tennis, writing, and music

This time of year is always synonymous with Wimbledon. For several years, Roger Federer has been almost a third wheel, again this year taking the title. It came after a long fifth set, an hour and half battling with Andy Roddick, taking that last one 16-14, basically two sets' worth of rallies. If you aren't familiar with how tennis is scored, it would take ages to explain, but basically, the last set doesn't got to a tie break. The first person with a two-game lead takes the set, and the title.

Today it was Roger, who not only won his 6th Wimbledon, but broke Pete Sampras' record of 14 grand slam titles. Roger now has 15, and is deserving of the title of king of tennis. Serena Williams beat her sister Venus yesterday, those siblings sharing the title of queen between them.

So, now it's July, Wimbledon an event I'll see again in fifty weeks. Now summer is fully upon us, and five days into this new month, the work is coming along well. Surprises abound not only for the characters, but me too, what I love about writing. Plotting happens, sometimes loosely, sometimes within a tight outline, but there is always room for the unexpected. I LOVE it when that happens. Maybe it seems scattered or random, but that's life, and writing is a reflection of that. Today Alvin announced his and Jenny's engagement, which took the Smith family aback, me too.

So... That will be an interesting piece to incorporate. But necessary, for what's to come.

Bob's gone for a bit of time in the office, to clear out his email so tomorrow he can actually accomplish something. It's quiet, expect for Iggy Pop. He's The Passenger, while I listen to the current's work's play list. Maybe I'll post that today; a long list of seventies' tunes, ranging from Donna Summer and Blondie to Bruce Springsteen, The Rolling Stones, Creedence Clearwater Revival and Joni Mitchell. Jenny is the Joni fan, Sam appreciating Bruce and The Stones, Tommie's favoring the Fogarty brothers. A clear distinction between pop, rock and disco, as Jenny and Sam are more the same age, Tommie older.

No matter the time of year or the manuscript, there are ALWAYS the tunes. I love writing and tennis both, but underlying those habits is music. Nothing I can do about it, probably how Andy Roddick felt today. He played his HEART out, but ultimately, it's was Roger Federer's day...

by the light of the monitor

I woke this morning to the lovely sounds of someone snoring. No, I hadn't stirred myself. Bob's home, and even at 4 AM, that slight drone was music to my ears.

He's home, my husband, best friend, companion for twenty-two years. Our first Fourth of July was in 1987, having been together a week. Since then, I've never been alone.

Sometimes up earlier than everyone else, a small bit of light coming through the back door, the eastern hill lit by a small portion of light. Yes, it is 5.21 AM. Once it's past 4, as if some magic number, I have a hard time going back to sleep.

Yet, it's okay. My hubby is back, and all is well.

But it's too early to write; that's coming along. You can keep tabs on that here. As for Bob, he was supposed to get in yesterday at a little after noon, but instead switched flights, arriving after 10 AM. I had the writing done, but not the clean-up, and didn't even get to the read aloud until late last night. Late for me, as I woke yesterday at 4 AM too. Knowing he was going to be home soon? Not sure, but by 8.30 PM last night, I was mumbling to myself, and then went to bed.

Now it's a new day. Soon I'll go into the kitchen, start the tea, have some cereal, breathe in the normality that is one's spouse returned from a prolonged absence. Normality too in the writing; I'd missed it, and this story, while I know the ins and outs, isn't plotted chapter by chapter. After getting the first day written, now it's a project I look forward to with great joy.

Something about creating.... For me, it hits deeply, why I do this, sitting even with little light in the room. Straining to see the keyboard, light emerging over the hill, slowly, slowly changing the night to day.

A day that has my better half home, words waiting to be typed, who knows what else! It's a Friday, Wimbledon men's semi's, the Williams sisters on tap for an American woman's final tomorrow on the Fourth of July.

And on it goes...

getting ready...

...to start writing again. Tomorrow morning, after breakfast, a shower and a cup of tea have been tackled, the words will start.

Finished rereading Alvin's Farm just this morning; an early start, awake at 5, at the computer by 6. Getting notes from Bob, who, two hours ahead, was off for a walk with his mum. Now they're eating Indian, along with his sister. All the staff is Indian, but with Midwestern accents.

If you've ever traveled in that area, or seen the movie Fargo, well, there you go.

After a scorching weekend, temps in the mid-90's F, now it's settling back to normal, only 70 F now at 11 AM. No tennis for me this week, only updates via the BBC and Wimbledon's own site. The Williams sisters are both through to the semi's, men's quarters tomorrow.

But tomorrow there are words...

I've known July's activities since the end of March, when Alvin's Farm went from being one LONG book to a prequel and sequel. The story of Jenny Cope, a twenty-nine year old woman in 1975 on the run from her past, she finds herself in central Oregon, living platonically with a mentally challenged man, Alvin of the title. Their friendship is one unexpected, yet, Jenny finds herself at ease with him, unlike all her previous relationships with men, based solely on sex. With Alvin, it's far different, yet, as spring turns to summer, thunderstorms roll through, revealing the tip of Jenny's great fear, one that threatens to unravel her, as well as the burgeoning romantic liaison between her and Alvin Harris.

