feeling groovy

Yesterday was a good day.

I've worked hard to get the Highland Literary Salon on the map, and it took 18 months to get a mention in the local paper. But yesterday we went viral. The Culture Cafe, a weekly Radio Scotland show, featured readings and our event, which was quite exciting. I spoke to the producer in the morning, saw the inner workings of how the BBC magic happens, and sat in a real live soundproof room. UK listeners can hear this until next Tuesday here.

It was a cramped room for three of us - with two sets of headphones and one microphone - and much juggling happened as I realized I had to speak again at the end of the readings. And talking of viral, the niggling cold I've had since Sunday - my first all year - decided to kick into cough mode and I found myself choking to death during the first reading. So pardon the huge frog in throat at the end. The whole thing was rather surreal, but great fun.

The occasion was a celebration of the Hi-Arts New Writing Sampler, which was put together last November and was recently sent to publishers and agents. I'm honored to be a part of it, especially among other writers with exceptional talent. Orla Broderick and Richard Neath each read some of their work, and I got to chat a bit about the Salon and how there are now events in Stornoway and Skye happening, too. This network of Highland-based writers is really starting to happen, and I'm so glad it's happening now so I can see the potential before I go away for awhile.

After our radio show, we were all buzzing, so we went for lunch and a drink and had a buzzy chat about linking our Salons and utilizing authors' time better when we brought them up. The dream is a four-day stint, with workshops and Salon events in three or four locations - great for our writers and great for authors to connect with a new audience.

The evening event went by without a hitch. I helped give a workshop on social media for writers (notes can be found here) and didn't confuse people too much. Then Orla, Richard and I got to read a bit. I read from Saudade, which I'm revising (I know, again, but I had an epiphany), which is about a woman who finds herself back in a place where she experienced a heartbreaking tragedy a decade ago; Orla read from her novel in progress, The January Flower, a fresh, sassy book verging on the erotica; and Richard read from his work-in-progress, Breakfast Will Do, a harrowing tale of a man, a dead body, and a journey. Three very different stories and very different writers, but it worked really well. And gosh, it's good to read to an audience who has never heard your work and to see and hear the reactions.

So thanks to those who came along and humored us.

Image from design*sponge, quote by H. Jackson Brown Jr.

Books are 'the architecture of a civilized society' - Gervase Phinn

Today is National Library Day in the UK, and people all over the country are protesting the closure of 450 libraries across Britain.

I know. I also thought that was a misprint.

Four hundred and fifty - just think of how many people that affects. Even if only 50 people go to one of those libraries in a year, that's 22,000 people.

I've lived in quite a few cities, and the ones that are the most culturally and intellectually aware are the cities with the best libraries. These buildings house words, yes, but they also house thoughts, ideas, and stories. Their bulletin boards advertise community events, yoga classes, meetings. Their computers give people free access to the internet. Their book groups bring people together who wouldn't have otherwise met. They showcase authors, they inspire writers, they help spread literacy. Because even the internet means nothing to someone who can't read.

Not to mention the library's impact on children. One of the most consistent memories from my youth was going to storytime at one of the libraries in Wichita. Hearing the voices read stories I probably knew but hadn't heard in that particular manner. Squealing when something unexpected happened. Begging to check out one more book, please. And staying up late the night before they were due back to read them again.

I'm not against everything the UK coalition government is doing; frankly, I agree with many of their ideas, and, in theory, the Big Society concept could really inspire communities to come together. But how in the world does closing 450 libraries fit in with supporting and enabling communities? Libraries should be sacred spaces; instead of eliminating, they should be upgraded to places people want to be.

I loved the library in Lerwick. Housed in an old church, it is bright, uncluttered, and has the appeal of an indie bookshop. It's got cushy chairs, plugs for laptop users, and daily newspapers. The librarians have a quirky way of displaying books; I discovered dozens of authors there. It was a delightful place. My only complaints were the opening hours - they closed too early and weren't open on Sundays.

I suppose that takes money, to keep a place open late. And on Sundays.

The National Library of Scotland is a groovy spot, too. I've been to an exhibition on the history of golf, a one-man play about a woman from Falkirk, watched World Cup matches, done much work with free wifi, ate excellent carrot cake, drank Earl Gray tea and merlot, and researched a story for a magazine. At a library.

Listen up, politicos. Make libraries better, not redundant.

UPDATE: Hopefully, they listened.

This blog has been hijacked by a time warp

I thought I’d just wait for February to start so I could pretend January didn’t happen. Och, well. 

