Getting a Life on My Side of the Mountain

One thing about living on a mountain: sometimes you really, really don’t ever want to come down.

For me, it’s because it’s so much cooler, as much as ten degrees, and when there are clouds and a little rain and your husband’s wandering around in a sweater–not me; I suddenly understand why die-hard Wisconsinites run around in shorts even in winter–you could almost trick yourself into thinking that fall is around the corner.  (When I was in Texas years back, I lived for rainy days.  During football season, I’d close the blinds, lower the a/c, and pretend that was a nip in the air.)

Of course, then you come down from the mountain and it’s soupy hot.  Makes you just want to hole up.

Which is why a friend’s telling me that we had to get together for coffee was a very good thing.

Now, mind you, I’ve been working.  That outline isn’t quite done-done, but I know how the book ends; I worked out a crucial plot point (the why behind the whole thing); and so I’m on track to start the actual writing tomorrow, on schedule, and that feels good.  I’ve toyed with the idea of writing out loud–that is, posting what I do every day.  I have a friend who did that, and he might still be.  For him, exposing himself like that was good motivation; backing down in front of a crowd is hard to do or explain away.  So I’ve thought about it, but I don’t think that would work for me as well.  For one thing, I’ve actually always hated when people post how many words or pages they write.  Mind you, I understand that writing is work and requires discipline.  But when I’ve been in-between books or stuck or in the middle of a drought (or losing my editors and then my publisher and, oh by the way, moving all in one fell swoop), those kinds of posts only make me feel terrible.  I tend to stay away from Facebook and Twitter during those times for precisely that reason.  So I don’t  think that will work for me.

Having said that, I will also be frank: my usual coping mechanisms–my tendency to want to hole up, isolate, turn all navel-gazer–haven’t been working for me either, and this is where my friend inviting me for coffee comes in.  She was worried because I’ve been so down in the dumps.  I’ll admit that it’s kind of worried me.  The least little thing can tip me into a funk.  I want to cry sometimes.  If I had more vegetative symptoms, I’d say I was depressed, and I am, just not clinically.  I guess what I’ve been going through is a prolonged grieving fueled by anger that I honestly can’t let myself dwell on for too long, or I’ll get all teary again (it’s starting to happen now).

One thing I’ve noticed, though: forcing myself to be around other people long enough to push past my shyness and general funk . . . well,  that makes me feel better.  I’m thinking back now to when I first moved to Wisconsin.  I was no happier about it: again, moving was the husband’s idea.  I was writing only part-time then, publishing mostly stories but definitely moving forward with the writing.  When we arrived in Wisconsin, though, I was also forced to be much more . . . not exactly social but involved with other people because the kids were still young; they had school; I had obligations because of that, and I was still working out of the house.  So I got out.  I was forced to be around people.

Here, there is nothing and no one forcing me to do anything.  You’d think that, for an introvert, this would be heaven.  But it is not, and I think there is a crucial difference between privacy and space to do one’s work, and shyness and a tendency to isolate when stressed.

Honestly, for me, the combo has been a little deadly.  It’s true that I don’t want to pile on obligations.  I have to really guard my work time–and I have to work.  The past two weeks of getting this outline into shape, imagining the characters, giving them flesh . . . that’s all been great.  But I have also noticed that my usual program of work-work-work, exercise, make dinner hasn’t been working because I still feel so alien here (and vice versa).

So, this week, I forced myself to be around people in a social way.  Believe me, it was tough, not because the people are terrible but because it’s something I’ve not had to do in quite such a programmed way.  (Does this make sense?  I think I’ve forgotten that it took time for me to develop friendships in Wisconsin; that was part of the work involved in feeling at home, and it took a couple years for me to find a few people with whom I felt comfortable.)

Anyway, I had coffee with my friend as a first step.  I will be honest.  When she first asked, my immediate reaction was to shut it down because she wanted to do lunch and I don’t do lunch; I work instead and I really wanted to stay on track with this outline.  It was the husband who made a very psychiatric intervention–the boy has learned a thing or two–of suggesting that I offer an alternative.  Tea, say, or coffee, or a snack.  So I did, and I’m glad now because my friend’s quite sensitive and intuitive.  We talked about all sorts of stuff and for quite a long time, but it was she who wouldn’t let me leave without talking about still being depressed.  (And I was trying so hard not to be a Debbie-Downer.)  Without getting into the nitty-gritty, her concern really touched me; I was grateful she cared enough to want to know.

And I felt better afterward.  Not all good, you understand; I still had a blow-out with the husband yesterday morning, and those tears are still close.  But I did feel better and even more so after I had a couple, very nice women to the house for Friday cocktails.  (I know; it’s odd for me, but I’d suggested it in a burst of magnanimity a few weeks before; perhaps my unconscious understood even then that, this time, getting comfortable in this new place would take a different strategy.)

Well, we had a wonderful time.  It was fun to gab (and I felt okay about it because I’d worked during the day).  Then the husband appeared and we went off to a salon.  Yes, an honest-to-goodness salon where smart people get together and listen to other smart people talk about something interesting: in this case, the new NASA heavy launch vehicle and going to Mars. (Though, honestly, I felt kind of divided about the tech.  Part of me is you go, boy, while another is wow, what a huge waste of resources. I think it was the justification the guy made about species that don’t expand outward going extinct. I’m not exactly sure that holds up. Most species can maintain a balance, albeit by becoming prey or other . . . oh, what’s the word I’m looking for here . . . external safeguards?  For example, a lifespan that’s not artificially prolonged or the eradication of disease, that kind of thing.  Since we are the singular species that seems capable of prolonging our life span while ravaging all available resources and exceeding a land’s carrying capacity . . . well, yeah, okay, I guess he has a point but only about people and then that’s not really science nor does that justify Mars. If you put half as much thought and ingenuity into renewable resources, population control, etc., etc.–or even mining on the Moon–you have to wonder what we might accomplish.)

But I digress. Or bloviate; it’s tough to tell the difference.

Beyond the talk, it was nice to be around other people, and they were all smart, interesting people, too.  Couple of artists, a writer, a judge, engineers (natch; I mean, NASA’s just down the block) . . . and they were all very interested and supportive of one another.  (Which is, I guess, what friends are and do.)  Anyway, it was good.

And then, yesterday, I did something totally not-Ilsa: invited a whole bunch of people to the house and cooked up a storm.  With two exceptions, they were all Wisconsin ex-pats, but only one who I kind of knew.  The others, not so much; we know each other because of our circumstance.  Other than my one blow-out in the morning, it was fun: the cooking, the actual doing, the company, the two little girls running around and terrorizing the cats while digging out a bin of my daughters’ stuffed toys and redecorating my office.  I dug out a bottle of Brazilian sugar cane liquor I’d brought from Wisconsin and made cocktails for a crowd: caipirinhas (and baby, that pitcher was empty by the end of the night).  There is still wreckage this morning, but everyone had fun; there was college football on the telly (Go, Badgers!); and we all talked about how tough the adjustment has been and continues to be.

Anyway, that’s where I am right now: ready to start a new book at the very least.  I don’t know if I’ll do a Sunday’s cake or not; I’ve got bread to bake and a kitchen to clean.  But we’ll see.  Still trying to find my new normal, I guess, on my side of the mountain.

Yeah, I heard you groan, but I couldn’t resist.  Think about it: wasn’t learning about how you honestly do need other people, even when you’re convinced you don’t, what the book was all about?