The Mountain

Today I climbed a mountain and alone I stand at the peak. Around me the world stretches in every direction like a patchwork quilt spread at my feet. The wind is brisk and chill up here, cooling the sweat of the climb. My fingernails are black and my palms lined with dirt from contact with the trail. I take off my shoes and socks to feel the pebbly earth between my toes. Everything is dirt and rock, and the clouds passing overhead deluge me in whirling shadows.  My ears are full of the wind. My skin is chill with it. The sound reminds me of the surge of ocean waves. It too is dull, deep, and ever present, surging in and out, enveloping this mountain of stone, bouncing off the surfaces and sending echoes in every direction.

First Memory

My earliest memory is one of morning. There is light in the room. It streams in from windows somewhere to my left. I stand in my crib, hands on the bars. I am alone, but not anxious. I wait. And sure enough, my mother enters the room, her nightdress billowing about her like scintillating aura. She lifts both hands to me, palms to the ceiling, and her eyes crease with her smile. My mother carries me across the hall to her bedroom, where my parents’ futons checker the floor. My father joins us, yet in his pajama pants. He indicates the window air conditioner unit with a wry expression, “We blew a fuse”. I do not understand the words, but they imprint in my memory. I am not concerned. In fact, I have no concerns at all. It is the beginning of summer, 1990. I am not yet one year old.

Mystics & Rogues - Ch. 1

The bookseller ventured into the guard post, to whispers and catcalls from the bystanders. He was a thin and wispy man, though not especially short. His skin was pale, and his brown hair was straight and just a bit too long. He had very blue eyes that were usually glassy and unfocussed, but just now scanned the courtyard with feverish haste.

The bookseller appealed to the watchers.

“I’m - I’m Alin Landerson,” he said in a low voice, slightly hoarse with disuse. “I need to find a guard captain.”

Several guards chuckled.

“And why, perchance?” asked the boldest among them.

The bookseller sucked in a breath. “I’m going on a treasure hunt.”

There was silence. Then the guards burst into raucous laughter.

A wash of color flooded the bookseller’s face. He waited, blinking rather fast, until the noise subsided.

“You’re serious?!” said the questioner in a tone of disbelief. “Come on, man, you must be mad. It’s too late in the season to launch an expedition… if that’s what you’re trying to do. No one here is fool enough to risk exposure to the winter storms.”

The bookseller’s face fell. Apparently, this was news. He seemed to gather his resolve. “I still need a guard captain. How do I find one?”

Most of the young guards had lost interest and wandered away. The few that remained, debated amongst themselves. Finally one returned to the bookseller. “There’s a fellow that might do it… only one that I can think of.”

The bookseller looked up, hope sparkling in his eyes.

The guard hesitated. “His name is Wilder.”

“Brigham Wilder?”

The guard nodded.

“Wilder who sided with the Russos last spring and fought for Inglade through the summer?” shot the bookseller, sounding slightly wild himself. “The Wilder that hires his sword out to whichever hoodlum pays the most? That Wilder?”

“He’s not that bad,” offered one guard, trying to be helpful. “I heard he’s gone straight.”

“Yeah, he only hires out on legitimate need now… no more ‘hoodlums’,” said the other.

The color was still high in the bookseller’s face. “Fine,” he husked. “Where can I find this Wilder?”

“He shoots dice with the boys behind the stable,” offered the helpful guard. “I’ll show you, if you’d like…”

The bookseller bobbed his head, so the mismatched duo made their way through the guarding complex.

The infamous mercenary was indeed involved in a dice game. He stood head and shoulders above the others. He had ruddy cheeks stretched taut over angular bones. He had a black pointed beard, and curly black hair. His laugh boomed around the walls of the room.

At a loss, the bookseller turned towards his companion, but the young guard had disappeared. “Furies,” the bookseller swore. He hesitated a moment more, then called the guard captain’s name as loud as he could. It took several tries before he got the big man’s attention. Wilder squinted down at him, then frowned, but he backed out of the dice game and prowled around the players to where the bookseller stood. He loomed over the bookseller.

