The "Hard Part" of Doing

This week, for me, is hectic, tightly scheduled, and emotionally intense.

I have classes and student conferences today and Friday--and tonight I go to my hometown so I can sit with Mom, especially, tomorrow during my brother Franc's heart bypass operation. Then assuming all goes well--which is what's supposed to happen and going to happen--I'll come back Thursday night, and teach on Friday.

Yesterday and the day before weren't so hard, since all I was doing was preparing for classes and making phone calls and wrapping Mom's present for her 85th birthday, which is today, etc. Those things are not hard, though I'd thought in advance they would be.

This morning I'm dealing with students, which isn't hard at all. Now I'm thinking it's class--yes, that's what will be hard.

I also know that when I get there, class won't be hard at all.

What I'm starting to realize is that, for the most part, assuming I'm not trying to solve some famous impenetrable math problem: None of the pieces of doing what needs to be done are hard.

If Franc's surgery doesn't go perfectly, that will be seriously hard. But that's not doing--not for me at least.

So I'm starting to think that, for the most part, doing isn't so hard. Asking myself hundreds of times a day: will I get everything done?--that's hard, but not necessary. If anything, it slows me down.

With a good plan, it ought to be possible to stop asking that useless question and dreading "the hard part."

Then the hard part would be to stop obsessing over things I can't do anything about.

The Stress of Waiting

In one 24 hour period last week, my mother had a bad fall and my brother Franc learned that he has to have surgery soon for 5 heart bypasses. I'm not happy about any of this.

I responded by immediately getting a cold.

What this means is my immune system is a bit cowed by the stress of these events. I don't like that either. At times like this, I want all my systems to step up to the plate and do better than usual.

There's something unheroic about getting a sore throat in the face of trouble.

Both Mom and Franc are going to be okay. That's the main thing. But there's not much that I, even at peak health, can do to make sure of that.

I prefer problems that can be solved by some thought and energetic effort. More and more as I get older I see people facing problems that can't be fixed that way. These require their own brand of courage, a kind I haven't really begun to work on. (Except for weathering the times of waiting to hear the fate of a book. I guess those sorta count.)

The Board of Inspiration

Two days a week I sit in an office at Duke borrowed from Dr. Melissa Malouf, a novelist and an English and creative writing professor. This is my campus home base during my semester of scholar-in-residence.

Among the many novelties of this sojourn is working in someone else's office and staring at her bulletin board of author/artist/et al portraits.

This inspiring collection is mainly postcards sent to Professor Malouf from former students.

I felt immediately at home here, in part because I've spent years with identical Henry James and John Lennon photos propped before me on my own turf. (Don't know how I missed the shirtless Mark Twain.)

It's inspiring to see the ancestors arrayed next to one's writing desk. And we can claim whoever we want for our artistic lineage. I certainly had no idea someone else was claiming James and Lennon. I guess that makes Prof. Malouf and me cousins.

I've several times felt the real power of putting a visual image in front of me. I had on my desk for a while a watercolor of freesia and irises. Then one day I realized that I was seeing it double.

What had happened: I'd unknowingly brought into the office the two kinds of flowers that were in that picture and put them in a similar vase. I'd physically reproduced the picture without being aware of it. So maybe this month I'll find I'm looking past the bulletin board at the real Virginia Woolf or Oscar Wilde.

One way or another I expect to feel the power of this collection of worthies. Start your own Board of Inspiration and see how it works.

A Bring Home the Troops Rally

I know it's not the 1960s, but a huge percentage of this country claims to be against the escalation/continuation of the war in Iraq.

This photo shows a bring-home-the-troops rally in Chapel Hill a few days ago.

The turnout was kinda sparse. About 40 people, a number which I found dismaying. Especially for famously peace-loving Chapel Hill!

As for the war, if we're agin' it, we need to be actively doing something to stop it. At least making our voices be heard.

The High Cost of Self-Doubt

I've just had the privilege of reading excerpts of the daily journals/"free writings" of over a dozen writers.

I was staggered by two things, the talent showing itself in the quality of the writing and the amount of self-doubt.

The quantity of energy devoted to self-doubt is huge. It's wasted.

This is a subject I have an honorary doctorate in; I've near-endlessly second-guessed quite a number of the words and actions I've ever let out into the world.

Seeing how much fuel a lot of good writers are wasting with fear has hit me hard--the way going to a slaughterhouse can make a person a vegetarian.

I think I've (unknown to myself) classified a lot of that second-guessing as a virtue. For myself, I've peeled the Virtue label off. It's a natural impulse among humans, completely understandable. But doing that harsh internal cross-questioning is not where I want to spend a lot more of my time.

