Ann Wilberton

I think of this as the blog I use to talk about writing and the writing life; but, what happens when I haven’t been writing?  Clearly, nothing happens here.  Tumbleweeds have been blowin’ through.

I have an awesome excuse and a rethinking.  I’ve been not writing.  Not writing; but, making art.  My father and I have a show which we are hanging today and stays up the month of June.  The reception is next week and I can’t wait to see a bunch of people talk to my Dad about his art.  I think it will be good for him.  It’s already been fun seeing his art go up and getting to see so many pieces spread out for viewing pleasure.

Anyway.  Now I’m thinking this blog will just be for my creative life no matter what I’m creating.  It’s easier that way and then I’ll feel less guilty about having nothing to say about writing.

I’m a writer.  I’m a visual artist.  I know.  I know.  I hate those people too.  There seem to be a lot of lawyer/writers and doctor/writers and musician/visual artists and actor/singers.

Let me assure you:  I can’t sing or act or play an instrument.  I have no interest in lawyering or doctoring (well, hmmm…never mind about that).  I really have no interest in the performing arts except as a viewer of film and theater.

But, can I complain for just a moment about being pulled in two directions artistically?

I have one novel written that I’m trying to get an agent to represent.  I’ve started the second novel which I feel an odd urgency to get it written already.  I have a two person art show that I have to hang on Memorial Day weekend.  So, let’s recap:  find agent, write 2nd novel, make art for show.  Good god…what have I gotten myself into?

I spent too much time wondering about my art show and too little time making art and now I feel a crunch.  I really need to be painting almost every evening after work and get some in on the weekends that I spend in Asbury Park.

I often wonder how other people pulled into two or three or four directions creatively do it?

I’m also a procrastinator which makes things a little harder.

Okay, complaining is done.

I’m a writer.  I’m a visual artist.  I know.  I know.  But, I get to tell my stories in two different ways.

My grandfather passed away last week.  We was a vibrant 88 year old man who was completely engaged in life.  He still worked as a tool and die maker, did the daily crossword puzzle, helped neighbors, laughed and made others laugh and inspired so many people with his attitude about life and his big, open heart.  He will certainly be missed by all of the folks he touched

My uncle said that my grandfather was lucky to live such a rich life and died exactly how he wanted: he lost consciousness on his couch after socializing with neighbors outside and having some good natured arguing about who was going tidy up the end of the driveways after the plow came through.  My grandfather won with his quip: but, I’ll have fun doing it and so he was “allowed” to take a few swipes with his snow blower at the last bits of snow blocking the neighbor’s driveway.  This is not what killed him.  They suspect it was the cold, narrowing his arteries that brought on the heart attack.  And it’s true he is lucky.  He wanted to live a life with purpose and he did.  He wanted to die quickly, quietly and without a slow suffering decline and he did and for that we are all glad.

But.

We are going to miss him so much.

I was supposed to work today; I was standing in my kitchen waiting for the water to boil so I could make coffee.  I  looked out over North Asbury Park and it was almost a white out with blowing snow.  There is something so beautiful about the palette of this kind of morning.  It is light but there is no color: grey sky, grey buildings and a wall of white blowing snow.  My boss called me at 7:15am to tell me the library was closed for the day due to snow.  I turned off the burner, got the dog and climbed back into bed.  This is one of those moments that transports you right back to childhood.  Snow day.

When I was a kid, I lived near railroad tracks.  They were just beyond our back yard and on the other side of the tracks was a box factory that had a switching yard in it.  In the winter, when it snowed, they would warm the switching yard tracks with gas jets and they were loud enough to hear inside our house.  There were times, as a kid, that I would wake up and I’d hear the hum of the gas, the sound of winter to my sister and I, and I’d run into her room: snow day, snow day.  We’d turn on her radio and listen to school closings.

As an adult, for me, a snow day is like a sweet gift of time and I used it wisely.  I spent a couple hours at my neighbor’s apartment drinking coffee and just socializing with some folks in my building.  I vacuumed the rugs in my house.  I hung a bunch of art that I’ve been meaning to hang.  I watched a video.  I took a nap and I made my girlfriend a tiny painting/card for Valentine’s Day.  She is anti-Valentine’s Day; so, it is especially fun to do something for her that she’ll like and that is not heart shaped or traditional in any way.  I often joke with her that it’s impossible to pass by a chocolate holiday without purchasing some chocolate; but, I’ve promised the chocolate will be rectangular!  A friend snorted when I told her this and said: but you’re a big mushy romantic and I replied: true, but she is inspiring me to be creative about it and I love that.  I love that I have to think outside the box and that when I do, I get to surprise her and show her another way to see something.

So much has happened on this Snow Day which is really just a reminder that sometimes, even if it is not snowing, it’s important to take a snow day.

I have sent out a few queries to literary agents and received some requests back to send the whole manuscript.  This is excellent and in a matter of minutes I can have my manuscript in their hands.  But, one agent asked for 5 chapters and a detailed synopsis that included the ending.

This sounds simple right?

Good god.  Writing this synopsis is so hard.  You want to retain your voice and hit all the important plot points and highlight some of the quirkiness of my novel.  But the idea of a synopsis seems to be against what we were told in creative writing 101 which is: show don’t tell.  How do you do that in a couple of pages?  In some ways writing the synopsis is harder than writing most of the book.

I will do it.  I am doing it.  I’ve given myself a deadline of Friday night so I can go visit my girlfriend in Brooklyn without it hanging over my head.  sigh.

Driving through Asbury Park this morning, I flipped to Matt Pinfield’s show on the radio just in time to hear him comment that today is Dave Grohl’s 41st birthday and 20 years ago he was drumming for Nirvana.

What?  How could that possibly be?  20 years have passed since the smelly, flannel types started an offshoot of punk or maybe just an offshoot of rock depending on who you are debating.

I lived in Minneapolis and worked at a bookstore down the street from where punk kids panhandled in front of the McDonald’s.  Half my coworkers were rockers and I’m positive it was someone at that store who first introduced me to Nirvana.  Minneapolis is home to so many of my favorite musicians: The Replacements, Babes in Toyland, Husker Du, Mason Jennings, Prince.

I still have those moments that get etched when I hear a new singer/band that speaks to me.  I can remember the exact moment I first heard Laura Gibson.  It was a live concert in Portland, Oregon at the Doug Fir.  Laura had stayed up late making paper snowflakes and they hung over the stage creating the scene for something magical to happen and happen it did.  It was the release party for her CD, If You Come To Greet Me and it was otherwordly and extraordinary.  I love that this beautiful connection starts when we are young but we don’t lose it as we age.