Clicked to publish my blog tonight and the screen went gray. My effort gone. Where? I've no notion. Still I remain encouraged. Why? Because of my reading of Jane Austen. 

Now you're aware that the writing process interests me. But did I tell you that once I organize six or so of Ms. Austen's books in the order in which she had written them and starting with the first, read them through? My thought was that, given she was so instrumental in the development of the novel and had only written a handful of books, if I were to read them in the order in which they had been written, then I might observe the fruits of her learning as they ripened. 

And now that I have written, rewritten, edited, and revised Jolt some four, five, six or seven times, depending on how one counts, I can tell you that whatever changes occurred in her writing skill, she must have sensed. Not that I am any Jane Austen; but I know I 've recognized them in my own efforts as I struggled to cobble together something readable and of interest.

But back to my point. When I read Ms. Austen, I had not yet become a writer of books. I had not learned that one day I would be grateful for every well-meant criticism. Nor had I learned enough of the craft of writing to even consider it a craft, one in which you built and shaped the thing you wrote. I had thought that, given enough time, writing might become as easy as opening a faucet from which would flow all poetry and image. 

But I did learn something from reading Ms. Austin. It was that the more she wrote, whereas each story evolved as complex as the previous, the more succinctly she expressed it. And so, each successive book grew, not longer, but shorter than the one she'd written last.

Which brings me again to my lost blog and the point I wanted to make. It was this: What I write now should say what I had to say in fewer words. My first effort had addressed the question of to blog or not blog?  Why blog? Who reads what one writes? Are there thousands? A few? Two?

It doesn't matter, for the answer is this: The stats tell me that most of you have logged in two to five times each since late August. Something resonates. You read. I blog.

RMR in Po-Town and glad you're there

Me. I can't believe a week has passed since I last blogged to you.  Life has been pretty intense. I'm moving. Again. Don't ask me.  Just am. Also just finished the second week of school. For me always the worst. Adjusting to the getting up at 6:00 instead of 7:00. Organizing. Getting therapy off the ground, so to speak. Reknitting work-a-day relationships. And always tired. I can't remember a year when it was other. Next week'll be better.

Renting. Also I have been filling out forms and soliciting recommendations for me as a tenant. So my heart goes out to all the other renters in the world.  First there is the thing about finding a place. By that I mean a place one can live in comfortably. Forget that. I meant safely. And within driving distance of work. And affordable. And with one month's deposit, not two. And without having to pay three hundred dollars for a background and credit check for them.  Whoever them is. On that issue, I remain not a happy camper. Nonetheless, I think I found a place. If.  If they accept me. Still have to be interviewed by the Board. Why this apartment? With all its rigamarole? Because I want to feel safe.  And I want to feel that when my grandchildren come to visit, they will be safe. So what do we do? Me?  I cut my resources to keep safe what is most precious.  Luckily I could.

Writing. Some really up news. Four writers have agreed to blog with me on trauma and its affect on the writing process in my Weblog on alvapressinc.com.  Among them, a poet, an editor/writer, a writer of historical fiction, and a writer of adult novels and children's books. The last of whom I mentioned you can look up at nancymeanswright.com, still recuperating from jet lag after her return from Paris, France, where she gathered information for her next historical novel on the French Revolution. It will be the third in a series she is writing.

Seasons. Fall here. Lovely. Ever since an infatuation that lasted the length our stroll, my favorite season. The sky was blue, his jacket rust, and the colors of turning leaves reflected from his brown Irish eyes while the crunch of leaves swirled crisply about us. It was fall.

Back home for Thanksgiving that freshman year, I told my mom of my new appreciation of the seasons. She said I must be growing up.

RMR in Po-Town Thinking about You

9/11. Trauma.Who among us does not remember that fateful day eight years ago? Who among us did not lose something because of it? A loved one. A sense of security. Innocence. And grown? In the sense of community. In understanding. In ability to communicate. Because of it.

The trauma of 9/11 brought me to research mass emergencies and I wrote Jolt: a rural noir so that I, we, might better process it.  Process.  (That's my word for the day: process.)

Today a representative of the Employee Assistance Plan talked to us about trauma.  She spoke of its subjectivity. About how trauma to one is not always trauma to another.  She discussed the need to watch for evidence of triggers as keys that let us know when we have suffered its affects: our use of a sharp voice, an angry word, an over-reactive response. And how we need to follow them back beyond those cues. To find their roots. And then to process the traumas disclosed there. 

Process. Hmm. What's that? Well, here, process begins with the recognition of the trauma after which we must cull out its shape and discuss our findings.  According to the social worker who spoke to us, unrecognized and undiscussed trauma morphs. It morphs into chronic stress syndrome and, much later, into depression.  She talked of the triggers in post traumatic stress syndrome. A certain word. A slant of light. A sudden sound or smell or touch. 

