"You've got to find some way of saying it without saying it." -Duke Ellington

Above: Moniack Mhor, where I've been fortunate to spend some time recently. My wonderful writing group ended last week, and the best thing I learned is how differently people create their work. One carefully crafts each word, taking his time to create beautifully written sentences. Another is harsh, deliberate, almost violent in his choices. Another utilizes an acerbic wit, laced with unspoken heartbreak. Another's feminine voice seems to ooze glitter and makeup and glamour. I am in awe of how differently people can interpret a similar task, how disparate our brains are when cranking out creativity.

And I've learned that the way I do things is fine, too. I've read every book out there about 'how to' write fiction, and while I appreciate insight into how others create, the connecting thread is the mere act of putting fingers to keyboard. I've completed the first draft of a book in five months, the fastest I've ever churned out a book. Now it's redrafting time, editing time, looking for holes and inconsistencies and things that don't work. I like this part, especially when I read something and forget I've written it, or when I find a part that sings. Keeping Duke's words at the front of my mind: say it without saying it.

Narcissism and self-deception are survival mechanisms without which many of us might just jump off a bridge. - Todd Solondz

Note to self: planning a wedding (sorry, a wedding and a party, on different continents), renovating a flat, learning to drive and finishing a novel while working part-time doth not make light work. This is not a pity-me post, but it is a disclaimer of sorts if this ends up being a narcissistic glimpse into the relatively unstable Krambling mind. (As if blogs are really anything but narcissistic glimpses into the writer's mind, but nevermind.)

NG1 (narcissistic glimpse number one): Another day, another email from a friend saying they can't make it over for the wedding, or to Wichita for the soiree there. I suppose everyone goes through this, but it still sucks. I've never been one of those girls who has planned her wedding since age 4, but I have had The Dream, where everybody I've ever adored from everywhere I've lived gathers together in a huge clump of one-degree-of-separation-ness and scatters, like marbles or jacks, some sticking together and others repeling each other and me thrilled that this blending of the social groups is working. August 1 will be a glorious day with wonderful friends, but there will be some huge holes. In Scotland, they have a wonderful tradition that those who can't make it send cards to be read aloud on the night, then a toast is made to them all. I like that idea. Though it'd be yet another chance to ruin my eye makeup.

NG2: I've been acclimating to the Highlands in two ways that scare me. 1) I think 15 degrees Celsuis/59 degrees Fahrenheit is 'hot'. 2) Whilst in Edinburgh and Glasgow last week, I kept thinking how crowded the streets were, how many people were about, how people were invading my personal space. (And these aren't big cities - 600K in Glasgow, 400K in the Burgh.) It must be the Highland air morphing my brain into mush.

NG3: This is why I LOVE ITALY.

NG4: I failed my driving test today. I haven't failed a test in a very long time. It was due to 'roadworks' as they call it in the UK, where I gave the workers 'too much space' (i.e. I was too far over in the right lane). I am very, very annoyed. "Bad luck," said the Weegie* examiner whose accent I likely insulted by asking him to repeat himself with each command. Failing sucks, too. But it's made better by again glimpsing the above photo.

NG5: The New Baby is nearly gestated. I've been quiet about this one, as it's a tough subject and a tough book to write, though I'm feeling good about it. Hoping to have it ready by the end of June. Fingers crossed.

The top photo is of Turkish lamps and the mountains above Lago Lugano. I'm still on a bit of a high from the trip there. Some connections are tough to break.

*Glaswegian. Some have very difficult accents to comprehend,

Great things are done when men and mountains meet. - William Blake

The EasyJet to Milan is always amusing, but yesterday’s smacked me into the middle of Italianland - the plane was full of tweens and teens clad in tight jeans, pointy shoes and gold belts. Their rapid-fire speech challenged my rudimentary Italian, but I got the gist of things (most were talking about Edinburgh shopping). And landing in Milan felt more familiar than landing anywhere else.

My friends Masa and Tamara picked me up, and as the Alps became visible on the horizon I felt the warming sensation of home. Perhaps that’s because I’ve spent more time in Lugano than anywhere else since I moved abroad eight years ago, and every time I see these glorious mountains I find myself truly relaxed. As we curled up the Collina d’Oro to the TASIS campus and the hilltop village of Montagnola, I had to pinch myself.

