Music Magic

When I was a little girl my mother listened to the radio every morning as she did her chores, and she would often sing along with her favorite music. I listened as I worked with her or played where I could hear the radio. Programs were about 15 minutes in those days, with few commercial interruptions. One program of popular song and light patter involved several singers and lots of laughter. I remember one inconsequential little ditty, a tribute to the joy of camaraderie:

In the cool, cool, cool of the evening,
Tell 'em I'll be there.
In the cool. cool, cool of the evening,
Better save a chair.
When the party's gettin' a glow on
And singin' fills the air,
In the shank of the night,
When the doin's are right,
You can tell 'em I'll be there.

Of course, in my child mind, it never occurred to me that a party getting a "glow on" might refer to the consumption of alcohol, with which I was unacquainted. Nevertheless, it was a catchy tune and I've remembered it all these years.

Mother also listened to a program of inspirational music every morning, and then later in the day there was Arthur Godfrey from the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia. I knew where all these programs were on the dial and could run to the console radio and change the station when one program ended. In the evenings we listened to Bing Crosby, Rosemary Clooney and Nat "King" Cole. On Saturday mornings the sounds of the Metropolitan Opera broadcast from New York wafted through the house, and in the evenings we heard a program of island music, "Hawaii Calls," complete with steel guitars and ukuleles, followed by the authentic Western sounds of Gene Autry's "Melody Ranch" and the sweet harmonies of the Sons of the Pioneers.

To say that my musical influences were eclectic is to understate the situation, especially when you add to this the fact that I grew up in the 60's with Pat Boone, Elvis Presley, the Beatles, and folk music at hootenannies. I listened faithfully to the Top Twenty countdown on Saturday nights to see if my favorites were there. (FYI, Elvis never appealed to me and I didn't see the charm of the Beetles--too shallow, not enough substance, like 99% of the rest of popular music.) Later I discovered jazz--nothing like the Modern Jazz Quartet--and then in college the world of classical music opened up and filled my soul and spoke to my spirit. All that explains why my present music collection is still rather diverse, including Bach played on the marimba, British folk tunes played by a harp and harmonica, and masses from Spain, Africa and South America.

Fast forward to my life as a writer of fiction--a computer with iTunes on the desk in front of me, with the potential for playing uninterrupted music of my choice for three or four days straight. Early on I discovered that if I chose a piece of music representing characters in my book and played it while I was writing, my brain was sharper, my vocabulary quicker, my ideas more forthcoming. With the music the words began to flow, and writing a 300-page manuscript was practically effortless. I can't listen to anything with words because they're telling a different story than the one I'm engaged in portraying and that's too confusing, unless it's a language I don't know--think Daphnis and Chloe, Rachmaninov's Vespers, or Carmina Burana.

Now I'm working on a trilogy of stories based on the Book of Mormon, and I'm struggling with ideas and sometimes the flow of words that I've been accustomed to is more like a puny drip. It's like swimming through old honey. But why? I didn't understand. And then it occurred to me that I haven't assigned a piece of music to these books yet, something that will stimulate the synapses and make it cascade rather than trickle. So what am I waiting for? Excuse me while I go find a CD that fits. I think I'm going to start with the Mahler First Symphony, one of my favorites, and see where that takes me.

Any suggestions? What music inspires you?

Latedom

This was the verification word when I made a comment on a blog this morning and it might as well have been flashing neon in 12-foot letters. Latedom describes the world I live in. It is the state of always being behind with projects, this month's book club selection, dinner preparation, whatever. For example, we just sent Father's Day cards to our son and son-in-law today. It takes less than two minutes to drive to church but why can't we ever get to choir practice on time?

Latedom is a good way to describe the foot-dragging I've been doing on my latest writing project. It's a fictionalized Book of Mormon story that I first wrote as a play more than 25 years ago, and although it was later revised as a novel--after all, nobody reads plays--it was rejected about five years ago, even with great reviews and high praise by the editor because her company wasn't giving contracts to new authors at the time.

