Blackberry fan

On my morning walk, I spotted a mouse not much bigger than my thumb. It was sitting smack in the middle of the path, but it blended in so beautifully that you still had to look hard to see it.

It seems I’m not the only one who enjoys late-season blackberries!

What I’ve been up to

It was the Summer of Lockdown here at Chez Greenfield. And it looks like it’s going to be the Autumn of Lockdown, too. Technically, we’re still allowed to gather in groups of up to six, but if you have a wonky immune system, as I do, it seems wiser to stick close to home.

Here’s what I’ve been doing to keep myself from climbing the walls:

Walks.  Lots of them. Mostly through local fields. I thought I knew this area pretty well before, but I truly had a lot to learn. Now I know where the skylarks sing, and where to find the best damsons and sloes, and where the wild orchids grow. I’ve even learned where the rabbits play tag at dawn.

Reading.  War & Peace is one of those books I always said I’d read when I had more time. And then lockdown rolled around, and it was time to put up or shut up. So I buckled down and read at least 15 pages a day, and I’m glad I did, because it was terrific. I even liked the parts where Tolstoy bangs on about the nature of history. I know they bore lots of other readers, but I’m always up for a good discussion about history and how we tell it.

Now I’m reading Kelly McCaughrain’s Flying Lessons for Flightless Birds. Also terrific, in a completely different way. It’s graceful and raw and funny, with impeccable timing. (And there’s even some history in it, too—about trapeze artists and circuses and the Flying Wallendas.)

Writing. Early on, I went over proofs for RA #3, The Crocodile Caper, which comes out in November. But otherwise it was all Elizebeth, all the time. Elizebeth being the subject of my next book, The Woman All Spies Fear. Elizebeth Smith Friedman was a brilliant code breaker who solved mysteries, fought gangsters, and helped win two world wars—while also raising a family, fighting for women’s rights, and dealing with the duplicity of J. Edgar Hoover. Talk about a trail blazer! Writing about her life been a wonderful ride, and I’m glad it’s not quite over yet. I’m now doing photo research for the book and waiting for copyedits to come through.

Going gray: It’s been nearly a year since I last saw a hairdresser, and it dawned on me a while ago that it could be another year till I see one again. So I’ve been letting my hair do whatever it wants to do. And that’s meant letting it go gray.

Years ago, when those silver threads started showing up, people told me that I should do something about it. You don’t want to go gray at your age, they said. I took their advice, and I know they meant it well. But lockdown gave me the time and space to rethink this. And you know what? I like those silver streaks. So I cut everything back, and this is me now:

Chalk it up as another lockdown discovery.

 

Writing in dark and light

I am so deep in writing these days that sometimes I hardly look up for hours. But light is precious this time of year, so to keep myself from living in the dark, most days I go for a walk at dawn, when I see the sun rise. It was so foggy this morning that I thought I would miss it. But then there it was, more spectacular that ever.

Writing is a lot like this, I find. Things get foggy, and I start to think I’ve missed my moment. But if I just keep going, then eventually the sun comes up. Maybe not when or where I expected it to, but it’s there, and it transforms the whole landscape.

 

Change of seasons

The season is changing, and I’m changing along with it. Now that Ra the Mighty is out in the world, and the copyedits for Ra #2 are with my editor, I’m free to work on other things.

Spotted on my morning walk

Much as I’ve loved hanging out in Ancient Egypt, I’m excited about my other works-in-progress, too.  Part of the pleasure of being a writer is having the chance to explore many stories.

Given my love of history, my projects often involve some time-traveling, so I’m strapping on my hat and buckling down for an interesting ride.

 

Ferris wheel

The fair came to our town this month, as it does every year.  So of course I went up in the ferris wheel with my daughter — the very same Ferris wheel we’ve been riding in for years.

British ferris wheels don’t have all the safety precautions that American ones do, as I discovered when she was three. I remember holding onto her for dear life, trying to keep her from squiggling under the slender bar that was the only barrier between us and the far-away ground.

She’s a much more restful companion now, and I don’t fear for anyone’s life. We laugh and wave our hands and enjoy the view. But there’s still always a moment when the Ferris wheel jerks to a stop, and we swing out at the tippy-top, and my heart skips a beat. The whole world swirls beneath us. I see clear past the houses and the hills to the distant horizon, and I think of these lines from Tuck Everlasting:

“Everything’s a wheel, turning and turning, never stopping. The frogs is part of it, and the bugs, and the fish, and the wood thrush, too. And people. But never the same ones. Always coming in new, always growing and changing, and always moving on. That’s the way it’s supposed to be. That’s the way it is.”

And I give my girl a hug.

Photo by Ashley Elena on Pexels.com

 

 

Cherry wine and lardy cake

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farmers' market

I’m still here! Up to my neck in revisions, but here. And I’m pleased with how the book is shaping up. Thankfully much of the work now is a matter of fine-tuning. It never fails to amaze me how a single sentence can change the balance of a scene.

What other news do I have? There’s a Goodreads giveaway of an advance copy of CHANTRESS (you can check that out here). A big blog tour for the book is coming up in May.

But it’s not all-book-all-the-time here (even if it sometimes feels that way). As proof, I’m sharing some photos I took on last month of our local farmers’ market, inspired by Lorrainemt’s great post over at A Fork in the Road about her farmers’ market in Oregon:

Goodies from The Old Farmhouse Bakery

Lardy Cake – an Oxfordshire specialty that is melt-in-your mouth delicious. As the sign in a local bakery once said, “Yes, it IS” (meaning that yes, it really is made with lard!).

Our local drinks man, who supplies us with homemade cherry wine and pear juice.

One of several farm shops at the market. You can also buy locally raised trout and venison.