2011 began in a tiny village on the northwest Scottish coast. Our Scourie adventure was made all the better with a crew up for Hogmanay. Every new year should be rung in with good food, old friends and new friends, and bagpipes in a cozy pub.

And then, re-packing the car with the bedding and leftover food and wine from our three weeks in the wilds, before we took off on the 7th for ten days in Switzerland.

Verbier nonsense (see above) included: indulgences (food - raclette, fondue, etc. - & wine), frights (M’s concussion ordeal; he’s fine), aches (belly pain from laughing so much), delights (watching 13-year-old Bieber-haired Italian boys compete on the Wii’s Just Dance). Yes, I know that rhymes, yo.

We had 48 hours at home before heading to Edinburgh and Glasgow to catch up with friends, and to Aboyne to see M's mum. And next?

The world. We’re now officially short-termers in Inverness. House is getting valued, and we’re amid a massive clear-out. Anything we haven’t used in a year goes.

Last night I was thumbing through my two-year collection of the Observer Food Monthly, ripping out recipes I want to scan, considering my relationship with ‘stuff’ now compared to a decade ago. Shopping used to be a hobby for me; I’d drop by Pottery Barn or Anthropologie or Banana Republic once a week, just in case I’d miss out on something delicious. Some of this stuff has been lurking in a storage unit in Wichita for ten years. Other stuff has been culled and given to my brother, friends, or charity shops. A few choice items are still with me.

I moved to Prague with a backpack and a suitcase full of two 128-capacity CD wallets and clothes to withstand the winter. After the Great Cull, we’ll see how much this has multiplied.

Because this view never gets old, Lugano during our few days there. Fog from the heavens or smog from Milan? You decide.

Scourie, 15:50

Yes, there is a pattern here. The air is bursting with pinks and blues, and even the sky takes on a blue-grey hue. Birds are everywhere - cranes, robins, ducks, of course the geese and turkeys on the farm down the lane - and when one starts squawking, the others answer. I wonder what they're discussing.

Living in a place like this would be a lifestyle. Yes, the SPAR has a good range of foods, but milk is only delivered on Thursdays and there wasn't any left today. The nearest supermarket is in Ullapool, which is over an hour away in good weather. So there's step one: plan. I did create a menu list for three weeks but for some reason I didn't think about things like milk.

The house where we're staying is on the estate of Scourie House, which was built for the Sutherland estate in 1846. This was part of the 1.1 million acres of the Sutherland Estate, which was one of the biggest landowning estates in Europe for much of the 18th and 19th centuries. This house was part of the administration of these vast acres of land, and was one of three places in Scotland that did the day-to-day running of the estate. I'm curious about Scourie House, a rambling white house on the hill, with palm trees in the garden and the goose and turkey farm at the end of the long, gated drive. A light is on in one of the rooms tonight - a first since I arrived. Maybe I'll go snoop tomorrow.

We were talking earlier about growing up in a place like this. M sees the romantic side: romping up and down the hills, swimming in the sea in summer, self-sustaining gardens, wild camping. I see the frustrating side; tedious planning, three-hour jaunts to the cinema, total dependency on the Royal Mail for any books or magazines, desolation if the internet or electricity goes out.

It's only Day Three. Sixteen to go. 

Scourie, 15:15

The good news: mother-in-law is out of hospital. I will shout this from the rooftops for ages to come: if you wake up in the morning and everything in your body is working properly, you're damn lucky.

Other good news: I've arrived in Scourie, where we'll be until January 6th. Scourie is a mere half hour's drive from Cape Wrath, the northwestern point of Scotland. There's a tiny Spar with the necessities and a few random items such as kiwi fruit, gorgonzola cheese, and organic potato chips. There's a hotel with a pub that's open a few hours every night. And apparently tomorrow evening the local kids do The Lion King at the village hall.

The light at this time of year is breathtaking. The pink skies shift a bluish light on the snow. I'm always taken aback by how different things look blanketed in white. Roads I've driven many times suddenly become more stark, the landscape more vivid after the snow. Mama Nature is ensuring we see everything with new eyes.

The photo above, of Mama Nature's Christmas tree, is just behind the cottage. The sea is just outside the window. A heavenly place, this.

