Long before there was Facebook, I’ve thought about networks. It started in earnest when I was writing my dissertation, examining the networks of reputation and social credit that existed in neighborhoods and communities in 16th and 17th century England. That got me thinking about reputation in the modern world. It’s no less important now, and at its core, it’s based on very similar principles: how well does the individual uphold and abide by the mores of the community in which s/he lives?

My own networks include people I met in school (any of the many schools I’ve attended), other parents at my daughters’ schools, my friends from writing groups, my friends from dreamwork, my neighbors, my family. Some of the groups are close-knit and well established. Others are more fluid. Some memberships overlap. Friends of friends create new circles. People who are in more than one critique group create critique group “cousins” who meet and often start new friendships at conferences and workshops.

In the old days–twenty-five years ago, say–those networks held together by proximity or snail mail. I have quite a collection of letters from high school and college friends, physical records of the friendships we shared. (And I wonder if they have my old letters somewhere!) Now, of course, it’s much more likely to be email or phone calls. Or Facebook. The advantage to social networking in the ether is that it’s easy to stay in touch with a lot of people at once. If I have big news, or just something quick to say, I can update my status and my dozens of  “friends” will get the message. The disadvantage is that this method of communication reduces our exchange of thoughts to little bites, often of little real consequence. It’s like a buffet of hors d’oeuvres at a big party instead of an intimate luncheon or dinner.

My first plunge into Facebook brought me back into contact with friends I’d had little or no contact with for years. Friends from high school, mostly, including the boy I first really kissed. Those friends are all grown up and, for the most part, married, off living their own lives. But being back in touch brings up all sorts of memories. What that first kiss was like, how my heart was badly bruised by another of my friends, how my girl friends and I spent way too much time talking about boys. All of it grist for the mill, as any writer knows, but if it weren’t for Facebook, it wouldn’t be, well, in my face.

The computer age has certainly made it easier to maintain and build networks. One of my groups of friends has, thanks to email, held together for more than twenty years even though we’ve scattered across the county. Some of them are on Facebook with me. And some of my Facebook friends are people I hardly know, but have met through writers’ conferences and listserves. But the real magic of it for me is being able to reconnect with friends. As much as I’d love to have face-to-face reunions with the people I knew way back when, touching thoughts through the ether is a wondrous thing.

It’s all about accommodation. My daughter and I avoid eating gluten because it adversely affects our health. At home, after about seven months of this diet, we’ve adapted quite well. My daughter takes her own lunch to school, but she’s always done that, so that wasn’t a big adjustment. But when we travel, all bets are off. Try finding foods in an airport that don’t contain wheat flour, barley malt, or wheat extracts. A salad with no croutons might do it, but the dressing could be a problem. Try adapting to the habits and comfort foods of an extended family of 13 people, when only two are on this diet. Sometimes they make changes for us, but most often, we provide our own alternate dishes to eat. At family-style,”American” restaurants, most often the only gluten-free options are salads and French fries. But we learned the hard way that you always have to ask how food is made–the last place we ordered fries, they came “battered,” which meant they had wheat flour all over them. The waitress brought my daughter cantaloupe and sliced raw carrots, but that didn’t make much of a lunch for a kid.

Sometimes I get discouraged about educating folks around us about our needs, or eating carrots while everyone else is enjoying a full meal. But then this morning, I got a call from the father of one of my daughter’s friends. He’s hosting his son’s birthday party next week, and was calling to let me know that they’re making gluten-free muffins for the party and wanted to know if there was a particular kind of frosting that I could recommend so they could make the muffins more like cupcakes. I told him how much I appreciate his thoughtfulness, and he said his son “wants to be sure we get this right.” That effort to make my daughter comfortable and a full participant in the party has cheered my whole day.

We all have our challenges and struggles in life. Sometimes, they are widely shared (the economic downturn, a big storm, climate change), and sometimes they are personal. The ways in which we help each other, from the small gestures to the big sacrifices, remind us of the better side of our shared humanity. Sometimes we make the effort to help others, and sometimes we are able to accept assistance. Here’s hoping I can do both with grace and good cheer.

It’s been over a week now, and I’m starting to emerge from the Nanowrimo headspace. The goal was 50,000 words in a month, which I reached on November 26th. I kept writing, though, because the story had me in its clutches by then. On the 28th, I thought I was done. But two more scenes rattled around in my head all night, and I wrote one each on the following two days. On the 30th, there it was, a completed first draft of Birdie’s Journal.