Shipping a Grant Proposal

My own acts of courage are so minor that they're not even recognizable as such. I think the same is true for a lot of us who aren't living in poverty or war zones or currently raising kids.

Still the small daily triumphs do matter.

Take for, example, the hell I went through yesterday sending off a grant proposal to the proper government agency, using no stamps at all and no paper, using nothing but my computer.

Notices of Error, Notices of Corrupted Files flew at me. Hours passed. Hours! Still, I fought on. Clicking and clicking and calling 800 numbers and clicking.

My office partner congratulated me late in the afternoon for holding back on shouted obscenities during the half an hour that our upstairs neighbor Sarah had a small child in her office.

I kept thinking of Winston Churchill's phlegm-y voice saying, "Never give up. Never give up." And then at a little after 7 p.m. It went through! Received! Verified! And I dragged on home from the battlefield, weary but triumphant.

Now, transcending computing difficulties may not be like carrying people out of burning buildings. However, it's major in my world. Or was yesterday. (I was in a meditation group some time ago, and the leader asked others what their major current stresses were. One woman said, "This group and my computer.") So I'm celebrating--soon as I figure out how I want to do that.

Four Women on Horseback

If you haven't seen this video, please have a look. Dozens of horses are trapped on a small patch of island, have been there for three days. Eighteen have already drowned. Efforts of soldiers and firefighters to save them have failed, then four women climbed into their saddles and rode to the rescue.... Be sure to watch through to the end. The impact grows.

The Lowly--and Lofty--Scarab

Did you ever wear a scarab bracelet? They were a must-have item when I was an eighth-grader. I later heard that they had some sacred symbolism, but never investigated further.

This afternoon, doing some research on my E. Chant biography, I turned up a detail about a close friend of Chant's. Her name was Margarethe Heisser and the two of them shared a studio that was an arts center in Minneapolis around the turn of the previous century. Heisser, I learned from an online profile, always wore scarabs.

A scarab is a dung beetle (or representation thereof), revered in ancient Egypt, all the way back to prehistorical Egypt, as a symbol of the sun god, and of creation and transformation.

Here's the part that I seized upon: the Egyptian word for this insect was hprr, which meant: "rising from, come into being itself."

That concept is exciting to me--of continuing to come into being, in this life. Growing into the largest possibilities of oneself.

And a dung-beetle that becomes the sacred emblem of the sun god is a pretty good example of a positive transformation.

My Cheeky Relatives

Monday morning I opened my local paper, turned to the page where my sister-in-law Ruth Sheehan's column runs and saw the headline above her picture: HARRY IS THE BABY'S DADDY.

Well, the Harry she refers to is my brother, her husband; and their youngest child, to my knowledge, is age four. I went to reading really quickly.

Harry had confessed, Ruth wrote, to being the real father of Anna Nicole Smith's baby.

"He blubbered. I forgave.

He'll be flying to the Bahamas today to collect the bank account numbers, the keys to her mansion there and, oh yeah, his daughter, whom I have graciously agreed to raise as one of my own -- in exchange for a nominal $50,000 a month."

The point was the media overcoverage of this story, and the possible motivation one might have for wanting to claim the baby.

However, what this reader delightedly noticed was the pure brass of the story, which I found hilariously funny. Though, reading between the lines, I came to understand that I don't after all have a new niece.

Illustrious Writer Guests

Yesterday, I enjoyed another one of the perks of teaching at Duke this semester. Novelists Bharati Mukherjee and Clark Blaise came to talk to one of my classes meeting jointly with another class.

This was a special pleasure because a book they wrote together (they're married as well) is a long-time favorite of mine: Days and Nights in Calcutta. I read it at the suggestion of the editor of one of my books, just before I went to Varanasi to do my research for Sister India.

I'll never forget it. The book is divided in half, each of them giving an account of spending a season together in her hometown, formerly called Calcutta. It's astonishing how different two exceptionally well-written pieces on the same experience can be, in both style and content.

Her tone was full of concern and upset, awareness of pain. Her style, as I told the students in introducing them, was vivid and tightly woven, a dense dramatic fabric that then meandered like a river.

Clark's stance was amazement at the beauty and mystery he saw there, his tone had a spacious, light-filled feel. The image that came to mind: a glass pavilion.

The two of them talked with the students for almost two hours--he kept going while she left to prepare for her formal presentation in the Rare Book Room.

Wow, what a day! And I sort-a had a day off from spouting my own views. It was refreshing and inspiring. I heard some good reviews from my students too, two of whom asked if I could get them copies of her formal lecture. (Now that kind of student is a teacher's dream.)