Menu d' Autunno

Since moving to the Highlands, I've had to redefine what summer means. All my life I've lived in places with 'proper' summer; in America, this meant nonstop air conditioning, in Europe this meant nonstop sweating and fans and shade-seeking. It was mid-August when I moved to Shetland, and my first weekend there, while walking along the beautiful Eshaness coastline, it sleeted. And didn't stop til we moved to Inverness the following February. My three Scotland summers have boasted just over 60 'skirts-and-sandals' days - thankfully many of those during our wedding week. The winter coats are never truly put away, nor are the gloves and hats.

But I haven't had to redefine winter, and that's part of what keeps me balanced here. Scotland is made for winter. I love the sound of the wind whipping the stone facade of our cottage. I love sitting by the fire. I love long walks along the coast, all bundled up, then the glorious taste of a whisky afterward. I love cooking things that are warming and comforting. And eating them.

Before Halloween, I bought two pumpkins for jack-o-lanterns that never got carved. So I thought I'd try making pumpkin ravioli. Including the pasta. Without a proper pasta maker . This was not the cleverest thing I've ever done - there's a reason why pasta makers were invented. My crude attempt ended up 1/4" thick and doughy - hardly the lilting parcels of goodness I'd envisioned. But the filling was delicious - a mixture of ginger cookies, eggs, parmesan, nutmeg, pepper, and pumpkin. I made far too much of it for my chunks of pasta, so cheated and made cannelloni using fresh lasagne sheets from M&S. Which were just as good and a damn sight easier than making my own pasta.

I'm looking forward to an autumn of chunky soups like cullen skink (I pop salmon in, too) and Scotch broth. I'll be using our Italian holiday as inspiration for risottos and roasted veg, and using this to remind me what's seasonal, British, and delicious. And preferably not pasta.

The Mountain, Gairloch

We're on the west coast again, this time in Poolewe, where M is the weekend doc and I've tagged along because I can. This part of the west coast is magnificent; hilly and lush, surrounded by jagged hills and a calm sea. Gairloch, the village above, is a charming place with one of the best cafe/bookshops in the Highlands, called The Mountain. It wouldn't be out of place in Seattle or Portland, with its cluttered walls covered in license plates, posters from the 1980s, and framed newspaper articles of climbers. Dream-catchers and beads and chimes hang from the ceiling. The tables and chairs are made of thick, chunky wood. The food is organic and homemade; even the milk is from Highland farmers. The cafe looks onto the sea, and serves the most delicious scones. Their cheese and herb scone is a meal in itself. I crave these; I'd probably make special trips to Gairloch for these scones if I had a car.

The cafe is fantastic, but even better is Hillbillies Bookstore in the front section of the cafe. Its eclectic hodgepodge of books cover everything from rock climbing to gourmet cooking to Zen mastery to self-help guides. They also stock Booker winners, teenage and kid-lit, gift books, and obscure titles from tiny publishers all over the English-speaking world. It's easy to spend an hour browsing, taking in the hundreds of stories and the colorful cover art.

I love bookshops like this, where I can drown in books I've never thought of reading, in topics I never knew existed. Places like this make the magic of books even more fascinating.

Gairloch and Poolewe are the kinds of places where people speak Gaelic as a first language and drive two hours to the nearest supermarket. The land and the sea are in control. The wind is fierce. And the backdrop is breathtaking.

Things that rock, 1

We've not been home much lately. Between weddings and mini-breaks, we've been frolicking around Scotland like nomads, taking in as many sunsets as this awful summer allows. Above, from Mull, where M's sister is working at a castle. That's the view from their kitchen window.

Years ago, in Udine, I bought a gorgeous leather book. I've been waiting to fill it with something, and with the general funk I've been in for the past month or so, I decided to make it a "things that rock" book. It's filling up, but more importantly, it's reminding me of the things that, well, rock. Sunsets like the one above, for one.

• The Glee soundtrack. Fills a dance floor, fills the heart with joy. And reminds me of the best part of high school. • Surprise parties - happy birthday, Nick! - and dancing til 4am with good friends • The Slap. An engrossing read. • Lady Antebellum • Highland Coos (the Mull castle's herd, above) • Food. Three Chimneys, Ee Usk, Cafe Fish • Spotify • The space between books, when the brain is shifting and opening and wondering •

Orcadian bliss

Last week, M was in Orkney working. In these four days, I accomplished the following:

- A full 4-page synopsis of SNAKES

- A query letter that I don't loathe

- A read-through of each character's dialogue and scenes for consistency

- A full read-through, including edits from the printout last week

This is more than I've done in months. And I know why. I am more productive from around 3-9pm. I'm not a creative morning person, fiction-wise. Or I'm not now; perhaps I can train myself.