This week I’ll read it over, because I’ve already had ideas on things I want to fix and straighten and deepen. And because I’m not really ready to leave the characters behind. Usually I take much longer to write my first drafts, and so get more time with the story floating along in my head as my alternate reality of choice. Nanowrimo was a faster and more intense acquaintance, too soon over.

Writing a first draft is always more than a little magic: how the unconscious mind places little hints and moments early on that become crucial later, how the story threads intertwine, and, in the case of Nanowrimo, how the story exactly filled up the allotted writing time. Most of the time it feels like I’m not really the creative agent, but rather that I just show up and open the tap and make myself available to take dictation.

Week two of Nanowrimo is drawing to a close. I’m at 23,045 words on Birdie’s Journal, which is slightly ahead of the strict schedule of 1667 words a day. It’s been an exhilarating process so far, though I can imagine that if I hadn’t done my page-a-day for so long already it would be more intense. The idea is to let that first draft out without any editing at all, but I can’t resist tweaks here and there. It doesn’t slow me down much.

Never having done this before, I didn’t really know what to expect. There have been several pleasant surprises along the way. One is the mood boost I’ve gotten from writing so much. Rather than exhausting me, the process seems to rev me up. The second surprise was the collection of fun pep talks. So far, in addition to those from Nanowrimo’s founding father, Chris Baty, I’ve received messages from Phillip Pullman, Jonathan Stroud, and Katherine Paterson. Where else can you get free writing advice from the bigwigs? The third surprise has been the forums. Now, I’ve begun to appreciate that the forums could be the biggest procrastination tool of the whole process. Thousands upon thousands of messages await. But I posted a question and have received several thoughtful and insightful responses. I’m grateful to my fellow Wrimos for taking the time to share their experiences with me.

I doubt that the novel will be done at 50,000 words, but I see its shape more clearly than I usually do at this point in a story. So, a big tip of the hat to Chris Baty and his dedicated team.

This week may top all others in immensity of psychic energy experienced, used, and drained away. Election day I volunteered as a monitor at the local school where two precincts were voting, and then did a shift as a runner, taking food out to poll watchers and bringing back the lists of folks who still might need reminding to go vote. That night provided a huge catharsis for the tension, hope, anxiety, yearning, and work of the campaign season. Barack Obama’s speech, the footage of Jesse Jackson in tears, the crowds of joyous Americans…I’m so very grateful that I lived to see the day. I appreciated the seriousness of Obama’s speech, the lack of cheap promises for easy fixes. His eloquence, as always, touched my heart. The next day, I thought more about what having Michelle Obama as a first lady will mean to this country. During the campaign, I received a recorded call from her, and was impressed by the measured cadence of her voice, the calm that she evoked. Thank you, America, for making this possible.

The Saturday before the election, I started Nanowrimo. I’d never signed up in previous years, because it seemed silly to churn out yet another first draft to sit among the other first drafts that have piled up over the years, awaiting their turns at thorough editing. But this year, I had a dream that, when I worked it with some friends, pointed me clearly toward writing the novel I’d been toying with starting. (The dream also had layers about the election, all entwined together as dream symbols so often are.) So I figured I’d give it a try. After all, it wouldn’t be so different from what I’ve been doing for nine years, right? The pages would just pile up faster.

Actually, so far, that’s turned out to be true. My writing sessions take longer, of course, since I’m writing about five or six times as much per day as my previous minimum. But it’s not the first time I’ve had work pour through me this steadily, and this novel is truly begging to be written. Today, I worked the dream again with Jeremy Taylor, and found more affirmation that writing the novel is the right thing to be doing now, in part because its themes tie in deeply with the question of race in America. I’m so very grateful that two intelligent, well-spoken, responsible individuals will be our next president and first lady. And I’m grateful, in the way I was grateful when the Berlin Wall fell, that a historic barrier has finally crumbled. I am hopeful that Barack and Michelle can, by being themselves, erode the negative projections that we’ve historically visited on people with African ancestry in this country. Though, as I write that, I’m reminded that if we go back far enough in our human ancestry, we all have our roots in that rich continent.

I hope I can grasp hold of my own squirmy projections long enough to dissect them in the writing of this novel. I hope that this process shines light on my own shadows and brings to conscious awareness any unconscious prejudices I still lug around. Jeremy Taylor suggested that I consider the following: How have I been changed by this prodigious effort to conjure non-material truth and put it on the page?

Making myself available to the story comes easily now, after all the years of practice. Understanding how the story changes me is a new, unfamiliar idea. It’s an effort that I would be wise to make in regards to the election of our new president, as well. How does this new story for America change me, and how does it change our collective understanding of who we are as a nation?