The Thorn and the Rose continues their story, and that of Sam Cassel, who, like Alvin, is in love with Jenny. Yet, Sam is aware of whom Jenny truly loves, and can only try to remain impassive, standing in the shadows. When great tragedy strikes, all involved are suddenly thrust into situations that call back to their pasts, wondering how in the world life goes on...

Angsty to the gills, as disabilities, sexual mores, yarn, colour and the seventies runs through this story, one that could have been a single, lengthy manuscript. But when I came to what is now the end of Alvin's Farm back in March, I knew. Knew it wasn't going to be a James Michener massive tome, but two books.

And here I am, ready to make it so, as JLP would say...

I haven't written anything since April. I'm not one of those 'write every day' types, definitely more of a NANO author, who sits at the specified time, and lets it all out. This story, like its predecessor, has little paper and pen outlining, everything in my head. Some known to me today, some to come as July presses. Maybe part of it's knowing these characters so well. As when I wrote The Road Home, a sequel to Detours, I KNEW these people. However, this time the story picks up right where the previous manuscript left off, no time lags to accommodate.

The songs are ready, all I need to do is wake tomorrow, shower and eat, make the tea, open a document and type. Every time I'm always a little apprehensive, no matter if there is a detailed outline or not. Maybe that's good, a little fear propelling me. But yesterday was so positive, reminding me it's just getting my butt on the chair, and letting the words come.

That's really all it is...

maybe I'm amazed

I just got back from buying yarn. I need more yarn like I need a hole in the head.

Some days are more blessed than others, whether yarn is needed or not.

Today was that, blessed. Feeling like I held the world in my hands, be it within a manuscript or a novel or just hearing the voice of my beloved.

Or in all three, and being aware of something so lovely, beautiful, gorgeous...

Holy, and I can't really say much more than that.

book I just finished: Joshua and the Children
music I just listened to: James Taylor's Fire and Rain
manuscript I'm reading: Alvin's Farm

in small doses

2002 September... that lovely lake....

I'm listening to the soothing sounds of tennis. Andy Roddick is on, a match ESPN couldn't show this morning because the Tennis Channel had the rights to it. But it hardly matters. I know who won, Roddick in four sets. Saw the after match interview hours ago, as I stitched. Stitching and listening to various other matches, and now it's nearly 6 PM, 8 PM where my husband is...

This might be a long post. Well, it probably will be a long post. Most of them are.

Just how I blog. Not necessarily for anyone but myself and honestly, if you're not blogging for yourself, for whom are you blogging? Or sitting on the front porch of a house that you've known for coming near twenty years. That's where Bob is now, in the Midwest, waiting for his sister and her family to get home.

the pier and wind... September 2002

He's spending the next week with his family, staying at his mum's, who he hasn't seen since we left the UK. She was there too, in her own flat, left right before we did and again has her own place. At 83, she's spry, getting around fine, but it was time for him to pay a visit. Coming on the heels of his work trip, it made sense. Flying back west, he could easily stop and say hello.

The last time he was there was in 2004. On a home leave, dropping Thea off, as she spent that school year going to American high school, living with Bob's sister's family. Five years before, and the house is now getting a new kitchen. It sits along a lake, a gorgeous sight, what I used in Detours. That house, April's house, is really my SIL's house, lake and everything.

the swing and campfire ring, September 2002

As Bob sat on that front porch, we talked of days gone by, arriving in a minivan stuffed full of kids, luggage, leaving behind our English life for a time, before heading west, to see my family.

Now, he's there by himself, he's never been there by himself. We've always been with him, the first time when Thea and Bud were small, Jay in utero. Years ago, to a house gutted, just beginning to turn into the showplace it is now, new kitchen notwithstanding.

Also today Bob sent me an email from some of his other relatives. Aunt Bee died a few days back, and if I remember correctly, she would have been 102 this August.

Aunt Bee

Yes, 102. A cousin of Bob's dad, who lived to 92 himself, which bodes well for me, longevity in Bob's family.

But no matter how long you live, things change. I've been blah blahing about that for a good portion of this blog, how my life is changing via writing (blah blah blah) but not only mine, or the kids.

Bob's too.

His voice was strained, angsty. Sitting in a place that used to mean so much, now empty. The lake, so stunning, only flat water. The Easter egg hunts we used to have and kids on the swing, all phantom memories.

Bud, my SIL and Thea... May 1992

My heart aches for him, he's usually pretty strong. We talked for less than ten minutes, then his mum returned from walking the family's dog. I'll email him later, but right now much is at the surface, no matter the miles between us.

Yesterday I saw my nephew, Jay and I taking a short road trip, spending the afternoon with my brother and his family. Yesterday I saw a one month old baby, today I found out a 101 year old woman had died.

me and CJ... what a cutie!!

Circular, so circular is this life, houses that used to matter now only dwellings, kids gone, places to be filled.

What does it mean? Well, I write, try to figure it out, and writing I'll be doing, taking this week of tennis as a treat. On Wednesday, 1 July, I start The Thorn and the Rose, then in August, The War on Emily Dickinson, barreling into autumn with The Captain and the Kid in September.