Writers Workshop in the South of France

I had a request to tell you about write-in-France opportunity, which looks pretty delicious to me. VCCA-- The Virginia Center for the Creative Arts--has a recently acquired studio in the medieval village of Auvillars in Gascony. I've been to the Virginia campus, for a workshop led by feminist writer Naomi Wolf, and discovered that VCCA tends to do things well.

So have a look at this site if you're interested in your petit dejeuner in the courtyard of Moulin a Nef before starting the morning's classes.

Thoughts on Aging with Flair?

Sunday my beloved husband Bob turned 65. He can pass for 50, but still.... It's one of those significant numbers. Also, this weekend the obits in my paper were full of lads and lasses in their 50s and 60s. One I knew a bit, have been acquainted with for thirty years at least--I never thought he was the type to die. He was too much an extrovert to get that quiet. The same with Molly Ivins, subject of yesterday's post. And as for me, I buy ever more moisturizer. Do you suppose dying can be done with individuality and pizazz? As I write that, I think of Art Buchwald, dying a week ago on his own terms and, as a good newsman, being first with the story: announcing on a pre-recorded message that he'd just died. That's undeniably flair.

Molly Ivins: Who Did Her Best to "Let Freedom Ring"

Quoted from The Nation about the wonderfully gutsy political columnist Molly Ivins, who died last week:

Speaking truth to power is the best job in any democracy, she explained. It took her to towns across this great yet battered land to say: "So keep fightin' for freedom and justice, beloveds, but don't you forget to have fun doin' it. Lord, let your laughter ring forth. Be outrageous, ridicule the fraidy-cats, rejoice in all the oddities that freedom can produce. And when you get through kickin' ass and celebratin'the sheer joy of a good fight, be sure to tell those who come after how much fun it was."

TOADS in Writing Classes

I sprung a little surprise in my classes this week--plopped a live European Green Toad on the seminar table. He's a sweet little creature that I've become a bit attached to.

Here's the reason: when I teach characterization in first person I sum up the methods as: the character's Thoughts, the character's choices of what to notice or Observe, Action, Dialogue, and Sensations.

These add up to the acronym: TOADS. Very handy, I think.

The weather has been cold here, though, and I've only seen a few tiny frogs on one warmer day recently and they moved far too fast for me to catch. So I bought Toadsie at Pet Smart. And he, like me, is now guest faculty.

After I'd put him on the table--followed by a wide range of reactions from class members--I asked the students to write about a character surprised by a toad and show the response through the character's bodily sensations, actions, etc.

The idea is to help people to monitor what bodies actually do in response to emotion. So that they have a vocabulary for such moments in their writing and don't have to resort to cliches, like "my heart was in my throat."

I was pleased with the way the classes went. In the group today, several students read their reactions, which were all strikingly different in both language and content, which makes for distinct characters. Plus, the class was kinda fun. At least nobody was phobic or allergic.

More Notes on My Life at Duke

Note One: My four-month teaching appointment here has a wonderful bonus. My office building is a mere 82 steps from the front door of the main library. In this building alone (pictured at dusk when I'm heading home) there are 3.4 million books. It feels at least as big as cyberspace. And the medical school library is only ten minutes walk. All of which is pretty handy, since I'm doing research on my biography.

The locked stacks on the history of medicine have given me quite an insight into what my subject's life must have been like during her three years in a mental hospital starting in 1917. I feel very wealthy having all this material so close at hand.

Note Two: I love public speaking, and almost always feel relaxed doing it. Uncommonly relaxed, in fact. I feel the only obligation I have, in most cases, is to be mildly entertaining.

With teaching, however, I've always felt that it's my duty to get across what I'm supposed to be teaching; the students are supposed to know how to write a pretty passable short story by the end of April.

The weight of this responsibility often makes me try too hard. I'm overly careful about how I say things in class. My speech, when I'm presenting an idea, gets all halting and tentative, which I hate. Must do something about this.

Note 3: I haven't heard any mention on campus of the infamous sexual assault accusations against three lacrosse players or of the prosecutor who is now under investigation. The subject is in the newspaper, of course. But I've heard no buzz at all in the buses, halls, or on the quads. It's a relief to me. I graduated from this school; I love it; I don't want it reduced to this court case, whoever is right or wrong in the matter.

And should you be longing for my opinion, based on nothing but the newspapers and local off-campus gossip-- I think these guys are innocent of sexual assault. However, a party that features low-income women of color stripping is a shameful misuse of privilege.

Anything is Possible: The Tale of the Growling Beauty

Doonesbury creator Garry Trudeau told The Week magazine HOW HE GOT HIS CONFIDENCE.