Anyway. I joined M on Friday, and my time on the bus and ferry reminded me of how the journey colors the event. The bus ride to John O'Groats was lovely; tea, interesting historical tidbits, a magazine, sunshine and the beautiful Scottish coast. I sat outside on the ferry and talked to a charming couple from Donegal - they live just across the water from where I stayed two weeks ago - and learned far too much about having children in rural Ireland ('You're not a family until at least six') and how their eight children are nothing compared to their neighbors, who have 22. (!!) Then another bus up to Kirkwall, where a tour guide incessantly told stories about everything we passed along the way. A brilliant way to spend a Friday morning.

Orkney is stunning. The colors are intense, and crayon-bright. Soft hills sweep into the sea, and the light bathes the land in a glowing sheen. We stayed in this house (below), called Roeberry, and I felt like a princess, with majestic views of her kingdom of islands and sea. And cows. This photo was taken at midnight.

We spent the next day frolicking among neolithic ruins. It's difficult for me to fathom the age of standing stones. The Ring of Brodgar and Standing Stones of Stenness are other-worldly, especially when glittering in the sunlight. They are placed in perfect circles. The jut into the ground further than they stretch to the sky. So many stories weave through these massive stones, aching for someone to tell the truth of their origins, the steps in their rituals.

I wrote a story when I was 8 or 9 about heaven. It was a place where all mystery would be revealed, all truth told, all lies exposed, all potential fulfilled. I'm sure it was a veiled desire for some gut-wretching second grade wrong to be righted, but I still yearn for that sort of afterlife.

God Save the Queen

The Scotland-England rivalry is certainly not new, but it still leads to minor amusement. Of course I've got a more Scottish perspective than English, and I do understand the whole "EBC, not BBC" thing (i.e. Andy Murray is British when he's winning, Scottish when he's losing; all Six Nations commentary), but part of me wanted to see an England v Argentina match later this week. No such luck.

I watched it with English friends (and a Scot and an Irishman - sounds like a joke)...it's always - ahem - interesting to see how people react to England losing. During Euro 2004, when France beat England, a bar stool flew past my head and out a window. During the World Cup 2002, after England lost, my friend Tracey and I were calmly walking the streets of Prague, talking about the US v Germany match later that day, only to be called every name under the sun by England fans. You've never been insulted 'til you've been insulted by a drunken Englishman.

Yesterday, it was merely head-in-the-hands embarrassment.

The team makes something like £6M a week collectively. One would think they could play nice.

But all is not lost; Spain v Portugal tomorrow night, a cracking semifinal with Germany and Argentina, and what will probably be a Brazil-Netherlands match. The final? Brazil v Argentina, with Argentina winning 3-2.

The sun is elusive here, but it's mighty.

It's Prosecco season. Living in the north of an island known for being soggy, foggy, and groggy means getting used to limited sunshine. But when the sun does come out (to scorch the land to a stifling 24 degrees) the UKers are out in all their glory.

Cultural Divide no. 144: sunshine = limited clothing. I recall my first Scottish spring, in 2008, when the sun gave us a balmy 19 degrees on a random February Wednesday. And out came the flesh. It's a British Tradition: If the sun is out, your skin is, too.

I rather admire those who bulge beyond their short-shorts and minidresses and tank tops (or bare chests, usually limited to men). Throwing all caution to the editors of Vogue, these brave souls bare their every roll and end up with fuchsia skin. I've always been one to fear bikini season (I want to spare others from the shock of my pasty-white, jiggly skin); Britain has taught me that this is a silly, unnecessary stress. Let it hang out, sister! Enjoy the sun! Bare it all, Prosecco in hand!

So, happy spring. May the goddesses of weather grant us enough sunshine to pink the skin of everyone, and enough Prosecco to make the pain of sunburn go away.

tim'rous beastie

It's Robert Burns' 251st birthday. Tonight, all over the world, Scots and their friends will gather to celebrate Scotland's beloved bard by reciting his poems, eating Scotch broth, haggis, neeps, and tatties, and sipping whisky. I attended my first Burns Night in Prague in 2002, where I heard Burns recited in proper Scots for the first time; one cannot know the beauty of his poems until hearing them in the intended dialect. I attended Burns Suppers in Portugal and Slovenia, and had one of my own in Switzerland; a friend attended a Burns ceilidh in India last weekend, another in Los Angeles last night. It's one of my favorite Scottish traditions, because it is celebrating words.

