Journey in the Cloud

Fog on the mountain

A couple months ago, I had a serendipitous encounter with a neighbor while walking on my road. She mentioned she was writing a memoir and had just begun working with an agent. I mentioned that I was applying to graduate school for a degree in writing.

She said she was part of a local writers' group, and that the group had just lost a member who'd moved away. They were looking for new writers to join them. She asked if I would be interested. I said yes.

So that's how I began meeting with a great group of talented women writers in early October. We're all working on different things, mostly memoir and non-fiction. There isn't a ringer in the bunch - these women are such excellent writers it humbles me to be in their company.

We meet on Wednesday evenings at the home of a member who lives way up in Tuna Canyon, which is at the crest of the ridge, and on a hilltop that overlooks the Pacific Ocean. To get there, you drive up Fernwood Pacific, a torturously winding road through one of Topanga's oldest neighborhoods, full of switch backs and tight ox-bow curves.

Last night, after three days of storm, I drove up into Fernwood. It was already dark; darkness falls about 5:15 these days.

If you look at a map of the Fernwood neighborhood, it looks like someone dropped a handful of cooked spaghetti onto a tablecloth. The main road, Fernwood Pacific, is the noodle outlined in blue, below:

Only in this case, the tablecloth has been thrown over a large mountain. Where Fernwood Pacific intersects with Topanga Canyon Boulevard, at the upper-right, it is 738 feet above sea level. By the time you get to the lower left-hand corner of the map, you've climbed 1100 feet in six miles.

Last night, as I started driving, the ocean fog was creeping into the canyon. Here, in a peculiar phenomenon, the ocean fog climbs up the coast mountains and cascades over the top, rolling down into the canyon. The higher up I drove, the thicker grew the fog. By the time I had reached the summit, I could barely see in front of the car.

As I climbed, I began to worry. The road is tricky, climbing a narrow ridge, bordered with steep fall-offs to one shoulder, or sheer stone cliffs rising up from the other. In some places, deep storm culverts gaped, big enough to shred my car tires if I drove carelessly into them. I thought for a moment about turning back.

And yet - I had driven this road before. Though I could not see for than a few feet, I knew what lay ahead. I had been to the house before, and knew there were lanterns to mark my destination. I had come this far already, and to turn back now would be foolish. It would be no more foggy after our meeting than it was now, I thought. Press on. So I did, and I arrived at our hostess' warm and welcoming house, and listened to some wonderful and inspiring readings.

A quote attributed to the American novelist E.L. Doctorow appears in many books about creative writing.

"Writing is like driving at night in the fog. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way."*

I read that and thought it was particularly apt for last night's journey in the clouds. Up beyond 1500 feet, it was only by focusing on what was right in front of me that kept me climbing.

When our meeting concluded, two hours later, we stopped and steeled ourselves for the treacherous journey back through the fog. Then we opened the door and stepped out into the night.

The sky was completely clear, the stars glittering.

Morning fog from my house

*Doctorow's wonderful quote appears everywhere, in "Brainy Quotes" and in "Goodreads" and online in blog after blog about the creative process. It appears in creative writing textbooks and "how-to" guides. Only there's one odd thing. The origin of the quote was an interview Doctorow gave to George Plimpton in the Paris Review in 1986. You can read the interview here:

http://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/2718/the-art-of-fiction-no-94-e-l-doctorow

The words "in the fog" do not appear. The closest thing I could find was an attribution to a 1988 volume of collected Paris Review interviews with writers. Perhaps the language about fog was in Plimpton's original notes, and edited out for the journal but later re-inserted in the book? It's a mystery.

I guess the point is, just keep driving on, and focus on what's in front of you.

Not fit out for man or beast

Four days of rain, Sunday through Tuesday. It's wet and dangerous out there. It's been so long since we've had rain that no one remembers how to drive in it.

Don't drink and drive!

Here in Topanga, the squalls are particularly fierce, with water flowing down the hillsides and rockfalls off the cliff.

 

But it's not all bad. We're looking at clearing tomorrow, then a sunny warm weekend. Stay cool!

Applying myself - Part 2

Malibu sunset

Here's where I am regarding my applications to MFA programs.

I have submitted my completed applications to five of the ten programs I'm applying to.  For the other five:

1) Ready to submit, just doing final proof-reading.
2) Ready to submit, just doing final proof-reading.
3) I need to submit one more document; a letter of interest for an assistantship position
4) I want to visit the campus first (it is in the region) and then update my personal statement based on what I observe or learn there.
5) I still need to write my personal statement.

For nine of the applications, two of my three letters of recommendation have not been sent in, so I am having automated reminders sent to my references. It's tricky to balance the timing and frequency of these - I don't want to bug my references, but I also want to make sure they get them in by the deadlines.

For the tenth application, it turns out their online system doesn't even solicit the letters until after the applicant completes the submission - meaning I need to get it in with enough time before the deadline for my references to send in their letters. This is Number 4 on the list above - the campus I want to visit. I'm hoping to visit in the next week, and then submit immediately. The deadline for this campus is in early January.

It's been quite a process.

The next step is to wait - typically, schools notify applicants in the month of March.  I think, for the purpose of sanity, that my best bet is to submit all my applications and then forget completely about them until I hear from the schools. I don't want to overthink it.

Gullywasher

Today, after more than a year of drought, we get a true gullywasher of a storm.

It beats on the roof - our flat roof sounds like a drum head. The sound ebbs and flows with the gusts of wind, first a gentle patter then like pebbles flung hard or poured from bins.

It overspills the gutters and drips, into flat puddles. It cascades onto the deck, drops bounce and spatter off the flat arms of chairs.

It flows down the driveway like a stream, a creek. Ever flowing down the hillsides, down the culverts, through the drainage pipes into the creek, the canyon and down to the sea.

Happy picture

Just to move the previous post further down....

Just in time for the holidays!!

Black Friday. Time to pump out the septic tank.  Return of the Sh*t-geyser.

Nice

I had a nice birthday!

Let there be pie

Pumpkin Pie with Ginger Streusel.

Cranberry Walnut Tart.

We're spending Thanksgiving with our friends Jill and Sparky Greene, on their hilltop in Malibu. I'm bringing these.

Morning deer

This morning's deer is a young male, with antlers. Jack and I come up the steps to the street, and we look up the road.  Our local deer are California mule deer, Odocoileus hemionus californicus. They browse near water, what there is of it, in our terrible drought. That must be why their trails come through this place, where a storm drain feeds from the hill and down into the ravine.

I wish this picture had turned out more focused.

He's right there, crossing from the woods to the hillside, at the bend in the road. He's there like a statue against the darkness of the forest behind him. He stops, still, watching us. Are we a threat?  He quietly assesses us. I can see his head turn, vigilant, and his huge ears swivel, listening.

I take out my phone and take a quick photo of the deer. Jack's distracted, he's sniffing the aromas of other animals, among the fallen oak leaves. Behind me, I hear a car. It's a neighbor from down the street, a grey-colored Mini with two surfboards on the rack.

I put my hand out as a warning, and make eye contact with the driver, then take another picture.  He can see there must be something around the bend, so he slows the car.

As the car gets within twelve feet of the deer, the animal suddenly shies and bolts back into the woods.

Jack and I walk on, up the rise and beyond. He sniffs the grass. He does his business.  When he's done, we turn back toward the house.

The deer is down in the woods below; he hasn't made it across the street yet. From here I can take some more photos.

This fall, I encounter deer at least twice a week, whether on my morning walk, or at night when they cross through my car's beams on the road home.