We held a neighborhood St. Patrick's Day party in the cul de sac on Saturday night. Everyone brought an entrée and a dessert. BYOB. It was nice catching up with everyone in person, rather than just waving as they drive by on their way to work. The evening sky was clear but it was California-cold, most of us wearing something down.
I like my neighbors. We make each other laugh. I'd spent a long day in the sun at a track meet in Laguna. I wasn't sure I'd be in the mood to socialize. But I hung around longer than I thought I would, then did the Irish exit, which seemed appropriate for this holiday.
At one point, a neighbor introduced me to her teenage daughter, who is writing a book. She wanted advice. The conversation really got rolling when the young girl told me she's about a hundred pages in. This implies commitment to the story. It means she's figuring out the characters and their arc. Most of all, it means she's putting in the time. The smile on her face as she described how much she enjoys writing was infectious. That's exactly how I feel when I talk writing. It never gets old.
She asked for some guidance so I offered a few nuggets of advice and offered to read her book when she's done. I'm not sure I was of much help but I know from personal experience that making the public statement that writing is your calling is very hard indeed, so kudos to her for her courage.
The conversation was brief. I don't know if it was uplifting for her, but it sure did me a lot of good. This week has seen my new book really find its voice, which is a great place to be in the writing process. But I also spent a whole lot of time learning the language of insurance companies and body shops after last week's Rover crash. It's no fun.
Back when I first made the decision to chase the writing life, I thought of the process as solely creative. You know: write pretty sentences and tell fun stories. I remember thinking that once I made a million dollars I would hang it up. Not sure where I got that number or that idea, but looking back it seems averse to who I really am. I need writing like I need to draw breath.
Now I know that writing is not just about a good story or making words dance a jig on the page. It's letting the process transport me to a place I can't completely describe unless you've been there. It's not an easy place. Sometimes it's loaded with deep emotional pain. Sometimes it's magical, so enchanting that the rest of the world doesn't exist. I'm lucky enough to go there three or four hours a day.
Sunday night it was my turn for inspiration. Callie and I went to watch Fortune Feimster at the Irvine Improv. She was trying out a new act, which meant taking occasional breaks from the comedy to look at her notes. I could see her working the same process of what works and what doesn't that I enjoy so much. I laughed a lot, which felt great. I drove home empowered, getting so much from watching her work her magic in real time. In a year or so I'll see the final version on Netflix and marvel at how her act evolved. Yet it was still hilarious.
Gosh, it felt so good to laugh out loud.
Happy St. Patrick's Day.