“I’m Alin Landerson,” said Alin.

“Be quick,” said Wilder, “They’ll skip my turn.”

“Can - Can we talk somewhere more… private?”

The guard captain’s face darkened, and the bookseller talked. Fast.

“I’m going on a treasure hunt. I need protection and guidance.”

Wilder’s brows shot into his hair. “A treasure hunt? You?”

Ah, thought Alin, he’s interested.

Then Wilder spoke again. “Let me see the map.”

“That’s the thing,” said the bookseller, “There is no map.”

“Well, where is the treasure?” demanded Wilder.

“I’m - not sure.”

“Huh,” said Wilder. “So you want protection and guidance, on a quest for treasure, without a map, and with no real idea where it is we’re going.”

The bookseller flushed. “I know it sounds crazy.”

“It’s hard to supply a trip without knowing its length,” Wilder muttered, his brow furrowed. “It will take time to assemble a crew.” He squinted. “What do I get out of this… Alin?”

The bookseller took a deep breath. “I can give you fifty golds up front and ten percent of whatever we find.”

“Thirty,” said Wilder.

“Twenty?” Alin countered.

“Twenty.” The guard captain extended a monstrous hand and crushed the bookseller’s fine-boned one. Alin carefully counted out fifty golds from his purse. He watched them disappear into Wilder’s pouch. “Meet us here in seven days’ time, packed for the road,” the guard captain ordered. “I’ll bring the horses. And Alin - ” He bent down, and Alin leaned in, expectant. “Don’t call me ‘Wilder’, eh? It’s Brig.” He clapped the startled bookseller on the back, sending him stumbling.

Alin caught his balance and watched the guard captain walk away with half Alin’s savings tucked into his shirt. Brigham Wilder, he mused. An odd choice. Alin considered himself a good judge of character. The ruddy man who’d stood before him and asked about maps was more the action type than the intellectual type. The guard captain would, of course, focus on the task at hand and not ask questions. But the bookseller did suffer a moment of doubt: Brigham Wilder could not be savvy enough to wonder about the nature of the quest…could he? Certainly not.

Annoyed with the thought, Alin shushed himself and went home.

To Speak or Not to Speak?

It occurs to me that a lot of the famous people who have shared about their personal struggles with mental illness (think Demi Lovato, Adele, Chrissy Teigen, Lena Dunham, even Dwayne Johnson - I could keep going) can perhaps afford to do so. Why would a person fear stigma when they bear a cushion of wealth or fame?

For the common person, things are less simple. I don't know how it works in mainstream America but in my community, people have good reason to fear stigmatization. We have children. Those children will need to get married one day. It's hard enough to find a good match without a parent's mental illness in the picture, to say nothing about the plight of a single who's ill. The way thoughts work in our community is, 'If I can marry a person with no mental illness in the family, why would I consider someone with?'.

A little cold. Callous, perhaps. But this is the reality when we filter through candidates on paper before agreeing to meet them.

Of course the logic is flawed. As a psychiatrist once told me, there is also a strong likelihood that a healthy person, with no family history, will develop a mental illness at one point in their life. According to the National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI),

"Approximately 1 in 5 adults in the U.S. (46.6 million) experiences mental illness in a given year".

Current research, including a report from the National Institute of Mental Health (NIMH), indicates that we can't yet quantify the predisposition to mental illness based solely on genetics. This is especially true since environment plays a strong role in the development of said conditions. It might be fair to conclude, then, that we ought to pay more attention to the environment people experienced while growing up, and hey, who can claim to have had a perfect childhood? No one I've met, that's for sure.

While I'm pleased that celebrities have been normalizing discussion of mental illness, I'm skeptical of the impact. It's not enough for Lady Gaga to talk about her condition. We regular people have to do the talking. There need to be more op-eds about our experiences, and our struggles. This is not simply a matter of social comfort, or a ploy to get our kids married. Talking about mental illness breaks down the barriers that isolate our friends and family. Feelings of isolation are a leading cause of suicide.

