The thing about a half marathon when you’re training for a marathon is that it becomes just another training run. And kind of a skimpy one at that, when you consider the 16, 18, 20 milers coming up in the next few weeks.

Still, up until this year, 13.1 was my ultimate goal, and the race I ran each January was a sign of success, in terms of intent and endurance.

So yesterday, as I was finishing the Decker Challenge (a halfer that just so handily fit into my training schedule), I consciously recalibrated my perspective for a minute or two and ramped it up to celebration mode.

Yes, I got to tick off another required workout.
Yes, this means I’ve finished 7 of 18 weeks of training.
Yes, I need new shoes and I need more hill training and I need to keep this up over the holidays.

Yes yes yes.
And … I ran a half marathon.

And this is where Marathon Monday and Process and Product meet.

Celebrating milestones and small successes is one of the best ways to sustain the energy of process.
The occasional splash of champagne in the midst of a long slog is a good idea

I celebrate when I finish a manuscript.
I celebrate when I send it to my agent.
I celebrate when she sends it out.

I often tell my students that even rejection letters are worthy of celebration, in that they indicate the manuscript is yours again — to burn, revise or send back out into the world, sealed with a kiss.

I celebrate it all, and I celebrate half marathons.

I think that you should, too.
Jump for joy…

Mileage for the week: 25 miles

Longest run: 13.1

Grand total since I started training: 145

Quote for the week:
When you jump for joy, beware that no one moves the ground from beneath your feet. — Stanislaw J. Lec

I’m lurching along in my exploration of process.
Have faith; it’s coalescing.

But today I don’t even have to be articulate about it because it’s Poetry Friday and I’ll let Alice Walker speak.

This poem hearkens back to my post on Tuesday when I talked about appreciating process, in part because every step of process is in the final product. The two are inextricable. What we make is what we’ve been through. The path is apparent in the place we reach.

How Poems are Made
— Alice Walker

Letting go
In order to hold one
I gradually understand
How poems are made.  

There is a place the fear must go.
There is a place the choice must go.
There is a place the loss must go.
The leftover love.
The love that spills out
Of the too full cup
And runs and hides
Its too full self
In shame. 

I gradually comprehend
How poems are made.
To the upbeat flight of memories.
The flagged beats of the running
Heart. 

I understand how poems are made.
They are the tears
That season the smile.
The stiff-neck laughter
That crowds the throat.
The leftover love.
I know how poems are made. 

There is a place the loss must go.
There is a place the gain must go.
The leftover love.

"What do you do?" is sort of the quintessential American identity question.

The poser of the question is asking about your job, or career, with the presumption being that the answer will say a lot about you.
About your interests and passions and skills and values.
About who you really are.
Or at least about where you fall in the socioeconomic pecking order of our capitalist society.

What the person is not asking is "What do you do? Really. What is the practice and process of your daily life?"

Nope. That’d be way too much information.
Either way too perplexing or way too boring or way too scary.

I mean, let’s admit it right here and now.
Many of us don’t know what some of our best friends really do everyday.
Some of us are a little foggy on what our spouses do everyday.

Which is kinda too bad. Because to me, that’s really the interesting question.
I mean, yes, we may be able to capture a certain sort of biographical snapshot when someone says, "I’m a lawyer (or engineer or rock musician or rock climber or waitress or gumshoe or pharmacist or curator or crook)," but the really revealing question is, "How?"
 
How do you fulfill those roles? 
How do you feel fulfilling those roles? 
How do you manage the tasks associated with filling those roles? 
How do you think you’re doing in the scope of those roles?
How does that role fit with your life and your heart and who you really are?

It’s really that stuff — the practice and process of one’s daily life — that starts to tell us something real, I think.

For example, "I’m a writer" is an appropriate and expected answer to the quintessential American identity question.
But, I mean, big whoop.
Right?

Does that mean I’m good with words? 
Or that someone once told me I’m good with words? 
Or that I just believe myself to be good with words?

Does it mean I write newspaper articles or ad copy or computer manuals or pulp fiction?

Does it mean I like to be alone?

Does it mean I drink a lot of bourbon?

