And summer came rushing in
Hello all!
Apologies for the long silence--I don't quite know what happened to the last month or so--I've been on the road for most of it, and maybe a little spring-addled as well. Minneapolis was a profusion of tulips and lilacs, bursting with people who emerge pale and stir-crazy from their houses into the cool spring rains and sunshine to walk around the lakes and take in the rippling waters that just a little bit ago were a thick crust of ice. Denver was chilly but sunny, and the streets of downtown were crowded with people who looked like they had somewhere very important to be. Chicago was warm and green and I sat on the balcony of my exceedingly weird hotel looking out over the blooming trees. Columbus was rain and more rain, so the tulips were surreally bright in the gray haze. Portland, of course, poured, except for one glorious day, when the magnolia trees were heavy with blooms and I happened to be at a wedding lit up by 9,000 daffodils and my cousin, the glowing bride. The South Dakota fields were rich black and just starting to sprout tiny growing things.
But by last week, I was travel-weary and tired of airports and staying in a tiny town in a little motel on Highway 65, leaning my head on the window and watching the May rain and wondering if it would ever be summer after all, and if I would ever get home.
In fact, I did, and here I sit with snoozing dogs, and I actually unpacked the suitcases out of which I've been living for months, and now I have itchy feet, a phenomenon that strikes me whenever I've been traveling a long time. I get so used to being away that I start thinking of more places to go, and when summertime rushes in for real, as it did this week, I start plotting all the road trips I want to take and all the road trips I've ever taken in summer, criss-crossing the country and getting a sunburn on my left (driver's side) arm. So today I want to go to the desert, the coast of Maine, British Columbia, the north woods, and Savannah, Georgia. But I think in fact I will stay here in my pajamas and write a book instead.
The books go well. Sane comes out next month--spread the word, my friends--and I'm now well into the book on spirituality, which, frankly, is harder than it looked at first glance. It's not as if the subject is a little amorphous or anything, right? But I'm chipping away at it, and it's starting to look, act, and quack like a book, so I figure that's a good sign. I've been doing a good bit of research for the second half of the novel, which covers 1961-1971, and I keep being floored by how much there is to know and how strange a time it actually was. Capturing what I can of it in the novel is a challenge, and an exciting one, and, like most exciting challenges, sends me into fits of worry that I don't know what I'm doing and will never uncover this book after all. On my better days, I know I will. Writing a novel is a hell of a thing.
Chris Pureka--as you know, I'm totally fixated on her--has an excellent new album out. Give it a listen.
Someone asked on the discussion board what it was like to write Wasted. In a word, it was awful. For one thing, I had never written a book before, so I had no idea what I was doing. For another, it was very very very hard to put all that information about my deep dark stuff out there in public. It was not therapeutic. It was not cathartic. It was awful. But I'm glad I did it. Like any author, there are things I would change about all the books I've written, which sadly is not an option once they're out. But I think Wasted has been useful to people, and I'm very, very glad of that.
Lots of mail lately on Madness. Here's the thing: I am absolutely, constantly blown away by the strength of people to get through difficult, painful, confusing times in their lives, and to withstand illnesses and struggles that seem almost impossible to overcome. And you people who write to me tell me every day that you are overcoming these struggles, and are doing it with your sense of humor and a deep humanity intact. And you inspire me more than I can say.
And now it's time to go puddle about the Walker Art Center--come to Mpls and see it sometime--to get my brain stirred up and churning again. My very warmest wishes for a happy end-of-spring to all of you, and, as ever, you're on my mind.
Be well,
marya
Apologies for the long silence--I don't quite know what happened to the last month or so--I've been on the road for most of it, and maybe a little spring-addled as well. Minneapolis was a profusion of tulips and lilacs, bursting with people who emerge pale and stir-crazy from their houses into the cool spring rains and sunshine to walk around the lakes and take in the rippling waters that just a little bit ago were a thick crust of ice. Denver was chilly but sunny, and the streets of downtown were crowded with people who looked like they had somewhere very important to be. Chicago was warm and green and I sat on the balcony of my exceedingly weird hotel looking out over the blooming trees. Columbus was rain and more rain, so the tulips were surreally bright in the gray haze. Portland, of course, poured, except for one glorious day, when the magnolia trees were heavy with blooms and I happened to be at a wedding lit up by 9,000 daffodils and my cousin, the glowing bride. The South Dakota fields were rich black and just starting to sprout tiny growing things.
But by last week, I was travel-weary and tired of airports and staying in a tiny town in a little motel on Highway 65, leaning my head on the window and watching the May rain and wondering if it would ever be summer after all, and if I would ever get home.
In fact, I did, and here I sit with snoozing dogs, and I actually unpacked the suitcases out of which I've been living for months, and now I have itchy feet, a phenomenon that strikes me whenever I've been traveling a long time. I get so used to being away that I start thinking of more places to go, and when summertime rushes in for real, as it did this week, I start plotting all the road trips I want to take and all the road trips I've ever taken in summer, criss-crossing the country and getting a sunburn on my left (driver's side) arm. So today I want to go to the desert, the coast of Maine, British Columbia, the north woods, and Savannah, Georgia. But I think in fact I will stay here in my pajamas and write a book instead.
The books go well. Sane comes out next month--spread the word, my friends--and I'm now well into the book on spirituality, which, frankly, is harder than it looked at first glance. It's not as if the subject is a little amorphous or anything, right? But I'm chipping away at it, and it's starting to look, act, and quack like a book, so I figure that's a good sign. I've been doing a good bit of research for the second half of the novel, which covers 1961-1971, and I keep being floored by how much there is to know and how strange a time it actually was. Capturing what I can of it in the novel is a challenge, and an exciting one, and, like most exciting challenges, sends me into fits of worry that I don't know what I'm doing and will never uncover this book after all. On my better days, I know I will. Writing a novel is a hell of a thing.
Chris Pureka--as you know, I'm totally fixated on her--has an excellent new album out. Give it a listen.
Someone asked on the discussion board what it was like to write Wasted. In a word, it was awful. For one thing, I had never written a book before, so I had no idea what I was doing. For another, it was very very very hard to put all that information about my deep dark stuff out there in public. It was not therapeutic. It was not cathartic. It was awful. But I'm glad I did it. Like any author, there are things I would change about all the books I've written, which sadly is not an option once they're out. But I think Wasted has been useful to people, and I'm very, very glad of that.
Lots of mail lately on Madness. Here's the thing: I am absolutely, constantly blown away by the strength of people to get through difficult, painful, confusing times in their lives, and to withstand illnesses and struggles that seem almost impossible to overcome. And you people who write to me tell me every day that you are overcoming these struggles, and are doing it with your sense of humor and a deep humanity intact. And you inspire me more than I can say.
And now it's time to go puddle about the Walker Art Center--come to Mpls and see it sometime--to get my brain stirred up and churning again. My very warmest wishes for a happy end-of-spring to all of you, and, as ever, you're on my mind.
Be well,
marya
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