I last waved goodbye to Lugano in late July 2007, though a place like this is never far from my heart or my subconscious. I have dreams of Lugano a few times a month, always vivid and colorful (yes, I am certain I dream in color). I have this term I rarely use, sick beautiful, when a view is extraordinarily glorious, majestic, beyond what we mortals should ever see. This region of Italy and Switzerland resonates with me on a level that I don’t understand, but will continue to indulge, because I yearn for this place.

Returning somewhere familiar is both awkward and riveting. Small things - fresh paint on the facade of a house, a new signpost - become reminders that this place existed without me, and didn’t really miss my presence. Seeing old friends and colleagues last night was wonderful, though vetting strange looks from those who took my place tinged the atmosphere bittersweet. I’m sure it’s the first of many deliciously uncomfortable moments that lie ahead this week, as I become an interloper in a place I used to call ‘home’.

It’s raining today, but a soft, clear Ticino rain, so different to the Highland drizzle. Spring rain in Lugano freshens the landscape, enlivens the layers of bright, satiny greens. The magnolia trees are in bloom, fragrant wisteria clings to terraces, and the palm trees sport bright new leaves. The timing of this visit is deliberate; spring is when Lugano sings with renewal and wonder.

Earlier, I trotted across the road to the Pan au Vin, the tiny, extortionately-priced village shop with inconsistent hours and a grumpy manageress, and spent far too long drooling over the sparse but compelling selection. Even this tiny shop stocks the highest quality fresh pesto, jars of olives, sundried tomato paste and truffle risotto. I wasn’t the keenest of chefs when I lived here. Now that I’ve begun to enjoy the creative part of cuisine, I have a feeling much of my week will be spent browsing and salivating in markets and delis. The food of this region is among my favorite in the world.

A week of vacation here is a dream. Working here, I had to force myself to chill out and remember the view between commitments and grading papers and duties. Life becomes life no matter what the backdrop. But now, I’ve got a glorious week to fill with conversation, writing, savouring - falling back in love with this amazing place, on my terms. I’m a lucky lassie.

When it's played the way it's supposed to be played,

"...basketball happens in the air; flying, floating, elevated above the floor, levitating the way oppressed peoples of this earth imagine themselves in their dreams." ~ John Edgar Wideman

It's a dilemma. Every March I ask myself why again I moved abroad. I remember my first March, in 2002, in Prague, going to school before 7am to check ESPN on a dial-up modem to check the scores. KU was a #1 seed that year, and lost to Kentucky in the Final Four - I spent thousands of Czech crowns on the phone to my parents in despair. Technology had improved in 2003, when I stole the keys to my Lisbon school to listen to the championship game in the wee hours of the morning (which was sadly lost to Syracuse) while spending nearly a hundred Euros on the phone to my parents in despair. In 2004 we made it as far as the Elite Eight, losing to Georgia Tech; I listened to it at a friend's flat, deep into the night. There's little lonelier than a 3-am loss. I'd moved to Slovenia by 2005, and had internet at my flat, but didn't bother with the first round match (we NEVER lose in the first round) which we lost to Bucknell. (Where? Who? Exactly.) Side note: I did win 3000 tolars in the Slovenian-based US Marine-sponsored bracket challenge, which was presented to "Mr Pedroja" because they "figured a girl'd never get that many right". A first-round loss again in 2006. (I think my living in Slovenia was a bad thing for the Jayhawks.) Things started looking better again in 2007, when I was living in Switzerland, had internet at home and got to WATCH (!!!) the games live thanks to CBS...and the Hawks rid themselves of the first-round curse and made it to the Elite Eight before losing to UCLA. And then, last year, which my loyal readers (Mom) will remember resulted in a national championship. What was that again? Oh, yes, a NATIONAL CHAMPIONSHIP.

Few people understand the passion for this game. Some football fans kinda get it - Barcelona, Benfica, the occasional AC Milan/Inter fan might get it - but most think 'basket' is just a primitive version of the game they see in their local leagues where washed-up NBA players go to die. College basketball is so much more than this. It's the yearning these kids exude, the evocative sense of potential that envelops each of these talented young people. It's the Big Decision, to go to college or go pro, to stay beyond their sophomore year. It's the pomp and circumstance, the bands, the cheerleaders, the zealous fans with their heads bursting with irrelevant statistics, the mascots, the storied fieldhouses where the magic happens. It's the speed, the creativity, the knowledge that if you blink you might miss one of the best shots in the history of the game. It's the grin on the face of a young man who just slammed in a beautiful dunk. It's the breathless pause when a hand curls mid-air, pushing the ball from beyond the 3-point line, and the soft whirr of the net when it goes in. It's the good-natured rivalries, the ability to admit you were outplayed on the day but you are thrilled that you got to see a good game of basketball. And in this tournament, it's knowing that anything can happen, that anyone can be the hero.

