One more day left in the Year of Being Brave. Yesterday, I got out of bed and looked out the window and was shocked into full consciousness by the sight of a little red-breasted bird sitting on one of the crystalline branches right in front of me. That little streak of red on an otherwise white, glittering world reminded me that so much of winter in Wyoming lies in brushstrokes: the planar snow, the dusky shadows of the trees, the days that lack dimension as layer of layer of snow fold down vs. the days that are etched in true bluebird blue. Those days dawn with an almost shocking clarity. When I lived in Seattle, those skies -- so full of pigment -- were one of the main things I missed about home. The dense, mysterious snowstorms have their own beauty, however, not least being the anticipation of skiing fresh powder...
It's time to set a goal for next year, but I'm not sure what it will be yet. Last year, it came to me on a wan, sunny morning as I sat on a bench on Orcas Island, facing the water. That's when The Year of Being Brave declared itself as the goal and the mission for 2012. Like anything, the grandiose title was truly a product of incremental changes and decisions, as well as setbacks, because, well, that's life, isn't it? This year has tested me in ways that I couldn't have imagined: some of it has led me to immense happiness and pride, and some to sadness and discouragement. One of the oddest things that occurred was that life began to imitate art, the very art I'd set out to create. It's a bit eerie. Someday I'd love to share that story, but first things first: the book.
I tabulated today, and the first draft is very close to done. Of course, after that there will be days and weeks and months (??!?) of polishing and reconfiguring and quilting together the two narratives. But the actual writing part is definitely on the wane. At this point, I am happy to report that I am as comfortable in the skin of my second character as I was with my first. If anything, she has become my virtual stand-in -- the more neutral, dispassionate voice. I wrote a love scene for her today and felt almost suspicious of myself. Was I subconsciously writing it for myself? Hard to say. I have learned through this process that spending so much time with one work is often glorious rather than limiting. So much expansion is possible, so many tangents (even if I need to edit them out later). Overall, the process is more freeing than expected. So, yay! Onwards...
Friends, so many of you have accomplished amazing feats this year. What are your goals and purposes for the coming year? I'd love to hear. In the meantime, I'll wait for that stroke of clarity that will hopefully arrive on the morning of January 1.