It was fitting that last weekend was spent on the Scottish coast celebrating the country Burns loved. Friends came up from Edinburgh and we spent Saturday walking along the sea, taking in the dramatic west coast. I say this often, but will reiterate that one of the most moving and inspiring things about living up here is the wild - the ability to feel alone on an island of 61 million people. This is one of the beaches at Red Point, which looks off to Skye and Applecross. Cow's hoofmarks dotted the sand, along with the strange human objects washed in from the Atlantic - fishing twine, a Gatorade bottle, even a large orange buoy (center left in the photo below).

"Buoy" in US: boo-ey. "Buoy" in UK: boy. I thought they were kidding, they thought I was kidding. Still finding cultural divide elements.

And a final photo, from Gairloch at sunset. Happy Burns Day.

Bliahdna Mhath Ur

Sneachd is Gaelic for snow. I wonder if the Scottish Gaels once used more words than this, because the snow that's been hanging around for the past three weeks is as sundry and curious as Highlanders themselves. It comes in bursts and stays long enough to coat the ground and to soak those caught outside. It comes in quarter-sized poufs, tiny pellets, icy spikes and wandering clumps. It plunges or gently sinks. I floats sideways and whirls haphazardly. It's in charge here.

The quintessentially British phenomenon of endless discussion of weather has risen to an alarming high since the start of the havoc in mid-December. Every news bulletin is about road closures and travel disruption. Every newspaper headline hints at The Big Freeze. It's amusing, and reminds us that nature is asserting herself, making sure we don't get complacent. Deal with it, mortal humans. Harden yourselves a bit. Don't go to work; go outside and make a snowman. Play. Take time off. Deal with it.

Christmas was good. It's M's birthday too, so I made red velvet birthday cake and we had other homeless friends around for Christmas lunch. The Inverness Hogmanay celebrations were cancelled because of the weather, so the evening was spent with friends, capped by a traipse through the streets with M on the bagpipes while sitting in a wheelbarrow. I like the concept of New Year's Eve. It's a day full of hope.

Resolutions are tiresome, but necessary. I will smugly say I reached nearly every resolution from last year: I wrote a novel and got it to my agent by December (23rd, but still!), got married, got the flat remodeled, got my UK driving license. I didn't lose the 30 lbs that I wanted to lose; instead, I began to be grateful for a healthy body that functions reasonably well. I didn't travel as much as I wanted to; instead, I tried to remember that I'm living in one of the most beautiful regions in the world. So much of resolution-ing is in outlook and intention.

So...for 2010, I'm taking the karmic route. Since moving to Scotland, I've met so many inspiring people who have donated their time and ideas to me. I've been lucky to have a day job that allows me the time to write and a partner who believes in me. The generosity of the various Scottish writing and book organizations is peerless. And finding this sort of support requires proactive thinking and behavior.

In that vein, I hope in 2010 that the Literary Salon can bring this sort of solidarity and inspiration to other Highland writers. That's resolution #1, that I give back some of the encouragement and positivity that I've received, via the Lit Salon and my writing group and by reading friends' stories and novels and offering constructive critiques.

The second is to finish: revising the Portugal novel and finishing the Switzerland novel. Both are in various stages of disorder, and I owe it to their muses to get them ready for the world. This includes keeping on my weekly word count expectations and letting it flow rather than revising as I go.

And the third: less disposable, more quality. More yoga. More focus. More time outdoors. More gratefulness. More positivity. More joy.

This year could bring another move; M's job ends in August, and then we must decide. If we go, I will miss this view, watching the seasons and the skies and the birds from my writing table in our lounge. If we stay, I will be grateful to live near mountains, sea, and unparalleled beauty.

Bliahdna Mhath Ur. Happy new year.

Pop songs and telethons

I'm such a sucker for a cheesy pop song. Should preface with: I've had the flu since Sunday night; it's not swine (had that before the wedding), it didn't knock me senseless, but I was lethargic and useless all week. So the husbandia is out with the boys, and I'm staring at our ostentatiously large TV on the wall, singing along to cheesy pop songs. A little Beyonce "Crazy in Love" and Rihanna "Umbrella" and Katy Perry "I Kissed a Girl" and I'm feeling all sorts of better.

