It’s been quite cold in Portland the last couple of days. Feels like summer is over. I welcome the chill and the return of the rain, but the green tomatoes in the garden might think otherwise. The garden wasn’t what we’d hoped it would be this summer, but that’s a post for another day.

My mom was visiting for the past eight days, just went home yesterday morning. Hence, the blog silence. Billy’s off from work this week, which means big, big chunks of writing time for me. I didn’t get any time at all while my mom was here, so I’m excited to get back down to work. I’ve got my coffee, my laptop, my marked-up second draft manuscript. I’m ready to go.

I’ve had feedback on the full manuscript from two readers, but neither of them were reading primarily in a critical literary way. They were both tech editors of sorts. I’ve had feedback on the first fifty pages from two other readers, who are both still working on it but both also quite busy with their own things. I’ve had feedback from Billy, but he isn’t finished with it yet either. And then the reader I lean on most heavily hasn’t had time to even start it yet. People are busy, and it’s a lot to ask, that someone read a draft of your novel. Understandable, but it’s still hard to wait for the comments. I’m just moving forward with what I’ve heard so far, and what my own gut has been telling me in the month since I finished second draft. I can’t wait any longer to get back to work. I’ll get too far away from it, lose the feel. I’ll incorporate the feedback as it comes in, I guess. Not the way I’d like to work, but that’s how it’s going this time.

I’d say more, but I’m anxious to get down to work. And for you knitters, if you’re still reading… I’ve finally finished the second Trilce and will make the pattern available very soon. Now that fall is upon us…

I spotted something today as I left the grocery store, something I’d love to include in a novel or a story. If I was bolder (less considerate of others’ privacy?) than I am, I might have taken out my camera. A single snapshot would have told the entire story. And that’s what I’m chewing over right now. This single image, what I saw in one quick glance over my shoulder, carried immensely more weight than it could if I tried to translate it into words. But words are what I’ve got, what I work with…

As I left the store I saw a man who works in the produce department. He was sitting on a rail outside the automatic doors. His feet were flat on the ground, his back curved, head and shoulders dropped. He was frowning, looking at his hands as he talked quietly to a blond woman who stood over him. She wore a blue apron, so also works in the store, though she wasn’t immediately familiar to me. She was standing close to him, one arm crossed over her chest, that hand grabbing on to the meat of the opposite arm. Something about his posture–the curve of his back, the way he spoke looking down–and her proximity told me that they’re a couple, or moving toward being a couple. And she was displeased, and he was defensive.

It was this tense, intimate moment, all of it coming across in the half-second I allowed myself to look. And words don’t begin to touch it. That curve of his back, the way her fingers dug into the flesh of her arm… It’s so frustrating, the limits of these tools I have.

…but I’ve been knitting. I know. Weird, right? I seem to remember that I used to do a lot of this kind of thing.

Viola. The Central Park Hoodie I’ve been meaning to knit for a couple of years now. I’m using the Cascade 220 that began as a Rogue (frogged), then became a Ribby Cardi (frogged), and will now, certainly, find its final and proper form as a Central Park Hoodie. It’s bizarre how quickly this sweater is knitting up. I don’t get much knitting time at all, and yet I already have a finished back and am closing in on finishing one side of the front. Let’s hear it for stupidly simple cables.

The knitting is posing in front of a Word file titled “Third draft notes.” Those are the only words I’ve had in that file for about twenty minutes now. Which is why I picked up the knitting. Yeah.

I’m not doing any heavy revisions yet, because I’m still waiting for feedback from most of my readers. But Billy gave me some good comments in the last few days, and I’d planned to start doing some writing around those, and some brainstorming and planning for third draft. That was the plan. I can’t seem to make myself get down to work today, though, and my writing time ends in two hours.

Shit. Less than two hours now. Okay. Here I go. To work. Really.

Have a great weekend, and thanks for the birthday wishes!

I’m 35 years old today.

This is the first birthday that’s had a sting to it for me. It’s not old, but it’s certainly not young. Thirty-five sounds terribly grown-up, doesn’t it? Cue midlife crisis.

The best blog you’re probably not reading: Luc Sante’s Pinakothek

He doesn’t post often, but when he does it’s always worth a read. Today’s post is beautiful, so do check that out at the very least. It’s a pitch-perfect snapshot of the same lost New York I’ve been writing about in the current novel, so of particular interest to me.

(And if you’re looking for book recommendations, pick up his Kill All Your Darlings)

This morning, Thumper opened his eyes, stretched, looked at me, and said, “Bacon.”
“Bacon?” I said. “Bacon is meat. We don’t eat meat.”
“I want to eat bacon!” he shouted. “Meat! I want to eat meat! MEEAAAAAAT!!!”

I didn’t say anything, just kind of let it go, and soon he changed the subject.
“I want wings!” he said. “I want to fly!”

That, I can deal with. I mean, I want to fly, too. Who doesn’t? But bacon? I smell a meat-eating paternal setup in this. How did he even HEAR about such a thing as bacon?

Bacon. Oy vey.

