"One always begins to forgive a place as soon as it's left behind." - Charles Dickens

Teachers tend to think of 'years' as 'school years' - i.e. August to June, or something similar. And for those of us who have gone from school to uni to teaching are even more confused. Some people do their inventories of their lives in December, and start again in January. Teachers tend to start again in September. Needless to say it's been a strange week, as TASIS people are beginning their orientation, friends in the US and Europe are beginning their classes, and I'm in Shetland trying to salvage nearly 79,000 words that make up "The Goddess of Woo." I feel like an imposter, and like I am skipping something that I should be doing. Parties are going on all over the place and I'm not there.

Do I miss TASIS? I'm not sure yet. There is a part of me that is yearning to be back where I was a year ago, anxious and eager and excited, but perhaps that is the forgiveness part kicking in.

My 'due' date of Sunday is comfortable, now. Rewriting is hell, though. I thought I had a good story three years ago when I sent off the first 50 pages. Then tweaking, then more tweaking, then more. I look back at past incarnations and am embarrassed by the inconsistencies, the lack of gutsy characterization, the cliche, and wonder if I will look back at the current state of the manuscript and be embarrassed of its many flaws. Every time I read it, I find something else I want to change. I wasn't ready for this type of frustration. I can't imagine my arrogance when I was younger and actually thought of a piece as 'finished.'

Dreams are a funny thing. I'm living it now and not sure what to do with myself.

The sun has visited us a few times this week. I am to the point of understanding 90% of the Shetland dialect now. I have no access to cash as my bank card won't work in Shetland machines. We're still waiting for internet at the flat. I have a new friend, Caroline, who is from Perth and is lovely and allows me to drag her to the gym with me as my translator for the other 10%. Life is slower here. Everyone takes the time to talk with me. The genuine curiosity and kindness of the locals is such an unexpected bonus of being here. Orcas have been spotted outside our apartment. (In the water, of course.) The Tourist Info center sends out text messages whenever orcas or porpoises are spotted off the coast. They also send the weather report plus sunrise and sunset time every morning. Fiddle music is everywhere, in the shops in the centre, in the library, in the pubs. Twice a week, local musicians bring their fiddles and accordions and mandolins and bongos to a place called The Lounge for impromptu and disorganized jam sessions – we went last week and it was great. I've spotted my first American tourists this week - tons of them, speaking very loudly, dressed in tennis shoes, shorts and huge college-logo sweatshirts, sporting huge fanny packs/bum bags protruding from their oversized bottoms - but bless them, at least they have passports. I am also addicted to television – it's the first time I've had more than 2 channels to watch (in English!) in over six years! And much to my mother's pleasure, I am loving the cooking and property shows. I'm middle-aged already.

I look at a blank Word document and think: Fill this empty space with your dreams. Here we go. I am still scared to death.

sunset, Slovenia

This was the sunset the night of Bob and Hannah's wedding, from the veranda where we had dinner. It was gorgeous. (And the sunset wasn't bad, either.) Just came across this photo and had to share.

This is the glorious Eshaness, a simply magnificent coastal walk that we did on Saturday. It is easy to imagine how rough the seas can be thrashing against this jagged coastline. We walked for a few hours and saw two other people and a few dozen sheep, along with gorgeous birds. No otter or seal sightings yet, though. Driving around Northmavine exposed us to more of this interesting place. My Rough Guide describes the villages in the area as 'settlements' and that is indeed correct - some of the settlements are four or five buildings clustered together, making enough of an impact on the landscape to justify their own mark on the map. After driving along the interior, we came upon Hillswick, one of these settlements, which has a wonderful vegetarian cafe at a place called Da Bod, which is housed in Shetland's oldest pub. It's a cozy spot, and we were shocked to see that they don't charge for anything in the restaurant - all they ask for is a donation to the wildlife sanctuary. Very cool, very progressive idea for a tiny settlement in the islands.
And yesterday's sad discovery that nothing, save the newsagents', is open for a coffee on a Sunday afternoon. Sigh. I need to stop living in places that close on Sundays.
I'm also including this lovely photograph to prove how damn cold it was for Saturday's walk. Though this appropriate clothing thing helped significantly. It's August, people.

