Fiction is a lie, and good fiction is the truth inside the lie. - Stephen King

This ad cracked me up. From 1974.

Humour aside. It's amazing that one little sticker in my well-worn passport costs over $2300 in notary fees, official copying, flights to America, phone calls, and postage, not to mention the $1100 fee to the British government for the privilege. And the headaches of coming up with why and for how long I was in this country or that country, and documenting each time I've seen Matt in the past 33 months. And it's only good for two years. But it's pretty, has my face weirdly shimmying on the left side beneath a watermark, and states that I am somewhat legitimate.

The shift from Shetland to the US and back to Shetland was far more difficult than the shift back to Inverness. I'm reveling in the lack of many things here: choice at the supermarket; Starbucks on every corner; crowded everything; bone-chilling winds. Mostly, I'm enjoying the lack of mental clutter. The tallest things outside my window are the Highlands.

Loving, loving, loving our new house. We spent the weekend "DIY-ing", which is indeed a verb here in UK-land. This involves numerous trips to places like B&Q and Homebase as I gasp at the price of a packet of screws. It also involves watching Matthew drill, twist, saw, and do (ahem) 'manly' things in an attempt to create something useful. He's done well. And here I thought all he could do was sew thanks to lots of practice on people's skin.

So March continues as I await comment from the new version of my book. Very Important Events include a 1:40am Kansas v. Villanova game on Saturday morning (thank you CBS for finally making these games available online). I sip pomegranate juice and listen to Thievery Corporation and watch the River Ness whiz by my window. Life is good.

It is a bit strange living abroad in Scotland. It doesn't feel that different to America, but then I go to the shops and see the prices of things, or hear a bagpiper on the main pedestrian road, or witness a customer telling a shopkeeper her life story while five people queue behind her, nodding sympathetically. Yesterday, a little girl asked her mum why I talked funny.

A facade of skyscrapers facing a lake and behind the facade, every type of dubiousness. - E.M. Forster

I find it far easier to exist when my brain isn't cluttered with random smatterings of phrases, deadlines, mistakes, faces, everything that makes up the few million images stored in the sliver of my brain that I actually use. My physical surroundings often dictate the influence of this mental clutter - needless to say it's been a chaotic 08. We're almost there with the flat, after a mind-numbingly expensive trip to IKEA, and by the time I get back things will have begun to make sense, at least in the physical realm.

The mental? Let's just say my creativity has been better.

I'm often amazed that things blossomed so well in Shetland, stuffed into a tiny box with bad lighting and a weird roommate situation. Somehow I managed to push through two books; of course, the distractions in Shetland were few, and the land inspiring in a comfortable, unobstructive way. It's been more difficult in Inverness.
We got to Chicago last Tuesday, and spent the week meandering its streets, remembering its history, eating fantastic food. Matt left on Sunday and I will stay for two more weeks, awaiting a decision on my UK visa. The stress pushed down on me a few hours ago, when I handed a visa agent my packet of meticulous information and I felt a whoosh of relief, fear, and shock take over my body. It's taken over two months to compile the information required, and hours of going through flight stubs, calendars, photos, and memories to sort out just when and why I was in this or that country, for how long, with whom. I couldn't stop editing my letter with additional information that might aid their decision; I checked and rechecked dates; I re-ordered a stack of plastic sheet protectors again and again. These people now know everything about me. Everything, except my brain. Which they might figure out if I'm called for an interview. Trying to prove your worth with only pieces of paper and words to work with is not an easy task.

Chicago is full of muted energy. These huge stone and glass structures reach so high, creating these valleys of breezes, pushing the scents of nearby ethnic restaurants, car exhaust, and a million stories. I like this place. It's unpretentious, but with all the perks of a big city.

I've started doing The Artist's Way, a book that was trendy with people I knew in Seattle a decade ago. I've been avoiding it for years, but it screamed out to me today. Also bought Art and Fear, as recommended by a friend who is a wise, creative soul. My intention is to re-inspire, to find, perhaps to congratulate, and to free, to allow myself to continue this journey. Do we make art for art's sake? Is it the process of creating, or the finished product that matters? Does it count if I'm the only person who reads it? Or, as I fear most, the only person who cares?

Just discovered the Onion's Sunday Magazine. This one kills me. Of course, it would explain a lot.