Flying Time

I'm late posting today because I forgot to check the calendar. These days if I don't check my calendar when I get up in the morning, I'm likely not to be where I should be or to forget something I need to do. That happens in the summer.

During the summer, I'm likely to be so deep into writing that I forget what day of the week it is. Today, I knew it was Friday but what I was thinking about is that I have only another month left before school begins. I was wishing I had more time because I'd had a brilliant idea – about a book that I haven't started yet, about third in the queue.

But now I have the plot. An idea that came to me when I woke up early and started thinking about a situation I needed to deal with because it was distracting me. I make a telephone call, got someone else to take care of it, and then realized thinking about the worst case scenario had given me the method of death and a bunch of suspects for that book I don't have time to start now.

What I need to do today is get into my office at school and take care of some emails I need to return. I would like to be more efficient – deal with each email as it comes in. But I've been trying to do similar tasks all at the same time. The only problem with that is that I can't forget what I haven't done, and more items get added to the list. And something unexpected pops up. And the game plan gets shot to whatever.

I admit it. I am in a continuing state of frustration because I am never as efficient as I'd like to be. I have so many ideas and so little time to get it all done. It shouldn't be a choice between speed and quality. On the other hand, if I didn't have one eye on the clock and the other on the calendar, I would spend the next five years doing research and tinkering. I have two books – one nonfiction, the other my historical thriller – that I just need to get down on paper. Finish the first drafts. Then revise. And then I can start the next book in the queue.

Anyone have any tips on making peace with time?

Characters and Seasons

Donis's blog yesterday about summer reading reminded me of what I've always liked about summer. As a child (student) and as an adult (teacher), I have three months of "summer vacation." Of course, now that I'm a grown-up, I do need to use my summer to get some work done. But summer is the time when I can stay up late reading a book or go to a matinee in the middle of the day (Wonder Woman is at the top of my list).

What has changed is that I don't go outside as much as I did when I was a child. Of course, I've never been a fan of summer heat and bug bites. But growing up in the country in Virginia with a big back yard and paths through woods and dogs, I would never have thought of wasting a summer day inside. Nowadays, living in a house in the city, I've been contemplating setting up my empty (until winter) garage as an "outdoor" space. The problem with the grass in my small yard is that it might have ticks. And, besides, even with sunscreen, I could get too much sun. Grilling -- I remember those wonder family barbecues in the front yard under the big old tree. But I could blow myself up trying to start a grill and what about the health risks of hot dogs?

My seasonal preferences have carried over to my characters. My Southern-born protagonist, Lizzie Stuart, loves the South but hates heat and storms. Hannah McCabe, my police detective, lives in Albany, New York, and is dealing with the sizzling summers produced by climate change. I've set some books during the summer, but haven't had to think like a "summer person".

That brings me to my challenge with one of my major characters in my 1939 historical thriller. He lives in Georgia, and summer is his season. The heat and the sun. The smell of his own sweat. He stands out in a field watching the black clouds roll in. Then he sits on his porch with a drink watching the storm erupt.

He loves the land and the smell of the soil. If I don't capture this part of who this character is, then his motivation for the things he does will fall flat. But I need to step into his work boots.

So in answer to Donis's question about summer reading, I'm heading South with books (fiction and non-fiction) written during the 1930s. Books about summer, with heat and sweat and storms. And I'm hoping that the weather here in Albany will not echo what I'm reading.

Does your character have a favorite season? A time of year that he or she loves, but you don't?

And Then It Clicked

Summer brings out my inner Adrian Monk – not the obsessive compulsive Monk. The Monk who worries about "the jungle out there". I worry about ticks when I walk across my lawn. I would never take off my shoes and walk in the grass – who knows what kind of bacteria I might pick up. I've been doing research on the public health movement and the effort to eradicate diseases. So, of course, I'm worrying more this year about those potentially malaria-carrying mosquitoes that torture me even when I wearing bug spray. I worry about the snake that might be stretched out on the path if I go for a hike in the woods. I did once encounter a large black snake when I was a teenager in Virginia walking along a country road. And then there are the things lurking in the ocean that I love. Blame that one on Jaws (this year celebrating its 40th anniversary and being screened two days in June in theaters).

