Tag Archives: Sunday breakfast

If writing is an attempt to understand something…

Then a year of indie publishing has been an exercise in figuring out why I went independent in the first place.

It’s a long weekend here in America, Monday’s Labor Day holiday the official end of summer.  My husband words a 9/80 shift, so he has today off, and we went to Los Gatos for breakfast.  Other than getting bananas on my waffle, our orders were the same as on a Sunday, but we didn’t sit along the bench.  Instead we sat in the back, a little more private.  And somehow I got to talking about the writing.

My husband doesn’t read my books, neither do our kids.  But since my husband and I have become grandparents of sorts, I’ve been considering the day when actual descendents mill about; maybe they will read my novels one day.  Between that and reading the Yo La Tengo book, I’ve been inundated by a wave of what exactly am I doing this for?  A year past releasing my first indie novel, I’ve had time and books to ponder this, subconsciously and mulled aloud over a banana waffle.  Today, bless my husband’s heart, I started rambling, and his willing ears seemed to translate what I was saying; I want to publish books that touch people’s hearts.

Now of course that has always been the plan, but never before on such a small, individualistic scale.  I wanted to kiss him, or cry, or just note how entwined I am with this man, who doesn’t read fiction, wouldn’t get near angst with a ten foot pole.  But he knows me, far better than I do myself, or maybe it’s his engineer’s brain, more analytical than mine.  I said a whole lot of this and that and he concisely boiled it down to a few notions; that if I didn’t care about reaching anyone, I wouldn’t publish at all.  But I do care, so some books are released.  This week I realized that what I do publish in the future will be novels I want my grandchildren and their kids to read, if they want.  Something thoughtful, relevant, as I discussed previously.  But not too many books, because I do not want to work so hard.

As we worked on breakfast, he said I should make a list of what I want to convey: I want to touch readers’ hearts, I want to make people think, make them cry, and laugh.  I nodded to all these sentiments, wishing I had a post-it note handy, I love post-it notes.  Today’s title is courtesy of something I read that hit me, so I scribbled it down, and stuck it to the side of my tower.  Then it was lost amidst other post-it notes, but recently I rescued it.

And I still believe it; I write to comprehend this or that.  But putting forth for public consumption said tales requires a different focus.  A year ago it was to circumvent the traditional route of publishing to release most of my novels.  Now it’s far more personal, but I still want some books accessible.  My husband was spot on- if I just wanted to express myself, the writing alone would be enough.  It isn’t, not completely.  I can publish, so I will, but I don’t wish to brand myself, I don’t want to carve out a career.  Musician Kurt Wagner figures in Big Day Coming, his band Lambchop another indie group in Yo La Tengo’s sphere.  Kurt makes a record, tours a little, then returns to his home in Nashville and lays floors.  While I don’t want to lay flooring, I do wish to share my take on this topic or that subject, wrapped in love and tears.  Inadvertently tapping into someone’s soul is my small objective, and I have my husband to thank for getting to the core of what I’m doing and why.

And the grand-basset too.  She’ll never read my books, but that’s all right.  She can chase her tail instead.

Sunday mornings

My life is filled with routines; Grape Nuts nearly every day, alongside several cuppas.  A bagel, with cream cheese, for lunch.  Writing occurs in an orderly fashion, one chapter a day when I’m noveling, always in the morning when my brain is most engaged.  My son has Asperger’s, and sometimes I wonder if I gave it to him, or he lent it to me.  Autism touched our lives who knows how, but on some planes I am pretty OCD, or just plain anal.  It leads to a comforting schedule that can be broken, to provide relief.  And when I return to my happy zone, I’m even more pleased.

One of the best habits is shared with my spouse; Sunday mornings we travel to Los Gatos for breakfast.  Usually (again my routine flares) I have a Belgian waffle with fruit; summertime sees fresh strawberries, autumn and winter I prefer bananas.  Today French cakes were on special, with vanilla pudding filling, topped with homemade granola and strawbs.  I chose a full order, aware that one third would go home to my daughter.  (She inherits half the waffle every week.)  My husband ordered his usual eggs over medium, bacon, spuds with extra grilled onions, wheat toast.  It’s taken him five years to stop asking for brown bread, an English trait.  We chatted with a lovely gentleman who arrives as early as we do; it starts off the week, or ends it, with perfect harmony.

I’ll spend the rest of this morning writing the fourth chapter in the WIP, while doing laundry.  Perhaps some baseball this afternoon (SF Giants and Colorado Rockies), then maybe some American football this evening.  It’s just preseason, but I’m a dedicated fan, and it’s the lark of the first game of 2012.  Soon Sundays won’t only mean The Los Gatos Cafe (downtown), but a day filled with gridiron action.  Being early August, footie dreams are still a few weeks away.

Then for the next few months my Sundays will teem with excitement.  For now, that breakfast stands as a slice of heaven.  Life is very very good…