust me.

Apart from the actual comic drawing instruction, though, I also got a lot of value from what Summer said about the creative process. This is really what I wanted to get to today. At the very start of the class, Summer said something that just about made my head explode: "The hardest thing in any creative endeavor is finishing." Ka-pow! (That's a comic term, by the way.)

"The hardest thing in any creative endeavor is finishing."

Honestly, though, how true is that statement?! How many of us (me) have a long list of ideas and/or a long list of half-finished projects. How many times have I become so frustrated with something only half-finished that I trash it. Why do we (I) do this? And boy oh boy does it hamper the ambition to do something new. And now we (I) enter a viscous circle of starting, getting frustrated, quitting. I think this applies to any work, be it writing, art, music, a sport, making a piece of furniture, baking, etc. etc. Apply to anything where you might be expected to think and create and do. Apply and repeat.

But, if we focus on the completion, it breaks the cycle. I frequently get stuck on something because half-way in--horror of horrors--it's not yet perfect. (Why we demand perfectionism from ourselves half-way through something is a huge topic for another time but it's so annoying, right?) Summer has a balm to sooth this sore: "It doesn't have to be perfect. It just has to be true."

Ka-pow again.

And so, a challenge: practice completion, Summer says.

"It doesn't have to be perfect. It just has to be true."

So then a swell of ambition rises in our hearts and we burn to get started and to finish and to do and. . . but there are so many things. So many ideas. Where to start, how to choose, how do I know when I'm finished, how to be satisfied . . . and under the Wave of Overwhelmishness I am dragged again. (Yes, overwhelmishness. My word. Mine.)

The Wave of Overwhelmishness. Not as big as you thought, right? Doesn't take much. Source: unsplash.com

But here Summer saves us again. "Set a minimum each day," she says. "One small thing a day. Promise yourself that. A lot grows from this."

One small thing a day. That's it. Think about it. Every Monday, I have a list of all the things I want to read and write and draw for the week. And it makes me fret. And I maybe get two things on the list sort of accomplished over the course of five days. Sort of. But what if I focused on one small thing a day? And better yet, frame it as a promise to myself? How's that for a positive spin?

I like this way of thinking. I like it a lot. I'm going to try it. Thanks, Summer.

Hello Again

Oh dear readers. What to say? What not to say? Even without the current world events, it's been eleven months since my last post. I've lost my posting ways. If I didn't have anything of import to say ten months ago, surely I don't have anything now. And yet. And yet we move forward.

So much on social media and numerous publications has examined, explained, bemoaned, sympathized, and excused the current state of cloudy thoughts and lack of creative ambition. I've read some of it. And it sort of helps until it gets to a point where it doesn't. I don't have anything new or unique to add to this new canon of pandemic paralysis. So I won't.

Instead, what to say? What not to say?

Found a beautiful morel a few weekends ago in the woods. Magic!

Here's something: I have been journaling more frequently than before. As in almost every day. It will usually take me six months or more to fill an average size journal and the one I'm currently working on, started in mid February, will be finished before May is over. What's in it? Mostly navel gazing and the self-pity spiral that ends with the gnashing of teeth and catatonic stares at the wall but also some note taking of current events. For posterity. A "Quarantine Diary" if you will. The New York Times even exalted the virtues of keeping a Corona Virus diary. Mine started in March, dutifully reporting the total number of Maryland cases each day. Lately, though, I've stopped doing that. Seems futile. Depressing.

Instead, as I flip through the pages over the last two months, I see lots of quotes. Quotes from newspaper and magazine articles about other's takes on the situation, those who are much better at words than I. Books recommended. Architecture to admire. Instructions on how to draw an illustrated map.

Well, it's no illustrated map, but how about some radishes? Eh?

Writer Arundhati Roy in particular has some excellent observations on this pandemic and--hey, silver lining here--I'm now a huge fan.

[PANK] literary magazine posted a good article April 30 on "Discovering the Available Means: On Reading and Writing in Quarantine" by Nancy Reddy. So, there's also that.

In summary, I'm floating in a haze. Perhaps posting is a small act of "hey, I did something." Or perhaps, more likely, it's more navel gazing. But it also gives me an excuse to show pictures of my two new cats, Mars and Jupiter:

Mars (left) and Jupiter, the new tenants.

One final thought. One quote I spied recently said this:

"Now is the time to grab at every loose idea."

It's copied purple and huge in my journal. And I think about it a lot. Almost a mantra. Because why shouldn't we? Especially now?! Let's go grab at those ideas. We've got nothing to lose.