The photo below is of Assateague Island, the island in Virginia where the wild horses live. I've been there twice. Once in autumn (when this photo of the beach facing onto the Atlantic was taken). But the first time I went to the Eastern Shore of Virginia, it was summer. I had a wonderful time. But summer is not my happy season.

Did I mention the early morning light? But this morning when I woke up at dawn, I had a possibly life-changing thought. It could have been prompted by those Little Debbie commercials that I've been seeing on television for the past few weeks. The one where the child version of the adult appears and reminds the adult how much he or she loved Little Debbie snacks when he or she was a child. That could be what reminded me of my forgotten child.

I don't remember liking summer even when I was a child. The only good part about summer was three months of no school when I could read and dream and do what I wanted. But I do remember liking ice cream cones and corn on the cob and hamburgers on the grill (well, I have always liked food, whatever the season). And I remember going to movie matinees. I remember going to my bookcase and finding books that I loved and reading them again during long summer days. I remember laying on a blanket on the grass (after checking for ant hills) and looking up at cloud shapes. So this summer – which isn't officially here yet – I am going to make my list. That list will include planting tomatoes and cucumbers (my father who "truck farmed" in summer in addition to his day job, used to let me have my own garden patch). I am going on nature walks. In fact, I'm going to get back into my walking program that fell by the wayside when I moved from the suburbs to the city. (There is some irony there because I was sure I would walk more when I had ready access to sidewalks). And, I am going to begin the mornings with breakfast on my little enclosed sun porch.

This morning, however, I began the day with a moan when I realized how early it was. I tried to fall asleep again. Instead, I fell into that twilight stage between sleep and wakefulness. And that was when I solved several problems. First, I had a half-dream about taking my laptop computer – that is now over five years old and that no longer has sufficient space to do regular backups -- to my computer guy. My laptop crashed last night and after trying to fix its own problem finally informed me that some systems could not be recovered. I had to unplug it to turn it off. So, this time -- I realized in my half-dream about my conversation with my computer guy – I must admit defeat. I must hand him my old computer and tell him I'm ready to buy a new one.

Problem number one solved – and then something else clicked into place. I was awake again and thinking how much I hated never being able to get a good night's sleep when the weather begins to warm up. And then I must have drifted off because suddenly I was seeing a man who was standing at the edge of a field. He had dirt cupped in his hands and he seemed to be taking great pleasure in the smell and the feel of the soil. I woke up and realized the man in my dream – who had looked like Kevin Spacey – was the villain in my 1939 historical thriller.

If you read my last post, you may remember that I was struggling to connect with my villain and make him a three-dimensional character. Somewhere in my dream, he came to life. My villain owns a large farm – a plantation – in 1939 Georgia. He is a successful businessman, but he has a strong sense of heritage. He would feel a love of his land. He would love the summer and the heat. He would go for walks in the woods with his hound dogs. To get into in his skin, I need to try to "do summer" – and maybe that's what I had realized before I fell asleep again and dreamed about him. Or maybe deciding to embrace (well, at least, try to occasionally enjoy) summer allowed me to find the link that was missing between my character and me.

Cullen (that's his name) would stand outside during a thunderstorm enjoying the lightning display and the rain soaking him to the skin. Ain't going that far! But I'm beginning to understand the pleasure that he takes in nature and his senses.

And that leaves me with my sweet, gentle protagonist. My hero, who is still as much of a mystery to me as my villain (sorry, make that my anti-hero, or hero to himself) was. But if I've find the core of one of them, I'm sure the other will come. I just hope my hero isn't a winter guy. I can't wait until January.

Okay… I was typing that when I realized maybe he is. He grew up in the South, too, but maybe he wasn't a boy who took to nature. Picked cotton and hated getting sweaty and sticky. But never liked jumping into the creek, looked first. Used to be teased about being a "sissy" by his friends. But a good-natured boy who took the teasing in stride. Read books and went to small Southern college. Now, a Pullman porter, who takes pride in his appearance in his uniform. Saving his money to go to law school, imagines himself in a courtroom. Never thought of himself as particularly strong or adventurous…

This could work. Maybe I should try writing the whole book when I'm sleep deprived and have stumbled to the computer. Or maybe I write better on my desk top than the laptop. Shucks! Does I need to replace my old desk top, too. It still works (I'm writing on it now) but it may not be up to a book.

All right, have breakfast out on my sun porch and think about this. And remember summer dreams can be good for my writing process…