Friend of Santa

What’s the deal with dissing Santa?

It’s bad enough we can’t have Nativity scenes, but now there’s a major retailer putting Santa down.

I object.

I know, it’s supposed to be humorous. But the defender in me always rises up when I see those ads about how the retailer can best Santa in the game of gift giving.

Just so you know: I’m a dyed in the wool, steeped in the DNA Catholic.

I love the sacramental infusion of the smells, the bells, the holiness of the ordinary, the ritual, the language,  the music, the art, the mysticism of Catholicism. And the gracious, non-deserved, no naughty and nice list of the Gift of Christmas.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s why I love Santa Claus.

Long, long time ago, when I was a young mother of a two year old, I was standing in the back of the church, holding the Lectionary waiting to process up the aisle. Next to me was a woman, probably in her fifties, a kind of “church lady” with her sensible gray hair and plain grey skirt. It was Christmas morning and I was the lector at the 10:15 Mass, and she was a Eucharistic Minister.  I mentioned the fun of Christmas with my toddler daughter, the anticipation of Santa and the gifts.  She very plainly said, “oh we never bothered with all that with our kids. We emphasized the spiritual rather than the Santa aspect of Christmas.”

She was of so sincere. And humorless. What a drag.

For just a moment I felt chastened. I had been corrected by my elder on the true nature of Christmas and what’s important to teach children. But that didn’t last long.

What’s more Christian, more holy even, than a saint spreading the blessings of God on a world deeply in need of reminders of love?

We are physical, that is, incarnate, beings  not spirits just renting out space in a body–we need the sights sounds touch excitement, magic, yes magic, of Christmas and the  concrete expressions of love and undeserved gifts.

So when folks complain about the secularization of Christmas, I wish they’d leave Santa out of it. He’s a holy man. A wise man. A magi.

And, man oh man, he’s one of the best teachers of the holy that we’ve got.

Merry, Merry everyone.

 

Digging for Apples

Sure then I’m here! Digging for apples, yer honour!’

`Digging for apples, indeed!’ said the Rabbit angrily. `Here! Come and help me out of this!’  (Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland)

I’m looking for a scene.  I started my first novel with a writing prompt at a seminar– I don’t remember the prompt but what popped to my brain was a woman holding tight to a miraculous medal and praying for a miracle.

That little scene of desperation, of pleading, of praying for a miracle, was the beginning of something. Since there is no story without a problem, something to conquer or work through, something to change, that is, I needed to discover what was upsetting her.

That woman clutching her miraculous medal stayed with me, moved in with me, so to speak.

Soon I had her walking against the wind in lower Manhattan, waiting for a train on a lonely subway platform and arguing with God.  Bit by bit her struggles revealed themselves to me.  Soon I had a name, more scenes,  more characters and a few subplots. Soon is not really the right word, it took a long time for things to shape up and a story to develop. But it started with a scene that promised a conflict.

That’s what I’m looking for now.

You might tell me that the world is full of conflict, problems, characters with something to solve. And you would be right. Various characters offer themselves up, but so far nothing has stuck to start my next novel.

So I’m digging for apples.

I thought NaNoWriMo (November is National Novel Writing Month) would be a good place to get my engine going.  I needed to produce  more that 1600 words a day to finish the 50,000 by the end of November.  Last year the challenge was a great help to me in moving my novel forward.  This year I hoped  the discipline of churning out that many letters on a page each day would help me find my next character or scene.

I started the month out with  more words than the daily goal, a tiny bit of insurance against the slacker days. But, I petered out. Not a surprise. I am a slow writer. I dip and dabble. Try out this and that. Ramble on  typing all sorts of stuff that makes little sense. That, after many years of trying to discover my rhythm as a writer, is how I work.

In one of my many ‘how to write’ books, a bestselling author said she never began a novel without having first figured it all out in her head and written an extensive outline. If I waited for that I’d never get anything done, and that includes writing out a grocery list.

I’m the kind of writer who discovers the story as it is being revealed to me. I don’t know how it’s going to end or who is going to show up. I don’t know what my characters are going to say until I see the words pop out on the screen  from the tips of my fingers.

