No, Not Bravery

No, Not Bravery

Friends and strangers alike often used the word brave to describe my decision to move to Portugal after having spent only two weeks here, and without knowing anyone except ex-pats on Facebook. The word seemed all wrong, but I was too busy with travel and moving prep to sort it out. Now, only five days in, the problem with the word becomes clear.

The assumption seems to have been that life in Fairfield County, in Newtown, Connecticut, was easy, and that life here will be one of loneliness and homesickness.

But think of this: Living on income derived from the precarious life of an adjunct isn’t easy. Teaching 5 or 6 courses a semester, facing as many as 125 new students every six months, and navigating gossip-plagued and intrigue-rich academic departments, isn’t easy. Waiting weeks and weeks for brief winter and summer breaks – during which I often also taught – for time to work on manuscripts or canvases isn’t easy.

Caring for an 80-year-old house while asking it to endure new winter snows and ice, and new summer storms sometimes bringing hurricane-force winds, isn’t easy. Outlasting two power outages totaling 22 days with body and mind intact isn’t easy.

Witnessing the Sandy Hook School massacre, the aftermath, complete with daily reminders  . . .

Until recently, moving away wasn’t an option. I was fortunate to find a job at the start of the Great Recession, at an age others were planning for retirement. And the house served as a necessary base of operation for sons working summers during college, preparing for grad school, holding local internships.

While putting one foot in front of the other day after day, year after year, I didn’t think to define it. In hindsight, though, the word brave better describes the years behind me, not the ones ahead during which I will explore Europe after a hiatus of twenty-eight years, while easily living within my means. Instead of waiting for semesters to end, I will now be free to sink into whatever art form strikes my fancy on any given day.

Starting now.





Revision is . . . everything?

Revision is . . . everything?

Revision — that essential conduit — isn’t just finding a better word or building a better sentence or re-visualizing a scene. It’s searching a narrative for the emotional truth at its center. By shedding safe layers and any layers of delusion, we writers discover what, exactly, is going on in our own stories, and why, exactly, we write about what we do,

So, what’s the true narrative as I pack and sort and prepare myself for my move to Portugal at the end of the summer, prepare to say goodbye to my house, to easy access to my family and friends, and to my dog, who will soon go off to a new home? What am I feeling? What am I really feeling as I decide on a departure date? Trepidation? Anxiety? Exhilaration? Impatience? All of these?

We humans have this strange huge capacity to feel multiple, often contradictory, emotions simultaneously.

When I look beyond the logistics of leaving, my imagination takes me inside the Coimbra apartments I see available online to what it might be like to live there. My imagination takes me back to the cafes and walkways I discovered in March. To the beaches and gardens and ancient ruins near the city I look forward to exploring. To museums in London, Paris, Rome, and Amsterdam, all only quick flights away. And my imagination takes me to the terrifying territory of exactly that I’m working toward: total immersion in my writing projects, which means total immersion in my own mind. Oh. My. God.

What if I don’t like it in there!

This isn’t a new concern. When my children were small and constantly interrupting, I complained that they did at the same time I might have secretly thanked them. It was safer pouring juice than wrestling with new stories. When the demands of teaching full time meant shutting down my computer, I could be both bothered and relieved. Now, I can always put a manuscript aside to clean out another closet. Coincidentally, in light of my new book’s title, an artist friend and I refer to the point of complete immersion as the vanishing point, that point on the horizon when the distance between our projects and our selves dissolve. It can be the best place. It can be the worst place. The brightest. The darkest.

Some writers say they don’t like writing, but do like having written. I pretty much like all parts of the process. But I’ve always had diversions. If what lurked behind the vanishing point was too scary, I could always emerge to feed a child or walk a dog or drive to a class. What will writing be like without these excuses? Will I find myself revising the paragraphs and pages of my own mind in order to live there?

I’m kidding. I think.

I can always fly off to Paris.

(Image: Google Images.)


Tina’s Book Blog Recommends VP to Book Groups

A local book group recently took on this new novel. The discussion produced dozens of insightful observations, not just about the book, but about life, marriage, the nature of love, the choices we make. Tina writes, “Legters’ Vanishing Point would be a great book club selection.  As I was reading I could find many different things I wanted to talk over with someone else.  Well written with great character development . . .”

As the blog tour unfolds, and reviews are coming in, I’m finding the book even more controversial than I anticipated. I knew the responses would be more complicated than those to Connected Underneath. It took more courage to write. It’s a story I was driven to tell. Here’s more from Tina: