Goodbye Ferry, Goodbye Seattle

I believe I've ridden the ferry from Bainbridge Island over 1,000 times. Day in and day out, I embark and disembark 10 times per week, 10 hours of commute time. This gentle steel beast has glided through choppy, white-capped water, through a Sound as smooth as steel. It's been jostled by gales, bumped over waves. It's the place where I rediscovered my love for writing, and a place where I've devoured books and beer. Instead of viewing the ferry as part of an annoying commute, I viewed it as a place where I could relax both before and after work.

I will only ride the ferry another 10 times. This week will be my last few trips on the Wenatchee, or the Puyallup. It's been so long that I recognize people now - families with kids, a woman who wears the same boots and coat every day, men in neon biking gear. My fellow ferry commuters are like family, and I'll miss them. I'll miss the mirrored grays and blues of sky and sea.

But the time has come to move on. I'm going back to my hometown of Portland, Oregon, ready to rediscover its quirky neighborhoods, restaurants and bars. It's where my family lives, and many friends from high school and college. My boyfriend David got a great job there, and I'll take my time looking for employment. I'm going to focus on writing, cooking, relaxing. I've been working for 7 years straight, and I've got the itch to take a break. I'm looking forward to having space to think and exercise, to plan out meals and buy veggies from the organic produce stand. I'll miss newsradio and it's excitement, but I'll also enjoy the time off.

It's been an amazing run in Seattle and on KOMO Newsradio. I've worked as an editor, a desk journalist, an anchor and a reporter. I've interviewed celebrities, politicians, dignitaries, people doing good things in our community. I was in Key Arena when the roar for the campaigning Obama was so loud I could barely hear. I was in downtown Seattle when he won the election, when people closed Pine street with their glee and celebration. I've covered heartbreaking crime, acts of violence so devastating it took my breath away. I've meet some amazing friends and worked with talented people in Seattle who I'll never forget.

I'm changing the focus of my writing now. Instead of writing news every day, I'll write a blog about everything Portland. I grew up in Beaverton, and hardly ever explored the eccentric neighborhoods of the Rose City. Now I'll be living near Hawthorne street, and there will be plenty of fodder for blogging. I hope you'll join me on my new blog, called Portland 360.

http://www.khanes.wordpress.com/

Goodbye ferry, and goodbye Seattle. I know I'll be back! And if you're ever in town, please contact me for a drink or a walk or a bike ride. I'm very happy to be going home.

Writing a Book is Harder than I thought

All weekend long, the inspiration didn't hit. I sat staring at my computer screen, willing the creativity to flow through my brain, allowing me to write long, stunning passages of prose. Instead, the words were forced and erratic, cumbersome and nonsensical. I thought the story was going one direction, but the characters wouldn't budge. MOVE, I shouted at Arturo and Isabelle, DO SOMETHING. Instead, they laughed in my face, and stayed in place on paper. Sometimes, when the characters refuse to do what you want, you have to take a step back, and analyze where the story is going. I was making them move too fast. Isabelle told me to slow the heck down, no way was she ready to meet Arturo's parents. So I rethought where I was taking the story. When you hear fiction authors being interviewed after they write a book, they will often say the characters guide the story, that their fingers are just the vessel to allow these characters to speak. And when I get into the mindframe of my book, it happens like magic. My fingers fly, struggling to keep up with what the characters are saying. The scenery becomes as vivid as the real world around me, and I write with passion and intensity. Unfortunately, this didn't happen this weekend.

So far, I've written 44,171 words, and that's just a couple hundred more than I had last weekend. I woke up this morning, completely ready to write the scene that was playing in my head last night. The problem? I had 5 minutes to write, then had to catch the ferry to participate in my daily life of work, eating, surfing the Internet, etc. When my mind opens to the creative process, it's like a beam of light that shines straight through me, illuminating the way. I know exactly where I want to take the story, and exactly the way to describe it. One thing about being a writer is that each writer has a unique worldview, and unique way of putting words on paper. I want to tap into that uniqueness, instead of forcing the words to come.

At 155 pages, I believe my book is a little more than halfway done. That will complete a short fiction novel. I don't mind if its short, I just want the story to be complete. I want Isabelle and Arturo to find their way. I want to know how they plan on achieving their goals, what they will say to each other, what experiences they will have. Right now, my two main characters are suspended in time, waiting for their creator to give them life.

The Busy Bee

The fog is.
The fog is....

That's all I seem to be able to write. Similes and metaphors dance just beyond reach of my groggy mind, like there's a wedge stuck between my working brain and my conciousness. The words are there, moving, twirling, but I can't seem to recognize them. It's a frustrating way to wake up, especially when I set the alarm at 5:45am just to get a little fiction writing done. The gears of my brain were slow and rusted, and I watched the fog's wispy fingers wrap the tops of evergreen trees as I sat at my desk drinking coffee. I found myself staring out the window more than I looked at the blank page in front of me. The scene is there, the words or not, so I must sit and wait for them. There's no use rushing when all that comes out of my fingers is crap.

I know I have to be patient, that my body and mind will adjust to writing at such an ungodly hour. If I had my choice, I'd sit down to write at 730 or 830am, not 545am, but this is how my life is organized right now. Fiction on the ferry is tough, after work I play tennis, then eat dinner and visit with David. The early morning hours are the only time I have, so I must learn to make good use of them.

I also want to get back with blogging again, but the last two weeks have been a whirlwind of visitors. I love having visitors and welcoming them into my home, and I just accepted the fact that I wouldn't be writing during that time. Friends and family are so important to me, that everything else goes by the wayside when they are here, and that's fine.

But now I feel the seasons are changing. The air is getting cooler, the trees are rustling with impatience, ready to sleep. Fog is blurring the space between the ferry and Seattle, like tiredness blurs creativity. However, I know the paradigm will shift, until once again magic spreads itself on the blank pages in front of me.

The words become me

I haven't dug this deep into fiction since I was 14-16 years old, and wrote my first 100 page "book." I'd lock myself into the office with the doors closed and the lights down, sometimes listening to quiet music. I'd emerge myself in the story and become the main character, a young Native American girl living in the Great Plains as the white people encroached.

Now, I'm falling into my love story that takes place in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. I talk about my characters, Isabelle and Arturo, like they are real people. I live their conversations and their experiences. I find myself thinking about them all day long, and while I fall asleep. What adventuree, what misfortune will I put them through next time? How will they fall in love? What will they say to each other next? I'm having a hard time focusing on anything else.

Since the writer's conference I have written about 8,000 words, and am now close to 20,000. When a passage or scene works, I feel high. I emerge from the dark bedroom where I've locked myself, positively glowing. I feel like I've just been in San Miguel, on horseback, interacting with Arturo. On Sunday, I came out onto the deck to join David, where he was BBQ-ing dinner so I could write.

"So, if I have a crush on the man I am creating, does that mean I have a crush on myself?" I asked him, laughing.

"No, because he's probably your ideal man."

Interesting. The more I think about Arturo and traits I've given him, the more he reminds me of David. He is different though, with a different past, and passions. Different enough to be fiction.

I'm having the time of my life right now writing this book. I don't care if its published, I'm just enjoying the journey. When my 30-40 minutes of writing time runs out in the morning, I feel like I've just lost a piece of myself. I hope someday in my life I am fortunate enough to do this full time. Until then, many early mornings await.

A desk for a writer

I have a beautiful, wooden desk in the living room of my house which I absolutely love, tucked into a corner with windows all around. I can sit and write at that desk, if David is gone or asleep. His office is in a loft directly above the living room, and each chair creak or click of his mouse takes me away from the story I'm creating. So, I told him I wanted a card table in another room, where I can just go hide, stare at a wall, and be within my thoughts and the minds of my characters.

Immediately, David started looking on Craiglist for a desk. He showed me pictures of antiques and rolltops, and I would always answer, "a card table is fine." I felt bad he was spending so much time searching for the perfect desk for me. Even I wasn't looking.

Then, while out searching garage sales one Saturday morning, he found a desk for only 10 bucks. The woman had bought it at an antique store on Capitol Hill back in the 1960's, so the desk must be really old. It has waterstains on its oak top, and the drawers often get stuck. I absolutely loved it just the way it was. Then David decided to fix it up.

So he dragged the desk out on the porch, bought a sanding kit, and started with the top. He sanded for an hour before I got home, and then sanded some more. I could start to see the beautiful grain of the oak (and no, that is not a bald spot, its a spot on the camera lens).

He then started on the drawers, sweating with exertion. Sanding is hard work, especially without power tools.
When he's done with the sanding, he will stain the desk so it looks brand new, and says he's doing all of this to enable my writing, because he believes in my talent and creativity.This is another reason why David just ROCKS. I couldn't feel more loved.

Whew!

"Writers are strange people," said famous author Terry Brooks as spoke at a dessert reception at the SeaTac Hilton,"which means I'm standing in front of a roomfull of 500 really strange people." We all laughed and tittered in our chairs knowingly. Writers are strange people, and I've never felt so connected as I did at the Pacific Northwest Writers Conference.

The conversations were anything but normal. I sat next to an author Saturday night as we listened to speaker Jospeh Finder, a master of thrillers.

"Let's try to think of ways we can torture our main character," I said to her.

"Yeah! You have to think of the worst thing that can happen to your character, do it once, do it twice, and just when you think she's recovered, do it again! We play God."

"You guys are sick," another writer said, but smiled. She knew.

Another writer at the conference walked around carrying a giant demon skull. He's Royce Buckinhgham, the author of DemonKeeper, a movie that will soon be filmed in Seattle.

We'd make up characters on the fly, talk about how to write convincing dialogue, try to invent reasons why a pole was hanging down in the middle of a classroom window. Everywhere I went - in the elevator, in the seat beside me, drinking coffee, people would say:

"What are you working on?"

It was at this conference that I got inspired to write every day. I learned how to think about the storyline of my book, the characters, and reaching my goals. Sometimes I think the only reason why some people are published is the fact that they sit down to write every day. I think I could be published.

I have 15,000 words in my book, and I'm going to try to write 700 per day. I've reached my mark both yesterday and today, and surprisingly easily. Oops. Two adverbs. I'm going to throw myself over the deck. My goal is 75 to 80,000 words, and if I reach my writing goal every day, that should take me several months to finish a book. Then it's time for the rewrites. The months and months of rewrites.

Sorry if this post doesn't make a lot of sense. I'm a little bit entranced by my fictional world. Back to San Miguel!

The Gravity of San Miguel: Excerpt + Writer's Conference

I made a rash decision on Monday, and now I am both thrilled, and scared to death. I signed away some of my life savings to attend the Pacific Northwest Writer's Conference from July 30th to August 1st. It was luck of the draw that I'm working the morning reporter shift that Thursday and Friday, so don't have to take any days off. I'll attend sessions, meet with an agent, interact with other writers and editors. I'll see authors speak at dinners and desserts. I hope to be inspired, and learn a little bit more about what it takes to both finish and publish a novel. I really think it will be an amazing experience, if I'm not too tired to soak it all in. I am deathly afraid though. What if they think my ideas suck? What if the world of publishing seems too daunting? I just have to suck it up, and get over it. In honor of my fear, I will post some more of my fiction on this blog for the world to see. Gotta start somewhere.

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THE GRAVITY OF SAN MIGUEL - ANOTHER EXCERPT

Earthy cobblestones massaged my feet as I walked down Piedras Chinas toward the center of town. The little road was only wide enough for the taxi that had dropped me off 30 minutes prior, and I sat gaping out the window as we bounced down side streets that overlapped and looped like a maze. The buildings were short and bright colored stucco; walls holding me in.

My apartment was exactly like the pictures, and the owners had left a little book with their favorite things in San Miguel, and tips of the trade. They told me about a woman several streets down who serves fresh juice every morning. They described how to get my water, take out the trash, and use the telephone. The rooftop terrace was stunning; with a wooden table and views of the town’s center far below. The spires of the parroquia dwarfed all the buildings, reaching to scrape the sky with their pink tips. I couldn’t wait to see it up close.

The air was balmy and warm for an October evening, and I wore jeans, a T-shirt and a light coat. I passed lots of foreigners on my way down, all of whom smiled and nodded. An elderly Mexican man with a sombrero flicked a stick at a trail of burros saddled with wares. He smiled at me, and I noticed gaps in his teeth.

Everywhere I looked, doors opened into courtyards with fountains, little shops, restaurants, and bars. Each building was a secret: you never knew what you might find behind each ornate door. At night I suspected they’d lock up tight, leaving no evidence of their daytime lives, leaving passerby to only guess.

I could hear the music before I even rounded the bend: salsa music played entirely with marimbas. The beat drew me closer as the sun threw my shadow onto stucco and wood. The men were playing in a gazebo in the center of a park with trees trimmed like squares. People spun and swayed on a makeshift dance floor and crowded the benches. Children ran freely and whites mingled with Mexicans. I’d never seen the two races look so equal, and I watched with wonder. In California, I always saw Mexican men with low slung jeans, women with heavy eyeliner, and trucks that skimmed the ground. Here Mexicans were well-dressed and smiling, entire families hanging out for a peaceful evening.

It was then I saw the parroquia. My eyes had been so focused on the music and people I didn’t even see it looming into view on my left. It was what Steve called “magic hour”, when the sun was low to the horizon, illuminating colors with its orange glow. Tears once again pricked my eyes in the face of so much beauty. The church was intricate, with carved columns and bell towers. I’m not a religious person, but the sight of the parroquia was enough to make me want to kneel with grace, and pray.

I wandered back to find a place to sit to enjoy the music. Spanish tumbled around me, punctuated with laughter. I saw a young Mexican couple holding hands on a bench, stealing kisses, and suddenly missed Steve. He’d been here before. He’d walked along these narrow cobblestone streets. He’d found love within the walls of this romantic city in the middle of Mexico. I wondered if he was different then, if clothes didn’t matter, if money didn’t matter. I wondered what had made him change, and if I’d ever see him again. Funny how I could miss a person so much, who had driven me totally nuts in Seattle. I guess the familiar can create illusions, lock people in. I tried to push him from my mind, and enjoy the sublime moment I was living. I wanted someone to miss and care for, someone to enjoy this with, but I knew it had to be the right person, not just the “right now” person.

Half an hour later, I walked back to my apartment, feeling a little sad and lonely. The cast iron streetlights glowed yellow, illuminating tiny cobblestone mountains. I felt like I could be wandering the streets of Paris, or Rome, both trips I had done many times before, with and without men. It was hard to believe I was in the middle if a third world country overtaken by drug lords, kidnappings, and be-headings. I breathed in the mountain air and felt at peace for several moments as I walked up the steep hill to my new apartment.

Kerk and Spok Forever

The cardboard box sitting on my front porch looks normal from the outside, but on the inside, it's a treasure trove of my past. There are spiral notebooks filled with slanty, uneven writing, T-shirts I wore when I was 6 years old, paintings and drawings I made as a child. I found one journal from 1988, a blue spiral notebook filled with the strange ramblings of a 7 year old. My ramblings at that tender age were about Star Trek. Not Barbies. Not My-little-Ponies. Star Trek.

"Kerk got a new Enter Prize. When they took off the computer said, Worp 1, Worp 2, Worp 3, Worp 4. Jim winked at I don't know who but that was my favorite part because I didn't know he could wink."

"Then there was a red alert and this strang thing came abourd and struck a lady and made a modle of her. Than they went to Vegar and there was a big mechine that was lanched more than 300 years ago. Than one of Jim's crew wanted something as bad as Captine Cerk wanted the enterprize."

Yes, I was writing these things as a 7 year old, and apparently, that was how I comprehended the first major motion Star Trek picture. David and I read my writing and laughed out loud at the crazy spelling, and the fact that I was a Trekkie before I entered 2nd grade. That explains a lot about who I am, and I realized, that I really haven't changed much.

I think the only thing that's really changed is that fact that I've grown up, and sometimes it's hard to pluck imagination out of thin air like I did when I was a child. Now I'm thinking about bills and cooking and exercising and commuting. I stress out about deadlines and stories and interviews. I used to love to make up stories about mouse families that had a raccoon for a daughter and a "bere" for a son. Now I write stories about murders and Chase financial.

In the box I found books on writing and selling your first novel that I'd read back in middle school, and creative writing essays with big blue "A"s. This box of goodies has been a true reminder of who I really am: a writer. I have to keep plugging toward that goal, no matter how hard it becomes, no matter how broke I get. Whatever it takes, I have to stay true to myself.

The Gravity of San Miguel: Excerpt Two

I hardly ever have time to write, but sometimes I manage to clear the clutter from my brain and attempt to write in fiction. Below is a little bit more from something I'm writing called, "The Gravity of San Miguel."

Twenty minutes later we boarded the bus to San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. An attendant handed out ham sandwiches and a drink, and I found my seat. I was surprised at how nice it was; I’d never been on a bus in the United States this luxurious. There were only 24 seats on board the entire coach, each reclined almost fully. There was a drink holder for my Diet Coke, air conditioning, televisions, a large window with curtains, and the bathroom area was cordoned off with a glass wall to keep the smell out. A couple of white people also got on board, and a woman with gray streaks in her hair caught my eye and smiled. I could get used to this type of traveling, I thought as I turned on my I-pod.
It seemed to take forever to get out of Mexico City. We drove past ramshackle neighborhoods with tiny houses stretching up the rolling hills. I stared at Mexicans on street corners, operating fruit stands, selling churros. One lady washed laundry in her front yard in a big plastic tub, while kids with long, black hair frolicked nearby. I smiled when I saw a girl in bright pink shorts, and wondered what her life was like. Even though many areas looked poor, the homes were still brightly colored, like they were trying to infuse happiness into struggling people.
When we reached the open Mexican countryside, it was like we were in Texas. Cacti dotted the rolling brown hills, and I could imagine John Wayne racing toward us on horseback, whooping and hollering with his gun raised. I saw lonely houses with burros tied to sticks, sprawling farms, and Mexican families waiting at bus stops. When I saw the sign for “Querertaro”, I knew we were close. I’d see my new home in a little over an hour.
The bus wheezed to a stop at what looked like a toll booth. Guards wearing green fatigues and holding machine guns patrolled up and down the street. They looked stern, and frowned at our bus. Suddenly I felt very frightened. I imagined bullets riddling the side of the ETN coach, ducking for cover, getting kidnapped. My heart pounded in my chest, but the other white people on board didn’t seem the least bit nervous. It looked like they were comfortable in Mexico, like they’d done this before. Of course, my fears were unfounded, and we were soon on the road again.

* * *

There are some instances in our lives when time seems to stand still. The moment washes over us and freezes, enveloping us in suspended animation. Every sense is optimized as we melt into our surroundings; even the tiny vellus hairs on our skin speak in rapid-fire code to our brains. It's the type of moment we'd live in forever, if we could choose. I had this experience the first time I ever laid eyes on San Miguel de Allende, Mexico.
As the bus rose over the last hill to the city, it felt as though we were flying. It was slow-motion, the way my heart rose in my chest; then pounded hard against my ribcage. The stucco buildings came into view against the piercing blue sky, and tears that tasted like ocean crested in a tidal wave and streamed down my cheeks. The hills cocooned the homes that rolled in a red carpet to the magnificent pink parraoquia. Emotion was delicious inside me, scraping away the self-doubt and worry. For the first time in my life, I felt as though I was in the right place. Suddenly, inexplicably, I was home.
“Beautiful, isn’t it.” The American woman I'd seen before turned in her seat, her wide smile crinkling her eyes.
“Yes, I had no idea how much so,” I said, feeling sheepish as I brushed tears away.
“Are you visiting, going to live?” she asked.
“I’m moving here from Seattle. I had to get away from the rat race for a little while, figure out what I want to do with my life.”
“Congratulations,” she said, “I’ve lived here for 6 years now. I haven’t been able to leave. My husband lives in Chigaco, I live here, and we commute back and forth to see each other. It’s hard, but, I love San Miguel too much to leave.”
“Wow, I’m not sure if I want to stay that long, but I’m excited to take a break from ordinary life.”
“Nothing in San Miguel is ordinary,” she told me, “It’s like there’s a pull here, a magnet, a gravity. You may never escape.” She smiled again, but I could tell she wasn’t joking.
“I’m Isabelle,” I told her.
“Kathy,” she said, “So nice to meet you.”
I jotted down her number and settled back in my seat. Our bus bumped and swayed over the narrow roads and down to the bus station. I couldn’t wait to get to my apartment, put down my bags, and explore my new home.

Dreamin'

I'm sitting here at my desk made of smooth, dark wood, and staring out the window as dusk falls between the trees. Potted red tulips tinged with yellow are wilting, their stamens dusted with pollen, ready for bees that will never come. I'm sitting here imagining that I'm a writer, or a blogger with a thousand readers. What would it be like to know that so many minds are waiting to consume my words? What would it be like to write another chapter, an intimate dialogue, a poignant scene?

I've often heard that the lives of writers are dreary and lonely, that they plod away at their computers hour after hour, without any other human interaction but the fictional characters in their heads. It's a life I've always longed for, but don't quite know how to accomplish. I hear stories of the high school teacher who woke up at 5am for 5 years in a row to finish his first novel, or Stephen King, who worked 2 days jobs, got dozens of rejection letters, but stayed up all night writing. I want to be a writer, but I don't have that type of drive after a long day taxing my brain as a news reporter, and 2 hours of commuting.

There is one time of day that my mind is truly open to creativity, and writing. 7am, when I'm well-rested, my brain's fresh and new, and there's a steaming coffee cup nearby. But I only have 10 minutes to write in my journal at this time of day, then I'm rushing to work to make another dollar. There isn't time within the day to pursue what I really want, to write, something I feel with an ache so profound inside me.

I used to stay up late nights as a teenager in high school to write, and wrote a 100 page novella. I loved the way characters danced in my mind's eye, how I got to know them, how I felt their emotions. They came to life on pages that moved as fast as my fingers could write. I sent out several query letters to agents, but of course, all I recieved in return were rejection letters.

These rejections don't phase me, however. I just need time, and a good plot. Until I have those two things, I'm not sure how I will accompish writing a book and becoming an author. For now, I can sink into the melodramatic wonder of Star Trek: The Next Generation, until I'm able to create a strange new world of my own.