As I was making my attempt at the daily word count for NaNo, I discovered something. Sometimes writing gets in the way of writing. I was digging for apples, but I was digging in an empty field. (Really, I do know that apples don’t grow in the ground, but that Lewis Carroll was never restricted by mere facts).

Boy, oh boy, I’d really like a nice juicy apple to bite into. Hey, isn’t that what got Adam and Eve into all that trouble?

 

A Book is Born

Well, I finally did it. I finished a book. Writing one, that is.

I cleared my calendar all summer of almost everything and gave myself an August 31st deadline. Here in Texas that wasn’t so much a sacrifice. Nearly everyday from May until the beginning of September the temperature was 100 degrees or above, except for those days it dipped to 99. So going out in that kind of oven was not the least appealing to me.

I wanted to be able to stop saying I’m working on a novel. After all, who doesn’t say that? (A friend pointed out to me that she doesn’t know anyone who says that, so it depends on the circles in which one travels.) I wanted to be able to say I have completed a novel, and now I have to learn how to get an agent, and then, a publisher.

For a few days I was so excited that I had achieved this milestone. Then, oh yeah, then, I realized all the problems with the book. I wondered about the narrative arc, the characters, the plot, for God’s sake. What’s the plot?  Then, very kindly, a dear friend in my writing circle told me what the plot was. Wheewh!  What a relief. I had a plot that someone other than me (or is it I?) could discern.

Now, with a whole week’s worth of distance, I have to go back through and revise. But since I work in such a fashion that I have revised and revised and revised as I went along, it shouldn’t be as painful as I anticipate. Plus, (now this is a big plus) I have a writing salon (sounds so literary, doesn’t it?) and together we have been revising and commenting on each other’s work all through the process.

Next question: How do you compose a query letter?  I’m giving myself one week to figure that out. Wish me luck.

 

Second Half, Chapter Two

Readers,  this is the second half of chapter two.  Hope you enjoy.  Comments welcome.

Thursday, April 1, 1954

Millie was almost true to her word. One week she gave Meg.  Yesterday she called in the afternoon and told Meg that she would be preparing lunch at her house.

“I’ve got in a lovely canned ham from the A & P, Meg.  Since we can’t have it on Friday, you’ll have to come for lunch tomorrow. I don’t much like fish and I want to make an occasion of it. So, I’ll expect you at one.”

“One?  Alright, Millie.  Only because it’s you. Don’t you dare have any one else there.”

“Just us, Meg.”

“Just the two neighbor widows.”

“Just two old friends.”

Thursday morning Meg is up at 6:30, same as she’s done for years.  She doesn’t look at the empty side of her bed.  She slips on her blue chenille robe and heads down the stairs to make coffee.  One slice of toast, with a little butter and jam.  The coffee perks in the glass button of the aluminum pot on the stove.   Meg turns off the gas, gets the milk and sugar and pours herself a cup.  She will wait until the coffee cools before pouring the rest down the sink.  She thinks she might buy one of the small percolators she has seen in the A &P.  The right size for one person.  MaybeOr maybe I’ll just learn how to measure out enough for me.

Test Driving Chapter Two

Readers:  last week I posted a short piece from my novel-in-progress.  Since I received several encouraging comments and e-mails I thought I’d test drive the first piece  of Chapter Two.  The setting is New York, 1954.  The protagonist in this chapter is my main character’s grandmother.  If this goes over well, I will post the second half of this chapter next week.  Let me know.  Comments appreciated.  

 

March 1954

Meg runs her hand over the bristles of the green mohair couch, back and forth, back and forth. How many years had they sat here, reading the paper, curled up with a book, her head on his chest, his arm around her shoulder? Stiffer than velvet, yet soft and inviting. Quite a remarkable fabric, she thinks.

She sits in the curve where back turns into arm, draped in Gerald’s sweater. His scent is in the wool, his shaving cream, his aftershave, him. She knows this will dissipate, but she doesn’t want to preserve it in a bureau drawer.

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