The Sweet Sixteen is on Friday night. Tipoff is 1:30am Scotland time. I don't think I could have done this living abroad thing without the internet.

To get a taste of it...here's a rockin' ad from this year's Madness.

In our own little worlds, we're all gods

I'm not sure if this is news anywhere else other than Britain, but the press are having fun with author Julie Myerson and her new book, The Lost Child, about her teenage son's cannabis use and how it has affected her family. Her son, who is now 20, has told the press that while he read a draft of it, he does not agree with much of what the book contains; he says "What she has done has taken the very worst years of my life and cleverly blended it into a work of art, and that to me is obscene". (Here's the father's side of the story, if you're inclined.) Initially scheduled to come out in May, Bloomsbury has decided to bring the book out early. Myerson appeared on a BBC news show the other morning and, after much dithering about the content and whether it was necessary to publicize a very private experience, said "people shouldn't judge until they read the book." Fair enough, and rock on, sister. Content aside, you've engineered a PR campaign sure to put you at the top of the nonfiction bestseller list. And likely ruined your relationship with your child forever.

At one point in an interview, Jake Myerson says of his mother: "She's a writer and like a lot of writers she is wrapped up in her own world - even if the worlds they are creating aren't quite true, they become true to them anyway, and I wasn't prepared to let her world colour mine any more." An impressive observation for a teenager, and it haunts me as a writer who might breed one day. Writers are wrapped up in our own worlds, where we play god, we get to control everything. The book I'm working on now deals with power, aggression and the negative impact of this on the psyche, and I do have to psychologically remove myself from being inside the story before dealing with the real world. This imbalance, teetering between the dreamworld I'm desperately trying to put into words and the smack of daily life, is difficult to sustain. I can see how it might ooze into family life if a writer isn't meticulous in his/her ability to switch off. (Though we can't ever switch off, really; the story is always in the background, humming, like a refrigerator, closed for now but you know what's inside and can't help planning meals, wondering if you're out of milk, etc.)

In other booky news, two literary agents hosted “QueryFail” on Twitter. Numerous editors and agents took part to expose some of the more ridiculous letters they have received, and the site JacketFlap put together a list of delights. Sometimes I am overwhelmed by the number of people out there trying to write books, then I read lists such as this and am thankful that I'm a few steps ahead of the masses.

You can fall in love at first sight with a place as with a person. - Alec Waugh

I'm a bit of a floozy when it comes to falling in love with places...the one I remember first was when I was a child and thought Kansas City was the most sophisticated place in the world. I remember writing stories about gondolas in Venice and Paddington Bear in London and bagpipers in Scotland in grade school, and dreaming of Manhattan's lights as a teenager. That inherent passion for the change of place isn't easily squelched.

Currently I'm dreaming about six weeks from now, when I go back to Lugano to visit friends and students and feed my soul again. I've been missing Italy so much it hurts. I find myself daydreaming about wandering the back streets of Como and stopping at the tiny wine shop for prosecco and tastes of their recent finds. If I try I can smell the damp scent of Venice melting with the smells from the fish market and a local restaurant. I can feel the cold vibe inside the cathedral in Assisi. I haven't been in Italy since July 2007. That's the longest I've gone without bella italia since 1998.

I was thinking of Italy yesterday while browsing my local WH Smiths (there are no independent bookshops* in Inverness; someone, please, open one) and swimming in that wonderful redolence of new books. I bought two, partly because they were half-price (two for under a tenner!) and partly because they excited me, as travel excites me. Like a new book, an upcoming holiday is bought with anticipation and excitement, without knowing what one might learn while on the journey. Perhaps the correlation doesn't end there; what is more important? Is it the planning, the anticipation, holding the book in your hand? The time between purchase and consumption, when you know a bit about what will happen, but not the full story? The journey itself, whether through the air to distant lands or in Times New Roman? Everything that happens from the first day, the first page, to the last? Or the aftermath, the memory, the satisfaction of finishing the last word and turning the book over to look at the cover again, for the last time as a reader, before placing it on the shelf, savoring every photo before filing them away in iPhoto until the next wistful moment?