Does it mean I’m happy?
Or unhappy?

See what I’m getting at here?

So, really, I’m more interested in the process.
The ups and downs. The thrills. The doldrums.
The doubts and fears. The celebrations.
The pride. The shame.
The what you actually do everyday.

Me? My process has a terrifying amount to do with a wing and a prayer.
I am not a novelist (or rather I don’t think I’m a novelist) (or rather I’m not a novelist yet) so there are no 1,000-words-a-day parameters to keep me honest. 1,000 words might be two or three picture books, for godssake. In a day. I’m getting kind of faint just thinking about it.

Instead I have some secret Indiana Jonesish-type equation — some mysterious alchemy — of planned time, goals and deadlines combined with utter flexibility, receptiveness and riskiness. This is what makes my writing life work and, at the same time, is what nearly sends me to apply for jobs as a bank teller numerous times a year.

It’s all about working to manage that process so that I survive and my work thrives or vice versa or, sometimes, on the very best days, both together at the same time. Thriving, that is.

And I know I said I was going to talk about managing process today and instead this is just a long and wandery introduction, but that’s the way it works when you build utter flexibility into a system. So. Managing process tomorrow. I promise…

I interrupt my fledgling series on process to share my sadness as what is being called
Black Wednesday in the publishing world.

Hardly nothing nor nobody’s sacred, it seems.

You can read a little bit about what’s going on here and here and here, but the bottom line is that houses are hurting and, as a result, editors and authors and illustrators and designers and booksellers and the whole long string of us are hurting.

I have a personal, vested interest in Simon & Schuster, which got hit hard, but the truth is that there’s got to be an all-for-one mentality here.

Writers and readers, booklovers and bookmakers.

Let’s hope we can ride out this recession together, with words still valued and stories still standing — and the good people who have made words and stories their life work still around to bring them to life…

It’s been a long time since I’ve been a reliable blogger, but I’m jumping back in with a post that will be the first in a series exploring the horrors (and occasional gleam) of process (as it looks & feels to me).

We hear often, from the experts, that it’s all about the process.

The journey.
The gettin’ there.

Not just writing, but life, too.

This isn’t always easy to swallow.

We want to believe that there’s an endpoint that will make the fear and self-loathing and doubt and effort and second-guessing not just ‘worth it’ but ‘gone’.  There’s a self-protective desire to be knocked out for the tough stuff and wake me when it’s over. We want to skip ahead to product. To success. Fame and fortune. The finish line.

Or do we?

What’s occurred to me lately is that if I wish away process, I’m wishing away the better portion of my days.
Better, as in larger.
But also better. As in, more good.

Because really, is there anything more good than getting into the zone — working your way through the fear and self-loathing and doubt and effort and second-guessing, and getting into the zone? Logic disappears, logistics vanish, time suspends, fingers race. And somewhere in the midst of that dreamy, muse-driven floatiness your brain says, "I’m onto something here." That is pretty sweet.

I’m thinking specifically about writing, but really, isn’t there a mama zone and a runner’s zone and a teaching zone and a gardening zone and, well, you get the idea.

Isn’t there?

Which makes me think, "There are no short cuts to the finish line and thank god."

Plus, even those moments (which are many) that don’t qualify for dreamy, muse-driven or floaty, even those all feed who I am and what I do, such that not a single line of poetry or a story idea would have legs or hold water if I hadn’t done what I did to get there.

So, I no longer wish process away.
But I still try to manage it.
Because the arbitrary, unscheduled, unpredictable riskiness of the artistic process is something akin to tightrope walking.
I think.
Although I don’t know for sure, because I’m too scared to try. If you see what I mean.

So, how do I manage process so I can enjoy it a little and not just bite my nails and beg someone to institutionalize me? 
More on that tomorrow…

Things have been so crazy here that I’ve barely been keeping up with my minimum training schedule.
And I certainly haven’t been posting about it.
That said, I ran 13 miles yesterday so I’m still in the running.
So to speak.

Mileage for the week: 25 miles

Longest run: 13

Grand total since I started training: 120

High point: The annual Turkey Trot on Thursday. Nearly 12,000 of us kicked off Thanksgiving Day with a festive little jog through Austin.