For the second year in a row, we’ve had an extraordinary crop of Concord grapes. The weather has held so that the grapes have ripened fully on the vine, and no late spring freeze nipped the buds, so here we have glorious abundance. Which translates into not-so-glorious work. Jelly, of course, and juice, but this year we’ve added something new to our repertoire: grape-apple leather. It’s labor intensive, but I know that all it has in it is grapes and apples, and it’s delicious. I get to live out my childhood fantasies of being incredibly resourceful (ala Laura Ingalls Wilder), with the aid of modern appliances like my food processor and food dehydrator.

Laced through all the grape and apple fun, is talk (endless!) and thoughts of the elections. In order to stifle the number of phone calls coming in, I voted early. Since it took me 20 minutes just to fill in all the little rectangles with the drying-out pen in the booth, I was glad that I’d prepped my choices ahead of time and that I hadn’t waited until election day. There was steady traffic while I was there, and cheerful staff/volunteers.

Of all the issues on the Colorado ballot, the most offensive is Amendment 48, the so-called “personhood” amendment. The mysteries of when exactly spirit enters flesh and life truly begins are beyond me, but to involve the legal system in miscarriages is draconian in the extreme. I’ve known several women, good mothers all, who miscarried early in pregnancy, either before or after, or both, carrying other babies to term. Amendment 48 would open the door for women such as these to be investigated, charged with child abuse or even murder. The women I know who’ve been through a miscarriage had enough grief to deal with without the horrors of politics intruding in their health care. Even the Catholic Conference doesn’t support it.

It’s a free country, so people of all leanings can try to change the laws to suit their own agendas. Thanks to our founding fathers, we have the ability to argue our positions in public and to vote against the policies that would take us down the road away from freedom.

I urge you to vote thoughtfully and carefully, with a view to our country’s future as a free democratic republic.

I just heard from my dear friend, Janet Fogg, that her novel, Soliloquy, had received a contract offer. I’ll wait to divulge details until the deal is done, but I’m too excited to just sit on it. For seventeen and a half years, Janet and I have been part of a critique group together. Once a month, we’ve brought our chapters and our comments, shared our hopes and provided support. And laughs, lots of laughs.

Robert A. Johnson, the Jungian analyst, offers the idea of the”slender threads” that shape our lives. The moments, meetings, and little shifts that may not seem to have much portent at the time, but as we look back in our lives, we see how crucial they’ve been. Meeting Janet, in a Lifelong Learning class on How to Get Published, was one of those pivotal moments. Carol Cail, the instructor, told the class we might want to find or form a critique group in order to help each other along the way. Janet and I agreed to start one, and a couple other students joined in as well. But the group shrunk, and Janet and I added new members, my sister Karen, my best friend’s mom, Shirley, my niece Zhenille, and finally our token male, Paul. And the group coalesced.

Over these seventeen years, I’ve watched Janet’s writing grow, have witnessed the droughts when her “real” job took over all her time, and have leaned heavily on her and the rest of the group when my own disappointments seemed enough to make me want to stop writing altogether. When I was at my lowest ebb, and announced one night at dinner that I intended to quit writing, my husband asked if that meant I was going to stop going to critique group. It was unimaginable to me that I would give it up. That slender thread had become a sturdy safety line.

So Janet’s great news is great news for me, too. Three cheers to success! It’s definitely time to stop and have a party!

I returned late last night from a five day workshop led by Robert Moss called The Return of the Seer. I had read several of Robert’s books, and watched his DVD set The Way of the Dreamer, but I knew from my dreamwork experience that reading or watching doesn’t lead to the same level of understanding as doing.

As a confirmation that I was on the right path, my travels there went incredibly smoothly, including having my suitcase be the first off the plane in Hartford. Flying into Hartford, I noticed several red cars in the driveways below, and had the thought, “I’ll get a red rental car.” Never having had a red rental car, this was an unusual thought, but sure enough, it was red. It had my birth month and year on the license plate, too. The license plate came up at several discussions throughout the week and various people teased other interesting meanings from the combination of numbers and letters on it.

The week itself was full of deeper coincidences and surprising moments. The clincher, for me, came early in the week. In groups of four, we took turns being the focus of a”journey” conducted by the other three. These journeys were a kind of waking dream, which I found very similar to the experience of writing fiction: just watching what unfolded in my mind, not judging, but observing. In the second of the journeys, the three of us who were journeying had startlingly consistent visions. I reported mine second, so was able to hear what I had seen (and noted in my journal before anyone spoke) described by someone else. There were variations in what we saw, but the similarities outweighed the variations. The experience was very affirming for me, confirming that these journeys were more than “just” imagination, especially since what we saw resonated very clearly with the person we were journeying for. To my Raven Journey brother and sisters, I will be forever grateful for that gift. And of course, to Robert, for facilitating the experience with the heartbeat of his drum and the raven imagery.

