May 12, 2014

I woke up today with a familiar feeling of dread. My last and most difficult deadline of the spring looms in three days. I’ll have to hand over a significant chunk of work on my new novel to my mentor at a master’s program in creative writing. I’ll be writing, fretting, revising, worrying, staring into space and writing some more.

It’s not that the monthly deadlines in my program at the University of Tampa are impossibly onerous or that my wonderful mentor is a strict taskmaster. Writing is hard and lonely, and deadlines never wait for inspiration. Sometimes you just have to inch forward with clunky sentences, bad paragraphs and indigestible pages. Then you can make them better.

Deadlines shouldn’t be a problem for me after thirty-plus years in the newspaper business. Daily deadlines and weekly deadlines were a way of life and I can’t remember missing one, or at least an important one. But in my stress-filled dreams, I’m always busting deadlines and one of my toughest editors is shaking a finger and publicly shaming me.

This deadline is probably harder because it’s the last of the semester. I’ll get a short break afterwards and treat myself to a movie, or a book that’s not required reading. I’ll meet the deadline somehow and when it’s over, I’ll feel strung out and breathless, like I’ve run a long, hard race.

May 5, 2015

I got up Sunday thinking that I’d work on my novel before our niece’s late afternoon wedding. But we were in a nice hotel in downtown Orlando and the day seemed ripe for exploring.

We walked a few blocks to Lake Eola on a glorious sunny day, the kind you treasure before the heat descends. A soft breeze blew over the column of young men walking in step for charity. My sister-in-law’s jeweled sandals clack-clacked over the path as we circled the lake.

Dogs and their humans massed in one patch of grass, enjoying a tail-wagging gabfest. A white swan guarded her nest of five large eggs, her sharp eyes daring anyone to step closer. A black cormorant flapped its wings, drying and posing ironically on a silver sculpture of birds. A claque of turtles gathered on a rock at water’s edge, piling on top of each other in a reptilian conclave. Humans, all sizes, shapes and ages, lingered in a Sunday kind of slowness, seeming as happy as we were.

Bliss. After a long, cold winter, the symphony of nature was tuning up for its best performance of the season – the critically acclaimed month of May. To waste a day like Sunday inside, hunched over a computer, would be wasting life itself. For what is life without taking time to savor its beautiful moments?

April 28, 2014

I read with interest a column in the Huffington Post about a self-confessed book club dropout. She’d helped form or joined at least three book clubs, but either they collapsed, or she lost interest quickly. The writer concluded that she cherished her reading time and didn’t want the stress of a deadline or reading things that she didn’t select.

I understood her viewpoint, but I’ve always found my book clubs helpful and nourishing. That’s right, book clubs. I’ve been in two for at least ten years, so long that I’ve forgotten exactly when they started. I moved to London for three years in 2009, joined two clubs while I was there, and came back in early 2013 to the two in Charlotte that I’d left. My book club friends had thoughtfully held my spot open.

My two clubs are very different. One, called the Happy Bookers, is a group of women mostly ten to fifteen years older than I am. They dress up nicely for meetings, drink really good wine, and when it’s their turn to host (usually eight to ten members show up at each meeting), serve delicious home-cooked dinners on good china. Books are decided on months in advance

The other club, which doesn’t have a name, is made up of women closer to my age, with membership from two different neighborhoods I’ve lived in over the years. The members usually meet at a restaurant for lunch, spend time catching up at meetings and are more casual in dress and in spirit. They usually choose a book for the next month at the end of the current month’s meeting.

I haven’t always loved the books I’ve read for either club, but usually I learn something during the discussion – about what readers like and don’t like. That’s been really helpful to a novice writer.

And when my own book, Saving Texas, was released last year, my clubs made me feel like I’d produced the next Pulitzer Prize winner. They bought it enthusiastically, showed up at my events, read it closely, and promoted it to others. When I talked about my book at meetings, they listened intently and asked great questions. I couldn’t have asked for more warmth, support and generosity. It’s no wonder that I treasure both of my clubs and the lasting relationships that I’ve enjoyed.

April 21, 2014

One of the most startling and original novels I’ve read recently is Claire Messud’s The Woman Upstairs. Its protagonist, Nora Eldridge, a middle-aged, unmarried teacher, is deeply angry as she looks back on an epic betrayal by a friend. When I started researching the book online, I found a thread of controversy that fascinated me as a reader and a writer.

In an interview with Publishers Weekly last year, Messud reacted with incredulity when the reporter said, “I wouldn’t want to be friends with Nora…would you?”

“For Heaven’s sake, what kind of question is that?” the author said, listing many fictional protagonists who are highly unsavory, including the pedophile in Vladimir Nabokov’s critically praised Lolita. She added, “If you’re reading to find friends, you’re in trouble. We read to find life, in all its possibilities.”

The controversy still bubbles up online and it plays out all the time among readers. I’ve been at many book club meetings when a reader announces in a troubled tone that she didn’t like anyone in the book. I basically agree with Messud. If I read just to discover nice people like my friends, I’d find a steady diet of that fare pretty boring. One author called certain kinds of women’s novels “slumber party fiction.”

As usual, it depends on the book and how it’s written. Messud’s Nora is a deeply unsettling character because of her rage and the way she interacts with others. She sleeps with her friend’s husband and fantasizes about being the mother of her friend’s child. She’s definitely not a model of admirable behavior – nor is the friend she obsesses about. Likable characters? Hardly. But that doesn’t keep me from appreciating and enjoying an excellent book.

April 14, 2014

Nancy’s blog is on Easter break. It will return April 21.