Fun Fact: 77 Days ’til the marathon

Which sort of seems right around the corner when you take into account the holidays and all.
I am daunted when I think that what I ran yesterday is just half of what I’ll need to run in February.
But then I just put my nose down, lace up my shoes and try not to look too far forward.
Having a long view can be helpful when envisioning a big life, but so much of getting there is simply doing what needs to be done.
Right now.
Today.

Quote for the week:
Our grand business is not to see what lies dimly at a distance, but to do what lies clearly at hand. — Thomas Carlyle

I am grateful for my husband, who is funny and supportive and patient and tender and dear.

I am grateful for my tall one and her deep heart, and my small one and her quick wit.

I am grateful for my mom and dad, and their constancy.

I am grateful for my mother-in-law and the still-very-nearness of my father-in-law, who have always made me one of theirs.

I am grateful for my sister, who lives back in this country again — just one time zone away.

I am grateful for my sisters- and brothers-in-law and my neice and nephews and countless cousins and aunts and uncles, of whom I got more than my fair share.

I am grateful for Goodness, capital G.

I am grateful for friends, true blue, and students, old and new.

I am grateful for my writing chums, without whom I’d hurl myself from windows, and my agent and editor and illustrators, for whom I’d hurl myself from windows. So to speak.

I am grateful for libraries.

I am grateful for the hike-and-bike trail and Ladybird Lake and the Rocky Mountains and the deep blue sea.

I am grateful for running shoes, yoga mats and tents.

I am grateful for good cheese and fine wine.

I am grateful for music.

I am grateful for unlimited long distance and email.

I am grateful that email has an off button.

I am grateful for my cats and my old white dog.

I am grateful for the muse and the mind, the body and the breath.

I am grateful for you…

I apologize for my sudden absence, friends.

I flew to California last week to talk about books, art and process with my editor and current illustrator, and I got all caught up in things.

In a good way.

There was humor, wisdom and inspiration to spare, and I hope to access a little of that once I’m settled back at my desk.

But in the meantime, I am pausing with my family to say farewell to my father-in-law who has finally succumb to a seemingly endless one-on-one with cancer. Dear Jack — husband, dad, and granddad, lover of dogs. Attendant to poetry lovers and hummingbirds. You will be missed, but we’re grateful you’ve finally been given real rest.

We shall find peace. We shall hear angels,
we shall see the sky sparkling with diamonds.
                                       — Chekov

Be well, everyone, and I’ll be back with regularity soon.

Two weeks ago, the illustrator for my first book was in Austin, promoting her new book with the… ahem… Duchess of York.

Robin is illustrator to the stars, which is sort of funny since I’m not one.
But she is also just an all-around gal to lunch with.
Which I did.

And now, tomorrow, I leave for California to connect with the illustrator for my second book, along with my beloved editor.

Marla and Allyn are illustrator and editor to other stars and, also, all-around gals to lunch with.
Which I will.

Counting my blessings over here in my own earthly little universe…

Maybe it was the s’mores ’round the campfire this weekend, or the fact that my husband is out of town and the girls were out of school, but as a runner I was not at my stellar best today.

I didn’t even get out there ’til 6:30 pm (a good 12 hours later than usual) and it was just plain clunky.
I was not fast.
I was not strong.
I was not inspired.

I  just put in my time.

So it is nice to reflect back on last week and remember it wasn’t half bad.

Mileage for the week: 19 miles

Longest run: 9 miles

Grand total since I started training: 67 miles

High point: Running with company!
My good buddy Kathie came off the IT-band bench and we clocked the perfect nine miles on Friday — blue and breezy, with a big ol’ latte waiting at the end.

So back to today. One silly little day. Three miniscule miles.
I guess the take-away message is that some days are better than others, and the crummy ones still count.

Putting in my time — as a runner, a writer, a parent — isn’t, in itself, going to win me any awards or beauty contests.

But it will keep me afloat, with a hand-hold on what I’m working toward.
So that when the good days — the strong and inspired ones — arrive? 
I’m at the ready.

Quote for the week:
Slow and steady wins the race. — Aesop