Latedom manifests itself in many ways for me. I can avoid writing because my fingernails are too long, so I have to stop and clip them. I can avoid it by looking up stuff on google, reading the catalogs that came in yesterday's mail (that's my best trick--have you checked your mailbox lately?) or by answering emails, checking my friends' blogs or Facebook, or in my extremity even cooking. If you've checked my blog lately, you know I'm a genius at latedom here.

Nevertheless, all things work together for our good. In the ensuing years since I wrote the Book of Mormon play, and as I've concentrated on fiction instead of the other kinds of writing I've always done--journalism, essays, poetry--I know this piece is much stronger now as a novel. I still love the story and characters and the new understanding I get of the Book of Mormon as I scrutinize it again and again for additional insights.

So why am I so strangled by "latedom" with this project even though I love it so much? It isn't that I can't meet a deadline. I've done that satisfactorily all my life. I think it's that in the revision process I--the renowned queen of tweak--found a plot twist that enriched the main character so much I made a major plot change, which had a ripple effect through the whole manuscript, and then I found another twist that bumped into that ripple, and I'm driving myself crazy trying to keep everything consistent.

What I have learned from this frustrating experience is that I'm strictly a write-from-an-outline kind of writer. I've been at writing conferences where speakers talked about free writing without an outline. I stand in awe of those who can write by the seat of their pants. To me that's like a trapeze artist performing without a net. Because I haven't taken the time to revise my outline along with my manuscript, I'm in a perpetual state of topsy-turvy. Blinding flash of self-knowledge: I'm a person who needs fences.

Well, I'm here to announce that this morning I made a break-through. Like a child whining "I don't wanna," I finally struggled my way to the end of the manuscript, then did the sensibly useful thing at the moment--printed it out. I often do that at this point in the process, so maybe I've caught up with myself. Now I'll red pen it, make the changes on the computer file and send it off for its "summer camp," i.e. line-and-content edit, on August 1. Barring some unforeseen plot twist lurking in the corners of my imagination, its two companion pieces will be ready as well. And all's right with the world again. Ta-da!

My Solemn Promise

Names I will never give characters in my books: Araminta, Elphelia, Lispenard, Howso, Freelove, Tatiana, Alpha, Wormley, Cleghorn, Zerilda, Bossieux, Parthenia, Dorfish, Seldra, Rathborn, Tazewell, Goldendine, or Caroline Valentine.

Under the right circumstances (certifiable madness) I MIGHT give my characters these names: Agrivalla, Sydolia, Launbural, Luberta, Egberta, Delaware, Oneidgia, Lillis Willis, Lena Farina, Lizzie Blizzard, Emma Lemmon, or Lydia Middleton.

Just thought you'd like to know where I stand on the naming of characters.

Rhapsodizing on the Rapture

Yes, today's the day to contemplate for a few minutes the state of your soul. Unfortunately, deathbed repentance has a low approval rating in heaven, so if you're not ready to go now, you'll be left behind with the wicked. And the Mormons, some say.

Still, if the rapture does begin today, and the Second Coming is in October--sometime between the second session of Saturday conference and priesthood meeting as I've always imagined--then today's headlines are all irrelevant. Obviously, it doesn't matter what our Israel policy is; in fact, betraying Israel seems to be part of the plan, so we're on track there. I believe, as an old 1960's bumper sticker used to say, that we should "Support Whirled Peas" and that seems to be the guiding principle of US foreign policy the last couple of years. After all, it has brought is to this point of being ready to be raptured.

But just in case--a smart person would prepare for ALL contingencies--I also intend to have some chocolate cheesecake today, and brownies with chocolate chips and chocolate frosting, maybe a little...no, a LOT of pasta, and bread...WHITE bread, plus raspberries by the handfuls, and all the chocolate cinnamon bears I can find, and maybe I'll stop by Carl's Jr. for something with a lot of bacon on it.