I've shelved the second novel. For many reasons, most importantly that it lacks that 'wow' factor that is needed to invest in first-time novelists right now - a fair statement by my agent, though gutting at the time. (Again, I forgot to become famous before attempting fiction. Oh well.) This isn't an emergency for a writer - we've got ideas coming all the time, and I have notebooks filled with story ideas and characters and situations and other nonsense to squidge together. And I know the 'wow' book, and I've been avoiding writing it for years, and it's time to put it into the universe. I'll have a first draft by the end of the month.

The push came even before I heard from my agent. One of the most challenging and provocative books I've read in years is The Fahrenheit Twins by Michel Faber, a book we read in my book club. Another book that has really stuck in my head is We Need to Talk About Kevin by Lionel Shriver, an intense journey into the life of a mother. I want to create a book with that sort of impact, a concept that stays with the reader through years of conversations and reminders. That's the goal. Nobody ever rocked the world with anything mediocre or safe. (Visualize me punching the air and yelling, frat-boy style.)

*Leaky's doesn't count; it's glorious, especially when the peat fire is on, but it only sells used books.

The object of a new year is not that we should have a new year. It is that we should have a new soul. - G.K. Chesterton

Some days I sit down to write this blog and realize that my life is incredibly dull. And after writing all day it’s difficult to find a voice for the rest of my life. My first Scottish Christmas was great; woke up and M opened his birthday pressies, then we had Christmas dinner with friends, who let us crash their family day. I had my first bread pudding, trifle, sherry, brussels sprouts - a great day of firsts. We were lucky to have three sets of friends visit for New Year, and spent a few lazy days chatting, eating and walking along the sea. The first day of 2009 we wandered along Nairn Beach, a stunning stretch of sand a half hour from Inverness. Such a relaxing way to bring in the new year.
I started a creative writing class in January. I’ve been hesitant about this sort of thing; I was involved in a writing group in Seattle years ago and it frequently turned quite nasty - people stealing ideas, catfights, etc. But this class has been excellent so far. The tutor is an American woman called Cynthia who has lived in the Highlands for 30+ years. She is the director of a creative writing retreat a few miles outside Inverness, and has had a novel and numerous short stories published. There are 10 of us, and we’re all anonymous except for our writing. It’s refreshing to be around people who don’t define themselves by their work, or their families, their hometown - it’s just about the writing. We begin the class with a physical prompt, and so far Cynthia has used photographs, Missing Persons ads and a tin of bric-a-brac, and we write for ten minutes. The second half of the class we read out our work, be it from a prompt given in the prior class or another piece we’re working on. The group is eclectic, most in their 30s and 40s, some writing for the first time, others in a similar stage to me.

It’s been a good thing. I haven’t written in a focused environment like this (other than one-day workshops) since my university courses. Limiting us to 150 words, then 500 words has been excellent for brevity. Focusing on a topic is also good; the topics have been cliche, so finding an angle that pushes the subject has been challenging. And it’s inspiring watching others find their voices.
We went back to Shetland last week, as M picked up some locum shifts during a week off work. It was interesting being back, and nothing had changed, not that I had expected anything to be that different, other than that the Somerfield supermarket now is a Tesco. A few shops had a new lick of paint, but otherwise the things I found wonderful and frustrating about life on that island are still both wonderful and frustrating. Lattes still take 25 minutes, the seals are still uber-curious, the food at local restaurants is delicious as long as you are there when the chefs can be bothered to cook. In all, a perfect week away to remind me why I should appreciate Inverness. Below, a sheep posing in the Highland countryside.
Finally, the world lost a special woman on January 27. Mary Crist Fleming went to Radcliffe when Harvard wouldn't admit women. She was the first woman to be approved for a mortgage in Switzerland. She once got out of a speeding ticket by offering the carabinieri a gin and tonic from her glove box. She founded TASIS in 1956, amid a male-dominated European education community. I remember meeting her in the summer of 2003, at a garden party at Casa Fleming, the house with a 17th century tower where MCF stayed while in Lugano. She was clad in a black dress, her makeup was perfect and her fingers gripped a cocktail. Her wit was scathing and quick; her heart was huge, and her memory sharp for a woman in her 90s. Her voice was low and sexy; this was a woman with a story to tell. She was captivating. And I thank her for creating TASIS, a place where I met some of the best people that I know.

Education is man's best hope for a better world. - Mary Crist Fleming, 1910 - 2009