He was 16 and looked 12, was walking down a street in Manhattan. A phenomenally gorgeous twenty-something woman was approaching in the sidewalk traffic. Her beauty was creating quite a stir on the street. "'Guys were gawking, cars were slowing.'" He was too shy to look at her as she came closer. "'My discomfort must have been obvious because as she passes me, she leans over, her breath is warm, and she softly...growls in my ear.'" From then on, he considered anything to be possible.

On a related subject: you know that More Magazine senior model contest I so brashly entered? I learned that last year there were over 19,000 entries. This is going to be my excuse for not being even a semi-finalist. Although-- anything is possible.

First Week of Teaching at Duke

Off to a good start, I think. The intro class (in fiction writing) was slow to start talking, but I feel the potential. And the next level of the course, which met for the first time yesterday--that class is already on fire.

Also I met yesterday for the first time with both of my independent study students and got off to a good start, I felt. Though there was a meeting time confusion with one, which I regretted. He was waiting for me for quite a while.

I'm a bit staggered this morning. Yesterday, in retrospect, was intense, though it felt pretty relaxed at the time. The students are impressive.

It does feel like a triumph and a great pleasure to be back on the campus I loved so much as a student myself. It's A TRIUMPH OF THE B-MINUS STUDENT to come back with a title like "scholar in residence." In my defense, though, I did do well in my major. And got A's in writing classes.

I'm finding that I'm much more diligent as a teacher than I ever was as a student.

Official Start of My Spring Academic Career

Today was the first day of classes at Duke, and the official start of my semester as scholar-in-residence in the English Department there.

My first class isn't until Friday: intro to writing fiction, 2.5 hours meeting once a week.

However, I have already taken possession of my 2 classrooms, half an office, and a location in Duke's piece of cyberspace, on which I have just posted a syllabus. I have also received the much-needed advice of the department's computer expert. I hope I teach my students as kindly and effectively as my computer advisor has been teaching me.

What I'm most accustomed to is working with writers privately, in groups and one-to-one. I now feel as if I'm setting sail on something gigantic.

So you feel free to SEND HAPPY-SEMESTER VIBES to me and the 30 undergraduates who are traveling with me these next four months.

Senior Model?

This may be THE CHEEKIEST MOVE of my recent years: I'm entering the More/Wilhelmina 40+ Model Search: open to women in the 40-60 age range who feel they have a few trips down the catwalk in them.

I'm 58 years old tomorrow, and I never took the first walk down any runway.

When I've told people I'm doing this, I've sensed:
*a whiff of disapproval (this isn't going to feed the hungry, you know)
*fear for my feelings being hurt when I don't even make it to the semi-finals
*glee and you-go-girl enthusiasm.

Or maybe these are just my own reactions, the first two of which I'm hiding from myself. All I feel is THE GLEE. I love the idea of being whisked to New York to be surrounded with pampering professionals devoted to my getting the most out of my eyeshadow. Oh, baby!

Most particularly, I love the idea of strutting around at the lofty age of 58.

Plus, I'm used to rejections: I'm a writer. I can't imagine even blinking at not making the cut. My books are much better than my looks, anyway, and they've all faced some form of disapproval along the way. I'm rarely wounded for more than a day.

So, I proceed. And I'm taking delicious pleasure in filling out the little form and sending the picture, the very one I use on this website. Doing this brash thing is for me a highly personal vote in favor of vivid life and delightful possibilities--and fun--at every age. Who wouldn't be in favor of that?

More, by the way, is a cool boomer-babe magazine, and Wilhelmina is a modeling agency. It's not too late to enter, if you're the right age.

Getting Started with Fiction

This morning I fiddled with fiction again for the first time in months. I'd been doing research on the Chant biography and working with clients and, in recent days, preparing to start teaching fiction writing at Duke for this semester that starts next week.

On the strength of the wonderful short stories I've been reading to prepare for the two courses, and the fear-blasting effects of Unlock Your Creative Genius which I reviewed in my previous post, and excitement about the idea that cropped up during the week of vacation I took between Christmas and New Year's--I jumped almost-first-thing today into THE MOST DAUNTING PIECE OF WRITING I COULD CONTEMPLATE. I didn't even bother to take my coat off. Just sat (checked e-mail) and started work.

It came out pretty well. I was pleased with what I did in this crack at it.

I didn't feel I was driving with the brake on, as I very often initially do. I had no conscious fear or hesitation. I did, however, eat FISTFULS OF ANIMAL CRACKERS while I worked. If that's what it takes--fine! I don't mind a crutch that works. I count it a very good morning.

And now back to work on the class syllabus.... I hope it will inspire the students as well as it did me.