Winter crops

One of the lovely people who runs Sufi Spice. They make superb Indian food with as many local ingredients as possible

Cotswold honey and beeswax

British eggs

The flower stand is always a favorite stop.

Our market has bit of everything, including goose eggs!

2013: A Year of Filling the Well

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2013

Three generations of my family celebrated Christmas together in Vermont this year. We made gingerbread houses and gingerbread canoes; we sang and played the piano; we played hide-and-seek with all the cousins – and my goodness, did we get snow! Not just a white Christmas, but a wild two-day storm that left us snowbound.

Candle in the snow – my sister-in-law’s beautiful idea

I came back from that trip wondering what resolutions I should make for 2013. GROW was my word for 2012, and it served me well. I did all kinds of things that stretched me: going on writing retreats, traveling to New York, writing a fast second draft of book two. (Who knew? I turned out to love retreats, I had a great time in New York, and I’m very proud of book two.)

For all kinds of reasons, 2013 is another big year for me, especially on the writing front. Chantress is published in May – and before the end of the year I also need to revise the second Chantress book and write as much of the third book as I possibly can. I’ve never had such tight deadlines before, and I worry about burning out.

So what’s my goal for 2013?

To be honest, the word SURVIVE occurred to me — right around the same time I went down with the flu. But while I was recovering, another and much happier phrase occurred to me:

FILL THE WELL.

That sounds easy enough, but if I’m honest, I know it’s not: Sleep, for instance, is something that fills the well, and yet I’m always tempted to short myself on it. I reach 8pm, and instead of winding down I gear up for just another page or writing, or a few more emails, or one last look at Facebook. I start thinking I’m on American time (never mind that I live in Britain). But after just few days of that, I’m drained. So getting to bed at a reasonable hour is something I’m committed to this year.

There are other habits, too, that I need to work on, especially with Chantress coming out. After the long, quiet years of working away on a story, it’s startling to have it out there in the world. Hearing from readers who loved the book is a joy, but there are plenty of worries, too. Will reviewers like Chantress? Will it do well? It’s hard not to fret about those questions. And these days, with the web ready to hand, it’s all too easy to try and find answers.

But here’s what I’ve noticed: Even when the answers are good, those questions don’t help me write. And writing is what I need to do. Not just because I have contracts and deadlines, but because writing is what centers me. Playing with words, plunging into the dark cave of a story and finding my way out: These things make me feel more alive.

So I’ve started timing my internet use, and when I’m tempted to self-Google, I’m pulling up a story file, or writing in my journal instead. When inspiration palls, I’m trying to do something real: play the piano, or bake muffins, or go for a walk with a friend – whatever makes me feel rested and balanced and able to give more to my work and to others.

Yes, there are deadlines. Yes, I have a book coming out. But I’m going to try and fill the well now, and not wait till it runs dry.

Fountain in winter, Oxford Botanical Garden

Coming home

Sorry I haven’t been around much! I’ve been away from my desk lately, partly because we spent a lot of last month in the air and on the road, visiting friends and family in America.

It was quite a trip, not least because it began exactly one year (to the day) since we’d moved to the UK.

Logan Airport isn’t exactly glamorous, but when we touched ground and saw the triple-deckers and sea grass across the tarmac, I got all weepy. A year is a long time, I guess. At least it is when you’re missing the people you love best.

We didn’t get to see everyone we’d hoped to — not by a long shot — but we packed in as many as we could. It was heaven to be with them, to see how we’ve all grown (especially the kids), to let the conversation zing between past and present, quotidian and sublime, in the way it does with good friends.

After all that, I wasn’t sure how I’d feel coming back to the UK.

But funnily enough, when I came in the door what I felt was: We’re home. The light, the air, the sounds, the smells… they all felt familiar and welcoming and right. And I was surprised, over the next days, by how many of our new friends had missed us, and how warmly we were greeted, and how good it was to catch up with all the doings here.

I know I’ll still have times when I feel torn between two countries, still have minutes and hours and days when homesickness swamps me. But I’m starting to believe I might be able to bloom where I’m planted.

The Angelique tulips were in bloom on the day we came home…

…and the footpaths were awash with cow parsley

Winter into spring

Usually I’m the first to sing winter’s praises. I love the stillness of the season, the beauty of bare branches, the way the cold reduces things to their essence. And as a writer, winter holds other charms for me as well. I call it my “hunkering down” time, when everything goes quiet, and all things seem possible, and I can dive deep into a story.

But this winter I’ve been ambushed by a whole host of life challenges, and new writing — even old writing — just isn’t possible most days. I know things won’t always be this way, but too often I’m just trudging through this winter, longing for signs of spring.

So you can imagine how happy I was to see these in my garden:

The first snowdrops

Some stalwart pulmonaria (aka lungwort, Jerusalem cowslip, and spotted dog)

They’re living reminders that no winter lasts forever.

Snowbound

Snow started falling here in southern England the day before we were due to fly back home for Christmas. By morning the whole country was snowbound, and we had no hope of getting out. We had to make other plans for Christmas and put off our visit home till spring.

It was a real shock to miss that flight. To get over it, I had to throw my whole heart into celebrating the holidays here. But celebrate we did, with spirit, despite icy roads and food shortages and a niggling sense that we stood half in one world and half in another.

Several weeks on, this continues to be a season of dark and light for me, wonderful and terrible by turns.

So no grand resolutions for me this year. I’m just trying to stay ready for whatever comes. But outside my window, on New Year’s Day, I saw two crows silhouetted against the gray morning light.

One for sorrow, two for joy…

Not a promise, exactly. But maybe a reminder — to take joy, wherever and whenever it appears.