On the other hand, just in case somebody misread the calendar, maybe I'd better go ahead and get my Primary lesson ready for tomorrow.

Disappointments and Compensations

Shingles, the senior citizen’s version of chicken pox, is a painful malady that can pop out on the body at any time because people who have had chicken pox still carry the self-inflicting virus. We learned that when we discovered Roger’s latent virus had chosen to emerge at a time that made him contagious just as we were supposed to be getting on a plane and going to Miami to board a cruise ship for two weeks. It started as what his primary care doctor thought was a bacterial infection in his left eye. Treatment didn’t work. Over the following week it took trips to InstaCare, ER, and a specialist to finally diagnose it.

We had been planning this trip for months, looking forward to spending time with family members on an adventure we’d always remember. We are mighty disappointed to be here cooling our heels and assessing hour by hour Roger’s progress toward recovery. Don’t misunderstand—I’m also mighty glad he’s recovering, mighty glad there’s a specialist willing to see us on Easter Sunday afternoon, and a pharmacy open so we can get medication going right away, and mighty glad his vision has improved in that eye from 20/50 on Sunday to 20/30 on Wednesday. But we were both looking forward to a trip through the Panama Canal.

However, with the lesions still visible on his face, he is still considered contagious, although our doctor said in 20 years he had never seen anyone get chicken pox from someone with shingles. Since the cruise line believes it’s possible, and they make the rules, we would be barred from boarding the ship, or else Roger would be quarantined to the stateroom until the lesions were no longer visible, in about a week. Most vulnerable would be newborns and people with compromised auto-immune systems—not a lot of those people on cruise ships, but you never know.

Having purchased trip insurance, we will get a refund, and we’ll have some airline travel vouchers to use before the end of the year. So we have been consoling ourselves with an ongoing discussion of how to use this “windfall.” (And with chocolate; nothing consoles like chocolate.) We’ve decided to remodel a bathroom and take a leaf tour in upstate NY this fall. And I’ve registered for a day at the LDStorymakers conference next week.

Instead of sailing, I’m doing what I always do—writing and reading and reading and writing, and struggling with the ever-present challenges of clearing off my desk and generating some interest in cooking. Roger is puttering and medicating and sleeping and sleeping and medicating and puttering. We are both dealing with the disappointment and looking hopefully, expectantly toward compensations.

Curmudgeon’s Corner: Things I Really REALLY Hate

1. Those thin skins on peanuts that get stuck on your tongue and you can’t pick them off but you can still feel them inside your mouth.
2. Chewing gum—anytime, anywhere, in anybody’s mouth (especially people who answer the telephone in an office), on any street, under any table, on anybody’s shoe (especially mine), in anybody’s hair.
3. People who drive around with their car stereo bass volume at the “deafening” level so I can hear it inside my house at 1 a.m. when I’m otherwise alone enjoying a peaceful meditation.
4. Hangnails, especially the little ones that elude nail clippers. How DID Adam and Eve deal with that anyway?
5. People who say “Okay?” at the end of every sentence to be sure you’re following them, as if you were too much of an idiot to understand simple instructions. Close second: People who say, “Oh, uh-huh” at the end of every statement you make in a conversation, as if you somehow need to be occasionally assured that they’re still listening.
6. Slow internet connections.
7. People who friend you on Facebook just to play games.
8. Junk mail. Most of the mail I get is catalogs which go from my hand into the recycle bin. They could stop sending me those things and cut out the middle man, but it practically takes an Act of Congress to get OFF a mailing list you didn't ask to be on in the first place.
9. Interminable legal language of privacy statements that come with dismaying frequency from every company I do business with, leaving me wondering what privacy they’re protecting. One statement at the beginning of a relationship ought to be assurance enough.
10. Colonoscopy prep. Now there’s something to look forward to when you get up in the morning—self-induced diarrhea.

A Fine Pestilence

Winter is the best time to be a putterbutt.

