Well. By now you know I write. Memoir. Touch of poetry….heh, really light touch…letters to senators, thank yous, and did I say Memoir?
Memoir, I have learned after writing the thing, is the hardest genre to sell. It gets a bad wrap by those who actually don’t want to read your life story, they want to read their own, except that they often lack the discipline to write it.
For those of you who don’t write, you might be interested to know what this writer reads. Currently I’m reading a book I had to hunt down, given it’s a bit old. It is called the City of Joy. Not everyone wants to read about Calcutta and its grinding poverty, but it purports to tell about the incredible bond of people who hold great need in common. I’m behaving myself and getting today’s work out of the way so I can have the rest of it tucked up in the covers and reading and eating chocolates.
What? You don’t do the chocolates part? Well, it’s currently late morning where I live, and the chocolates will become bourbon by four o’clock when I’m still reading. I know, I know, the sun is not over the yardarm until 5, but there is no sun here today. There is gray gloom. Cold. Damp. Threatening rain. So it’s either snuggled down in a warm bed or camped out next to the fire in the fireplace. With a book.
When I woke this morning I doggedly dressed, went out to the garage and swept it down, organized some junk and put it in another corner so I could make room for the delivery of firewood. Lovely man, Chidsey, to deliver AND stack it. Worth a tidy tip. I’ll have to be stern to make him take it, but I’m up to that.
About this title: thank goodness for Kindle. I buy books like they are peanuts and once in awhile I actually get around to reading them. Truth be told, writing is even better than reading, and I indulge myself with writing, writing, writing. Finishing the memoir has left me feeling empty, so after a brief respite, I’ll write the sequel. I needed someone telling me that I’ve led a rather exciting life, which I thought was rather ordinary, but then in review, I see that I have been graced with joyous journeys, great life lessons gained in climbing rather steep mountains, and plateaus upon which to rest. I have traveled to much of the world, many of those places never on my bucket list, but for which I am eternally grateful that the great Designer deemed essential to my growth.
South Africa and Thailand, planned by a dear friend, but spontaneous for me. Romania, Russia, Hungary, with a dynamic family of deep community and heavy duty commitment, as a choir spreading the picture of what faith means. Always try to take about a hundred fantastic folks along on challenging trips. Mexico for the fun of it. Many times to England where we felt we were at home. Scotland, the heritage land of my grandfather…Mama’s dad. To see the land of the Buchanan Clan, rough and ready, and in many places raw, told me immediately of the lineage that is mine. Wales, where beauty abounds. “Oh to be in England” showed its meaning once we visited. The dales, the downs, the moors of north Yorkshire moved me to tears with their incredible beauty. I’m crazy for all things wuthering. Cragginess makes the Moorish pubs display their purpose. A wee dram, or a hearty pint next to a fireplace big enough to stand in, the sound of mixed laughter and range of dialect is music. To come into the Lion on Blakey Ridge after a day walking the moor, cold and chapped and tired, you get why hanging out there is balm for the soul. We had no idea we were Anglophiles before tripping there. To stop in at Tan Hill, the high point of England, was to feel alien. Few tourists even know to go there. Conversation halted. Stares leveled us. But when we appeared to know what to order from the bar, and what to eat for lunch, we were no longer the object of curiosity. The regulars turned their attention to their pints and we were invisible. Peace reigned again at the bar. Tan Hill is outstanding. Every time we went it was harder to come home.
Such things reside in my memory now. Time and tides dictate that we roam much closer to home now, and for shorter stints. Still, I long for the crags of Stanege Edge, where young Brits hang glide across the same territory traversed by Charlotte Bronte as she conjured up Jane Eyre. To discover that North Lees manor is part of my husband’s heritage helped us to understand what draws us to Britain. The dour day recalls England, home of my heart.
How do you like my plan for a lazy Saturday?