When you frame it like that, sharing our stories could save lives.

Musical Pains

Why does art hurt me so bad?

This question recurs in my life every time I encounter something heartbreakingly beautiful. I've experienced this brand of pain at concerts, plays, minor displays of talent... pretty much any time I encounter someone else experiencing music. It's like my body needs to participate. I can't be a bystander. But guess what? I'm not that good at music! I can't match up to most people on any instrument. I have enough knowledge to recognize genius when I see it. And that's about it.

It hurts. I don't know why.

Today's obsession is Hallelujah, performed by Pentatonix. I'm sure you've heard the track. Hasn't everyone? It's been viewed more than four hundred million times. And that's just on Youtube. I play the song in the car when I'm driving and it plays in my head when I'm busy in the kitchen. I can't shut it off, can't get away... and I'm not sure if I want to. It tears me up inside and I can't tell if I love it or hate it.

What do you call this pain from beauty? I've heard of 'beauty in pain' before, but never this.

They say that in order to build confidence, one needs to build skill. So I ought to be practicing an instrument, right? Does singing count? I sing a lot around the house but my kids complain so I stop. I don't know why I don't feel satisfied with mediocre. It feels like I'm supposed to be more than that. Perhaps it's all a consequence of high school, where I was told, "you're so smart!" almost every day for three years. For someone 'so smart', and 'so talented', there must certainly be great things in store. Right?

Wrong.

In reality, the bar set too high discourages me from even making an effort. As a parent, I suppose the lesson is never to label the child, even with positive labels. Label behaviors instead. That action was kind. That behavior was brave. That choice was smart. This builds self-esteem in children without destroying their sense of satisfaction with life.

(Great, now I'm giving parenting advice? Oh the irony.)

For me, the daily practice is beginning with something - anything - small. I can't look at the entirety of the task or project lest I get overwhelmed and defeated before I've begun.

The Internal Debate

Honesty, again.

This topic haunts me. Because, as Batsheva Shomer, I cannot be completely honest. I can share from a select few topics, which, I grant, could be plenty. But I cannot share from the topics closest to my heart. And that just about flattens me. It makes me wonder if I ought to be blogging anonymously. At least in anonymous form, I could share the real deal - the stuff that people might relate to. But as an anonymous poster, how honest would such posts be, even if the topics were genuine?

So it's a complicated bind I'm in, from a 'values' perspective. If honesty is my goal, and connection my pursuit, which path ought I travel?

The Forest

The trees are tall and all around. The water trickles over the rocks in a low gurgle and the sun beams filter down through the canopy of foliage. It’s a beautiful spring day and the woods are alive with the chirping of birds and the low rustle of squirrels scurrying underfoot. A playful breeze tousles the tree tops, sending shadows whirling across the ground in a kaleidoscope of color. The water is cool beneath my touch, though the face of the stones is warm from the sun. All is gentle movement. Nowhere is it still, except perhaps the base of the trees. Sticks crackle underfoot and pebbles shift with playful delight. I can almost hear the clomp of a horse passing through and the whicker of its passage. Its coat gleams burnished chestnut in the golden rays of the sun, and no shadow dulls its sheen. Beautiful, majestic being, it steps carefully among the rocks, wearing new trails out of the wild woods. 

Pandering

In the conversation in which my sister reflected on my manuscript, she mentioned that putting romance in the book was "pandering to the reader". I wonder about that. Dani Shapiro, in Still Writing (link), states that we write for one specific reader. That reader might change from work to work, but usually remains consistent for the length of the piece. And of course, the identity of the reader is entirely up to the writer.