That sounds nearly obscene, and I hope I'm not burnt out by the time Jay turns 17 in early September. She'll be 17 and the first time I went to that lake front house she was still inside me, only five months along. She's been going to that place since before she was born, and soon it will only be in photographs, in memory, in one of my books.

April's house is a duplicate of my SIL's, except where Dylan's shop is located. Otherwise, the same layout. Will someone else actually live there someday?

Yeah, probably. Aunt Bee wasn't going to live forever, that house is destined for other occupants. Our kids are leaving, Bob returning to a place so different. I'm listening to tennis, Andy Roddick who never seems truly comfortable on grass.

he was telling me tall tales... must be in our blood!

Never set in stone, like us, how life REALLY is. My life is writing, but also much more. Why these posts are so darned long, sometimes all over the place. I'm not the kind of blogger with a tidy agenda, that's for sure...

Or any agenda, truthfully.

Okay, it is a long post, and I've said enough for today. I know Andy's gonna take this one, so I think I'll turn on the music, and let my mind float. Soon, it's going to be on overdrive, and these carefree moments will be like a dream.

In the past, looked back upon with fondness, wistfulness, and a sense of this moment doesn't last forever. Appreciate what today is, as tomorrow will be something completely different. (Monty Python comparison intended.)

in the sea

Roger Federer has been taken to a fourth set by German Philipp Kohlshreiber, as I turn on the tennis. The sound down, as I know the Fed Express will roll to victory (and if he doesn't, I'll do a small dance!). I'm listening to Mother Whale Eyeless but not by Eno. A San Francisco due, Hilsinger & Beatty redid Eno's Taking Tiger Mountain (By Strategy) a few years back, a fantastic rendition of that record.

Jay is sleeping, it's early. Only 7.19, and I'm thinking about yesterday, how at the write-in news of Michael Jackson's heart attack was just coming through. By the time I got home, he was dead.

Sort of comparable to how Farrah Fawcett died. Jay was making dinner, so before the write-in, we went shopping. Before I left, Farrah was near death. Coming home, she had died.

This is life; here, then gone. All we are, heading for some other place. I've been stitching a fair amount lately; I liken it to a puzzle, adding the pieces, making each stitch fit appropriately. We are the same, each day a piece that builds to what will ultimately be all we are.

Like a chapter is every twenty-four hour slot, but so intrinsic to the next day, the whole the sum of the parts.

Sometimes I get so swept in what's coming, I miss this moment, this one right now typing, Bruce Springsteen coming through speakers, and now in the fourth set, Federer is up 3-0. Jasmine tea is waiting for me at the stitching table, set up in Bob's absence. Our small living room doesn't need a square table set permanently, but while he's gone, there's space.

In the sea, there's so much space. Each day in our lives is full of it.

Waxing philosophical, blah blah blah... As Patsy Cline says, Strange....

rockin' with a racket

One of noise and equipment; although I don't play tennis, I love to watch it on TV.

Okay, I love Wimbledon. I enjoy the Australian and US Opens, really don't have time for the French. But the All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club captures me like no other sporting event, except for perhaps American football.

Not even the World Series does for me what two weeks at the end of June into July offers.

Today, as I listened to Ann Arbor read the last installment of DTG, I watched Maria Sharapova stumble to Argentina's Gisela Dulko in three sets, Dulko finally taking the fourth match point all the way home. Maria won Wimbledon in 2004, hooting and grunting her way to victory over Serena Williams, but since her shoulder surgery has yet to find her previous form. Today wasn't hers to be had, and now she waits for the concrete courts of Flushing Meadow.

But this day belonged to a twenty-four year old from Buenos Aires. Good for her!

And the tunes roll, as I suss out what has become The War on Emily Dickinson, thanks Karen for the nod. I have to also give Jay's buddy Seth props, as he listened to my ramblings last night. He just graduated high school, is an aspiring filmmaker, and asked the $64,000 question...

"What are you working on now?"

I went into a litany of this and that (leaving out the tennis) ending with Emily Dickinson. Not by name, but what hit me yesterday, sitting in Gayle's in Capitola. I ferried Jay and her boyfriend to Santa Cruz, then drove to my fave spot, where the plotting of this story started to spin in my head. Over a decaff double latte, delicious salads and bread rolls, I penned a tentative chapter listing, that when I told Seth, he seemed intrigued.

Then as I explained further, his enthusiasm increased. Finally his smile came, that of someone young, willing to entertain something a little different. We spent the next ten minutes chatting how it could work.

Equally how it could fall flat into the ground, all coming down to the quality of the writing. Which is squarely on my head. If I can pull it off, The War on Emily Dickinson won't have been in vain.

I'll know in a while, as this is going to be my surprise August project. I was going to take that month off, as I did last year, only reading over July's manuscript, watching baseball, Little League World Series and the beginning of the US Open, as well as the football preseason games. In addition, it will be more words, but as you know, nothing ventured, nothing gained.

What Gisela Dulko is probably thinking right now. Nothing against Sharapova, but what a thrill for that Argentinian!