In addition to those and other journeys, we practiced Lightning Dreamwork and participated in dream theater. What’s so striking about dreamwork retreats in general is how quickly and deeply the participants get to the core of what matters to them. I don’t know what most of my new friends do for a living in the waking world, but I know what moves them in their hearts. Such meetings are not luxuries, as one participant pointed out, but necessities. We need to find deeper connections with one another in this world.

The other great gift of the week was gaining a true understanding of how essential it is to believe and trust one’s own experience. It’s a good and useful thing to study with the teachers who have years of experience of their own, who can lead the way more surely than we might stumble across it by ourselves, but it’s crucial to experience the spiritual and numinous for oneself. As Jeremy Taylor often says, “I know this to be true, and it’s much too important for you to take my word for it.” Now I understand that more deeply than ever. Everyone’s experience of the dream world, whether sleeping dreams or waking dreams or shamanic journeys, is individual, and everyone must come to her or his own understanding of what that experience means.

I’m grateful to Robert and to all the participants of the workshop for helping me to deepen my understanding.

Watching Barack Obama’s speech at the DNC, I couldn’t help but slip into awe at the power of words, especially when delivered by a gifted orator. Thoughts carefully expressed, even complex thoughts, can persuade and inspire. My ten-year-old was as engrossed as I was in the speech, and discussed it with me afterward. Oh, to have a president who can use language so eloquently that he can communicate to children and adults. What a gift that would be for the United States and the world, to resort to words instead of guns when conflicts arise.

Rather than the President of Malapropism, we could have the President of Eloquence.

I was also struck by the power of words at an entirely different event in Denver earlier in August–the World Science Fiction Convention. I’d never been to this particular Con before, and was mildly disappointed not to see Klingons. There were plenty of folks in costume, but mostly it was just normally dressed people there to hear and meet their favorite authors and filmmakers. My favorite panel was the one with Lois McMaster Bujold, Patricia Wrede, and Lillian Stewart Carl, who discussed their long friendship and enduring writer’s circle. It never ceases to amaze me how writers love to support other writers with their enthusiasm and feedback. Here’s a tip of the hat to the Uff das, CLC, and The Wild Folk of the West, who have all kept me going even when words are hard to come by.

In every moment of life, there are endings and beginning–breaths, heartbeats, seconds ticking on a clock. But sometimes in life, there are bigger endings and beginnings. On a human scale, the largest of these are birth and death, of course, but within each life are the moments we use to mark the trail. Graduations, relationships, changing roles in family life. Growing up, growing older.

I had a few of those landmarks recently. In April I mailed off Bone Temple, after an intensive effort to revise based on feedback from both Martha Mihalick’s critique from the RMC-SCBWI Fall 2007 conference, and the Wild Folk of the West. Getting it off my desk felt like a completion, though indeed I hoped it wasn’t really an ending, but a beginning of a new relationship with an editor. What every writer hopes for, of course.

In May, I finished the requirements for my Certificate from The Marin Institute for Projective Dreamwork. Certainly an ending and a beginning rolled into one. I framed the certificate and displayed it in my newly-rented office space, glad to have its company as I led dream exploration workshops. Also in May, I mailed off a short story, hoping for some success to mark my path. And, the biggest ending and beginning, by which I see my life divided into two–I gave up eating wheat and gluten, and achieved unexpected health.

I rested, for a couple of weeks, in the uncertainty of what to expect next. Well, rested isn’t exactly the word. I kept busy with all the usual duties of home and work, took a trip to Crested Butte and then to South Carolina, planted and weeded in the garden, tended the elderly cat, hosted several gatherings of family and friends, and generally stayed busy.

Then the beginnings started arriving. Further suggestions for revision from Martha. My short story accepted. A new computer. New ideas. More ideas than I can contain, during a time (summer) when my duties as mom trump my usual work time. Yet even that has a new beginning, as I explained to my kids that I needed some uninterrupted writing time during the day. They understood, and have been honoring my request.

And so, back to the new rewrite: another time through the novel weaving in more elements, deepening my own understanding of the full implications of the story. I faced it at first with some reluctance, but now the ideas are flowing and the process is fun again. Hang on, it’s the beginning of another ride.