This is a word I learned from my friend Elaine, and as a serious lover of useful made-up words, I installed it in my vocabulary immediately. It means to just fool around and sort of flirt insincerely with your To Do list, that primary source of proof that you are an adult and can be trusted with Serious Responsibilities. Putterbutting is my form of Attention Deficit Disorder, a diversionary tactic to avoid tackling a task I don’t really want to do. Somehow, when I’m trapped by winter’s tricks, there’s more opportunity, knowing the task has to be done eventually, to put my trust in eventuality and allow my attention to wander shamelessly, aimlessly, toward anything, everything else. That’s putterbutting.

Being a putterbutt helps me keep a positive attitude under gray skies and in white storms. Having been born in Oregon, and raised on nuts and berries like a bear, I have an inclination to hibernate in the winter. Sleep is a putterbutt’s hobby. For that reason, I have never found winter depressing and endless – boring maybe with its frigid sameness – but I believe spring will ultimately win. The tutoring message of winter is introspection, reflective pondering, putterbutting, while the triumphant message of spring is progress, action, resurrection.

A practiced putterbutt knows the unbridled, guilt-free joy of saying No. With experience, a savvy putterbutt knows not to wear a watch or make appointments that will certainly be sabotaged by motivated forgetting.

A putterbutt has an intimate knowledge of procrastination, which can be justified and rationalized despite an inbred work ethic and overgrown sense of duty. Slow-paced low-metabolism winter days with short daylight hours are perfect for putterbutting. Stuck with mostly indoor activities chokingly dull in any season – things like cleaning out drawers and closets, updating the address book, making an inventory of the food storage – I am desperate for interesting alternatives. Being a putterbutt helps me deny the existence of those chores, firm in my conviction that if ignored long enough, they’ll either disappear or become irrelevant. There are plenty of other days when I can prove I’m worthy of my over-21 privileges.

Putterbutting is a proud occupation for one or two, but it’s too personal to be a group activity. It is conducted by the rules of Whatever, guided only by whim and whimsy, curiosity and quizzical wonder. A dedicated putterbutt can spend hours reading greeting cards in the Hallmark store and never buy one, search through bottomless bins of Kmart clearance items she doesn’t need and won’t buy anyway, wander pointlessly the aisles of thrift stores, all motivated only by Because It’s There.

For a putterbutt all the world’s a museum, opening life to the wonders of serendipity, the unexpected discovery of delightful surprises, sweet moments that make me smile or possibly even giggle, moments that will contribute to sparkling conversation later in the telling. Things discovered serendipitously are like lovely, intriguing pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that may fit together sometime in the distant future, but until they do, can be appreciated now for their individuality.

But I digress, and that’s what makes me a champion putterbutt. Wandering from place to place around the house, or the town, noticing details, nuances, subtleties, shades of differences, I ponder, dissect, deconstruct and reconfigure. I take the leash off my imagination. I ramble over unnumbered unscheduled detours to What If and Hmm. I take pleasure in the vistas on the hill above Maybe Some Day, and make mental reservations to return when I can stay longer.

An occasional day spent in putterbutt limbo can be most satisfying. It is “wasted” only if I allow guilt to intrude with its shameful Should Haves and imperative Oughts who come shaking their scolding fingers dangerously near my sense of responsibility. There will always be other days ripe for taking charge like an adult and rampaging headlong through the To Do list, masterfully checking off jobs as if they won’t have to be done over again in another week or two.

Putterbutting has a cleansing effect, decontaminating the soul from the anxiety that keeps it earthbound on tooth-gritting deadline days. At the end of a long delicious putterbutt day, not much has been checked off the To Do list, but I’ve been everywhere and thought everything and put all the problems in perspective.

If there were some magic elixir that would cure my seasonal bouts with putterbutting, I would tear up the prescription. I look forward to the appearance of this welcome coping mechanism every winter, my capitulation to the animal hibernation instinct. It’s a disorder that doesn’t strike very often, but when it does, I plan to indulge completely. I refuse to be cured of this fine pestilence.
(essay written 2005, revised 2009)