So we do write for a 'someone'. Be it my neighbor, my sister, or myself, the act of scripting words generates the potential for future reading. We cannot write in a wholly selfless manner. We are human, after all. And this brings me back to my initial question: to what extent does that reader's identity impact our craft? See, if I was writing for my sister, I'd remove all hints of romance from the work. But if I was writing for myself... let's just say bring a fan. (As I was writing the book, I kept having to pull the characters back from these really steamy situations. They'd just go there by themselves! I had nothing to do with it.)

The point is, we pander to the reader all the time. The act of writing generates the inevitability of a reader. There is little point in fighting it. Words are meant to be read.

And so I wonder about the extent to which outside forces, such as the identity of our audience, influence our craft. This, I feel, is worth fighting. If we let our readers influence our content, we are not involved in genuine creativity. Yes, in order to sell, we are supposed to cater to our intended audience, but I feel like that is a polishing step. While we are doing the writing itself, we need to be ruthless in our honesty, and to hell with the reader.

Rainy Day

It’s a rainy day. The skies are grey streaked with silver and coal. The air is brisk, the wind snappish and scented with ozone. Raindrops flick through the air like afterthoughts or warnings. Cars make watery hisses down the road, with the occasional splash. Wipers swish rhythmically. The sidewalk is dotted with umbrellas. In the puddles that foot my driveway I glimpse the other worlds - tree limbs against endless sky, shattered and blurred by the periodic showers. The rain marks time on my tin awning - an arrhythmic rat a tat, in harmony with the hiss of passing cars. It’s a rainy day. People put on rain boots and raincoats. The umbrellas are everywhere. And I stand in the rain as it dots my clothing, turning my hair to frizz, soaking into my hem, revelling in the white noise that fills my ears.

Truth

Truth. Honesty. These are values I cherish. I like to consider myself an honest person, and a seeker of truth.

I wrote something recently - a novel. This was a book I'd begun writing ten years ago. I hit a block in the story, and this block put the novel on the shelf until a month or two ago. That was when I realized that the main character ought to be a girl, not a guy. I was ecstatic. Finally, I'd be able to write the book as it was meant to be!

I did, in fact, write the book. I sent it then to my sister, whose review came back scathing. She was upset that in changing the character to female, I'd also changed the character. According to her, my female protagonist came off as weak, unconfident, and uninteresting, where the male character had been intriguing, sarcastic, and totally composed. I was shattered by her comments. I felt like she was putting my own personality through the grinder. At some point in the conversation, she asked if she was being too harsh, and I, true to my values, replied, "There's no such thing as too much honesty."

But is that the case?

I was conflicted. Emotionally, I felt that the critique was too much for me. I didn't know how to shoulder the hurt and move on. However, the cooler part of my mind did recognize truth in her words.  I saw at once that she had a point, that I could write the character better, and that doing so would only improve the story. Accepting that felt like passing kidney stones. It was true. I hated it. But I did not wish it unsaid.

So what is it about truth? Is it the universal, correct path? I find it hard to imagine a marriage surviving on pure, unadulterated truth. I do not condone a relationship based on dishonesty. However, I do believe that in the interests of love, not all truths must be said.

These are my thoughts. I don't have any clarity on the topic. Ironically, it seems that like most concepts, truth is not a black-and-white issue.

The Meadow

There’s a meadow of green grass and flowers, the grass the most vibrant green ever, punctuated by pops of color - here a sprig of purple, there a splash of yellow. The landscape rolls and the sun beams down in sheets of golden haze, at times it kisses my face with heat, at times the contours of the hill bathe me with cool shadow. Here the grass is darker, deeper and cooler: more moist. I watch the breeze tickle the blades of grass until they dance with delight. Overhead the sky is pale blue, sprinkled with white puffs of cloud. A lone bird wanders the drafts, cruising in to enjoy the sunlight with me. In the distance, a fringe of trees, and beyond, far off there are mountains, whose sharp peaks meet the clouds. But here, all is soft and gentle - onward roll the hills, the grass is a soft cool carpet beneath my toes. The breeze carries the sweet scent of nectar and when I inhale, my body fills with light. I kneel, find cool earth betwixt blades of grass and let its solidity ground me. With my palms on the bare ground I breathe into its strength its depth and allow myself to absorb the sweetness in the air.