The effect of the trigger is to bring back baskets of traumatic feelings followed by an immediate change in physical state to one of fight-or-flight and its potential for an exaggerated response. But where 9/11 was a trauma only to some, for others it or the recollection of it is, was also a trigger.  So that now when the anniversary of 9/11 serves as a trigger to bring up feelings of anxiety, anger or depression, one has to ask was it just that day or was it that day in conjunction with events in the past. Earlier losses. Earlier traumas.

Apparently there are now programs to decrease triggering. And here in NY many counselors have become skilled in treating the after-effects of trauma. So counseling can help. But one way or another we need to talk about these after-effects. Just as we need to talk about the event itself. And therein lies the reason I wrote Jolt.  

In writing Jolt it was my hope that I might contribute to making the trauma associated with 9/11 and the fears associated with ignorance of survival techniques, particularly, nuclear ones, more speakable and therefore more tolerable. In fact, if one uses the process theory, when trauma forms a basis for learning and growth such it can then lead to increased happiness.

Probably that's the origin of the thought a little trauma makes one stronger.  But better said, it only might. Or could if we all do our homework processing. We need to process the traumatic event. Process the reasons for our reactions to it. Process where we are now and what we need to do to grow past their draining effects. So we to think and talk. Learn and talk. Grow and talk. And in so doing, communicate and heal.

Much of Jolt illustrates post-event coping. On the one hand, the reader can enjoy the lives of the people in the story as they tumble forward seeking out fresh insights into coping, hopefully permitting the reader to come away lifted, more ready to acknowledge and talk about his or her life's traumas. And better informed about nuclear survival and how to cope with mass events.

So today on 9/11, wherever I went I talked about Jolt. I handed out bookmarks to celebrate its publication and gaged people's readiness to discuss the topic of nuclear survival.  For many it seemed on the mark. I gave them bookmarks which they took and read what was written on them and careful not to fold them unnecessarily.

And the last thing I did tonight was to stop by the Cubbyhole Coffeehouse on Raymond Avenue in Poughkeepsie.  Just the way to end the day. 

If you haven't been to the Cubbyhole, you should stop by.  It's one of the world's longer living rooms. There, people sit around on chairs and soft couches and find it easy to process their lives.  Or just, chill out.  I read some of the comments written in the notebooks strewn about the place--mostly by people caught in rough moments in their lives. Missing a lover. Worried about the future. Struggling to find the words to express their feelings. But processing.  Processing their hurt and anxiety. Processing their love. Their needs.

When I looked about me, the few people who lingered yet at that late hour, drank decaf and talked. While I chilled out, they were animated and engaged. I was done for the day. But they were still at it. Processing. 

Now when you get to the Cubbyhole, try folding into one of the soft couches. Sip some chino. Listen to the music. Muse on the paintings covering the walls from floor to ceiling. And for the moment, do dare to contemplate the trauma in your life. Find a way to put it in words. Discuss the triggers you've noticed in yourself. Come to terms with the likelihood that the trauma was or is real. Real because you noticed it. And feel wise for its recognition; only you can identify its sources; only you can know what has and has not pained you. For trauma is subjective.

And do say hello to Lee and ask him if he has a Jolt: a rural noir bookmark you can have. Compliment him on how mellow with age the place has become. Thank him. Tell him you've enjoyed the sense of safety there in that long room he calls the Cubbyhole.

RMR in Po-Town, remembering 9/11

Sincere apologies for any difficulty you have experienced posting to my blog, but I think the problem is corrected. I just hope you are willing to try again.

RMR in Po-town

I think I'm the Time Traveler's Wife. I've just discovered that depending on which link I put in to reach alvapressinc.com, I get it at different stages of development. Currently I find that, putting in the http:/www.  before the alvapressinc.com propels me backwards in time, sometimes catching Alva in a stage of self-correction. If that happens I find repeating paragraphs and yet-to-be corrected passages. And then I am, of a sudden, the Time Traveler, desperately and unsuccessfully trying to stay where I am. Or at least to get alvapressinc.com to stay where it is. Or is supposed to be.

BTW: Is it possible that the Time Traveler is the male answer to Marilyn Monroe? And does he portent changes similar to those Ms. Monroe caused in how women are viewed--and measured? Only for men. But don't men have enough on their plate already?

RMR in Po-Town and late to bed

The boys loved the Dutchess County Fair in Rhinebeck, NY. We walked from nine in the morning until after two in the afternoon. Watching the mad scientist use dry ice to create bubbles and unanticipated color changes and the blacksmith bending red hot iron only to drop it sizzling into water were highlights of the day. Then, of course there was the giant pretzel and cotton candy. But nothing beat the petting zoo where one of sheep reportedly kissed my youngest grandson on the lips!

Roberta in Po-town