Memory is not abstract, it is made of bits and pieces, sometimes called junk. These are your materials, the things you begin with. You take them to another place. Writing is your imagination's rescue work. - paraphrasing from Julia Casterton's Creative Writing: A Practical Guide - very interesting take on fiction and poetry from a high-art perspective of what writing, in its purest form, should be.

There is no such thing as bad weather, only inappropriate clothing.

Shetland in August. Today I am wearing jeans, socks, a long-sleeved shirt and I won't go outside without my Patagonia wind-stopping fleece that I bought to brave the Prague winters six years ago. It is simply unimaginable to me that most of the people I know in this world are stuck amid lethargy-inducing heat and humidity today, while I am snuggled in a crazy busy café, belly full of fresh seafood chowder and a vanilla latte.

My first week was full of surprising sunshine, with the small exception of a Sunday with torrential rains, but I was busy writing so didn't leave the flat anyway. I should have explored more with the sun out, but I had work to do. The flat is on the second (and top) floor of a Shetland NHS building, one of five junior doctor flats that house the short-timers around here. The good stuff: the back door is about 25 feet from the North Sea coastline, which is strikingly beautiful. It's a two-iPod song walk to the gym, the town center, and the library. And it's dirt-cheap and has freebies like electricity and digital cable. It will be fine for the few months I hang my hat on the nonexistent coat rack by the door. (It's a bit lacking in things like furniture. And no internet access for at least 2 more weeks. You don't realize how dependent you are on the internet until you don't have it.)

Shetland hasn't shocked me as much as I had expected. It looks a lot like eastern Kansas surrounded by water. (This isn't as mad as it sounds.) The landscape is gently rolling green hills and fields that extend beyond the horizon. There aren't many trees. The sky lasts forever and the clouds dance in layers, playing hide-and-seek with the sun. But the sea is the undermining focus of everything on the island. Fishing nets lie outside every house; they're used to cover the garbage bags so seagulls won't go through all of the trash. There are more boats than pubs. Life depends upon the ferry schedules.

Lerwick is not unlike a fishing village anywhere in the world – weathered faces, genuine smiles, a pace of life that mimics the moods of the sea. There are numerous curry houses and a few traditional restaurants. The haddock used for basic fish and chips is some of the best I've ever tasted. There are a few pubs, some that feature traditional music from the islands – think Scottish/Irish/Norwegian and lots of fiddle. The cafes are bustling with people, the shops simple but tasteful. I found a health food shop today. It's still the honeymoon period – when finding a small gem like a health food shop can make my day just that much better. Talk to me when it's November and there are 5 hours of daylight, those hours likely featuring rain and wind like I've never experienced before.

And the best thing so far is that I've finally got the novel to a place where I am ready to pass it to friend/editors to peruse. I'm going to quote my lexical hero, Papa Hemingway here: "The most essential gift for a writer is a built-in, shock-proof, shit-detector. This is the writer's radar and all great writers have had it." My shit-detector has sadly been on pause for the past few, well, years, and somehow I've come up with some absolutely (as they say here) shite writing. There are gems of ideas that are passable, and some are even quite good, but there was a lot of shit to wallow through, especially in a novel that I finished whilst slaving away at a boarding school, my mind usually partitioned into thirty pieces, one of which was writing. It was fine, but hopefully now it has more of that sparkle needed to sell. Still a lot of work to do. Shetland is probably one of the best places for me in this regard - few distractions.

So that's what this blog-thing will be, for awhile: a combination of notes from an island in the North Sea, writing notes, and potentially the make or heartbreak associated with trying to make a first novel work. Anyone who writes knows that it is a labor of love that requires diligence, passion, and undying belief in what you're trying to tell the world, even if it's just a small story to take people away from reality for awhile. I'm scared to death, and that feels exhilarating.