The Library

The room is large, cavernous - filled with shelves and shelves of books. The floor is carpeted, the lights steady, and the only sound the low murmur of voices - the occasional turning of a page. Here there are worlds waiting for me. There are galaxies unexplored, adventures untasted, sagas unheard. There are victories to revel in and tragedies to mourn. I browse the tall aisles, run my fingers over the smooth spines of hundreds and hundreds of books. My feet make no sound on the carpeted floor. I pass through like a wraith, like a ghost, my life touching the lives of so many others encapsulated in these still volumes. I sample the pickings, make choices, pass over so many in favor of something better. I handle each book like the treasure it is, mindful of its value. And more, I wander the aisles, taking in the stillness of this sanctuary, breathing in the scent of pages preserved, safe in this place of reading and knowing. My mind is cocooned in calm. There is no rushing here - no fast-paced breathless rat race, no pressure to achieve and achieve… here, all is still - silent yet filled with voices.

The Ocean

It’s big and deep and the sound goes on and on. It’s rolling and surging and it’s a million shades of blue. The sand is warm beneath my feet and prickly with shells of all shapes and sizes. The water surges to my ankles as I hunt the shore for shells. The sun beats hot on my back and the water is pleasantly cool. And the sounds go on and on. They are impossible to record with a pen and paper. There is the low hum of the surf and the higher pitched splash of the waves as they come in on the shore. It’s an endless music without a timebase. It’s rolling and eternal. It goes on. I gather shells on the beach, piling my finds in a well in the sand. At home I will rinse them and horde my sea-treasures in a glass well on my window sill, but for now I am content to soak in the sun and the sand and the waves. I breathe it all in, absorb it through the open pores of my skin, the scent of the ocean - its salt and brine - clinging to my face in a fine mist. It’s dewy, the breeze whipping the hair off my face and across my eyes. My face stings with the spray and the sand and salt. All my senses are engaged - the taste of the ocean is on my tongue.

Being the Words

My words come slowly, with great pause, like drops of water in a frozen place, hanging in peril before splattering into oblivion. The wind pulls them off target, hurls them away into space that is forbidden, confused, and dark. Like a blind man, I feel the way forward with both hands outstretched, fumbling, sensing, following the near-physical turns and twists that lay out on the page before me. I do not write. I uncover.

Here, in this sacred space, I liken myself often to the blind. When I write, I see nothing. Ahead of me, there is nothing. Behind me drift my own ragged footprints across the snow. When I begin, there is but a blank page. The ink trails across in spurts, full of the dashes that anul half the words I attempt. On a computer, the “delete” button hides my errors, but I can always find a word to change, a word that doesn’t fit, like the wrong piece for that part of the puzzle. Yes, writing can be like a puzzle, I suppose, though there are no guarantees in writing. More often than not, I try and fail until I produce a failure that is less poor than the others.

When stuck, the words tumble through my fingers. I want new words, words that no one has used, or never strung together quite so. I want to speak truth, but I also want to create, and these goals do not lie well together. Creation is bolder, more contrary. Truth can be bold, but it too must be honest. I walk a tightrope between the two.

The words descend one after the other. They suck me into a trance. I tune out the noise: there is only the page, and me, and the words that travel from one to the other. Sometimes the words enter me and not the other way around. Sometimes I awaken, amazed by the mere fact of the words. Other times I am broken from the effort. I may become paralyzed from seeking endlessly, feeling for the phrase that refuses to present. I may tear up the pages, or turn away disgusted by cliches.

But the worst crime for a writer is the empty page, the pen in the drawer, the mind dusty from disuse. Though I may crack from the strain, though I may never share these words, and though they may not do my visions justice, still I seize hold of the words and write.