Anonymous* sidewalk message, SE Portland

I’m back to work on the novel, waving my hands to change second draft into third. Happily caffeinated, fed, and air-conditioned at the usual Sunday workplace. I got (fantastically helpful) feedback from Marrije, who went way above and beyond by reading the manuscript while on vacation, so now I’m working on revisions based on her, Heather, and Billy’s feedback. (Billy isn’t finished reading yet, but we talk about it as he finishes chapters, which is a terrific way to spend an evening with one’s mate.)

As feedback comes in from my other readers, I’ll work their comments in as well (or rather, what makes sense to me of their comments. I take what’s useful and ignore what isn’t, of course.) I’m glad my readers are getting back to me in a staggered manner, instead of all at once. It can get kind of overwhelming to try to incorporate feedback from too many people at one time. Much better this way, taking it in small bites.

I’m encouraged by what I’m hearing so far. Changes are needed, of course. It’s an early draft. But for the most part, I’m hearing that the book is quite strong. Such a difference from Drowning Practice, which was a hot mess for most of its life.

Okay. Back to work.

*Not so anonymous after all. Sonya ID’d the author of that sidewalk message. There’s a ton of street art and little messages scrawled on sidewalks around Portland, and I’m in the habit of snapping photos of them. I was so pleased to come across this one the other evening. And now I know who’s responsible. Cool, how small this world is, but I do regret the mystery of it is gone.

I was awakened this morning at 6 a.m. by what sounded like something mammalian being eaten alive outside our bedroom windows. I looked outside and saw the branches of the elm across the street waving rather wildly, so whatever was happening was going on behind the cover of leaves. Heather (who lives next door) thinks it was maybe squirrel on squirrel violence. But I’m not sure. It sounded bigger. Raccoons live in that tree and I’m thinking one or more of them might have been involved. Other neighbors have visitors in town, and those visitors brought two very tiny, very yappy chihuahuas with them. Those chihuahuahs have been yapping their yap at all hours for three days (and nights) running. I’ll admit that I had some rather amusing thoughts about it being one (or both) of those dogs up in the tree with our local raccoons. (I know, I know. But it was damn early and I was half-awake so the lizard brain ruled.)

So that’s how today started, the sound of something being eaten alive. I figured the day could only get better, but apparently my brain liked that groove and kept at it. I am glum. I am grumpy. There is not nearly enough coffee in the world.

When Thumper wakes up from his nap, I think it’s time to blast some music. We’ll have a dance party. You should see that kid go.

This morning Heather returned her copy of the manuscript, all marked up and ready for my next round of revisions. That’s a one-week turnaround. Heather rocks.

And now I sit and wring my hands and wait to hear from everyone else. I hate this part.

Random bit of street art found on a rock in SE Portland. I love this city.

Second draft is out of my hands now, with my draft readers. And right on schedule, as I was taking a shower on Saturday morning, the story for my next novel drifted up into my head. Not fully formed, beginning to end, because my brain doesn’t work that way. But I know who the characters are. I know what’s going on. I know what the conflict is. I can feel the tone, can hear the voice of it in my head. Poof. There it is.

I love that. Just as I’m coming to the end of one major project and that fear is setting in–the fear that I’ve already had the best ideas I’m ever going to have, the fear that I don’t have another book in me–the next book presents itself. It happened the same way last time. I must remember to trust my brain. Please remind me to trust my brain.

So now I’m circling around that idea. Sneaking peeks at it. Making notes. Getting the characters to start to talk to each other in my head. They’re fighting right off the bat this time. Which is interesting. I haven’t had a lot of that before, not at the very beginning. Hmmm.

This new idea is coming at just the right time. With the current book off my desk for the time being, I don’t have anywhere else to escape to when I start to feel like I’m too much with myself. Too much in my own head. It’s an odd sort of healing process with the miscarriage. Sometimes I’ll feel totally fine and happy–more so than I expected to feel so soon–and then I’ll see a mom with a newborn, or a pregnant woman with a toddler, and it just kills me. I’m right back to the beginning of it again.

I’ve had a plan for my next tattoo since I was pregnant with Thumper, but I’ve been waiting for Thumper to wean because it’s not generally recommended that you get tattooed while breastfeeding. The tattoo would be a tree or tree branches across my back, and a sparrow (naturalistic) holding a scrap of paper in its beak with Thumper’s real name in my handwriting. And then I’d get another sparrow added for the second baby. Because Thumper is still nursing, it looked like I’d be waiting to get the tattoo until the second baby was weaned, and getting both sparrows at once, several years from now.

Now, though… Waiting seems harder. I’ve been thinking about it since the miscarriage… I want to honor the child I lost. I want to add a broken egg to that design somehow. And I don’t want to wait to do it. I’ve been Googling around about getting tattooed before a child weans, and I’m finding conflicting information, as tends to happen online. I’ve emailed my artist of choice (herself a mother of two) to see what she thinks. So we’ll see…

PS: Speaking of moms getting tattoos to honor their kids, check out RubyRedRuca’s new beauty.