The other television option tonight is Children in Need, an annual fundraising event that the BBC puts on, Jerry Lewis telethon-style. People get really creative to raise money. One guy is cycling from Alaska to the southern tip of Chile (he's now in northern Chile and has cycled 8,500 miles so far), and BBC Scotland put an exercise bike in their studios and got radio and TV guests to do a few miles at a time; they did over 25,000. The BBC newsreaders learned a dance with a Britain's Got Talent finalist dance squad and performed it on national TV. An Edinburgh girl cut of 3 1/2 feet (!) of hair and raised £3K from her friends. Scotland locked up various personalities in a jail cell; the morning inmates raised over £30K, the evening inmates over £60K. The Dragon's Den crew re-vamped a community center for kids in three days. One guy learned to play guitar on Monday and went to every Scottish city and busked; he raised nearly £1ooo in Inverness alone, and totalled £5K for the week. The total for the UK as of 10pm: £12,691, 312. Inspiring stuff.

Pop songs and generosity make the world go round.

Oh, and I get to go to the Aberdeen Apple Store tomorrow. Yippee! (Preface that with my shiny-new iPhone...belated birthday pressie and I already don't remember life without it...)

Camanachd, Iománaíocht

We ain't been out much lately - between finishing the draft of Snakes and M's exams it's been all about holing up inside beside the stove. So when we found out about the Shinty v. Hurling match last Saturday we had to go. I watched a hurling match ten years ago in Galway and promptly forgot all the rules, thinking I would have little need for this knowledge later in life. Shinty is huge in the Highlands - it has its own radio show and people line up for autographs from the players. It's also rumoured to be the inspiration for Quidditch. Hurling's a bit more widespread, and any Irish pub worth its salt will have a hurling stick on the wall. It was a fun match, violent and aggressive like any good sport, and with the added dimension of weapons. The occasional crack of the bat and broken sticks added excitement.

When I wrote for Squash Magazine, I was repeatedly amazed by the commitment the players had to their sport. They worked out for hours every day, played squash whenever they could, watched videos of themselves playing, analyzed videos of others playing - it really is an obsession for these players.

I was raised on Sunday afternoon football, college basketball in the winter/spring, and baseball in the summer. Where I grew up, soccer was the 'alternative' sport. Perhaps that's why I find it fascinating that people become obsessed with a minor sport, a sport that won't gain them Olympic glory or a Nike endorsement. People play because they love it, not because they want recognition.

I wonder if the arts is the same. My friend Joan is an artist, and she's often posed the question of whether she should create art for herself or for the market. The same with writing. I'd like to think that if you do something from your soul, the recognition will follow; or, is the process of creating, the ritual of warming up and playing a match, is that enough? Should it be enough?

The object of a new year is not that we should have a new year. It is that we should have a new soul. - G.K. Chesterton

Some days I sit down to write this blog and realize that my life is incredibly dull. And after writing all day it’s difficult to find a voice for the rest of my life. My first Scottish Christmas was great; woke up and M opened his birthday pressies, then we had Christmas dinner with friends, who let us crash their family day. I had my first bread pudding, trifle, sherry, brussels sprouts - a great day of firsts. We were lucky to have three sets of friends visit for New Year, and spent a few lazy days chatting, eating and walking along the sea. The first day of 2009 we wandered along Nairn Beach, a stunning stretch of sand a half hour from Inverness. Such a relaxing way to bring in the new year.
I started a creative writing class in January. I’ve been hesitant about this sort of thing; I was involved in a writing group in Seattle years ago and it frequently turned quite nasty - people stealing ideas, catfights, etc. But this class has been excellent so far. The tutor is an American woman called Cynthia who has lived in the Highlands for 30+ years. She is the director of a creative writing retreat a few miles outside Inverness, and has had a novel and numerous short stories published. There are 10 of us, and we’re all anonymous except for our writing. It’s refreshing to be around people who don’t define themselves by their work, or their families, their hometown - it’s just about the writing. We begin the class with a physical prompt, and so far Cynthia has used photographs, Missing Persons ads and a tin of bric-a-brac, and we write for ten minutes. The second half of the class we read out our work, be it from a prompt given in the prior class or another piece we’re working on. The group is eclectic, most in their 30s and 40s, some writing for the first time, others in a similar stage to me.

It’s been a good thing. I haven’t written in a focused environment like this (other than one-day workshops) since my university courses. Limiting us to 150 words, then 500 words has been excellent for brevity. Focusing on a topic is also good; the topics have been cliche, so finding an angle that pushes the subject has been challenging. And it’s inspiring watching others find their voices.
We went back to Shetland last week, as M picked up some locum shifts during a week off work. It was interesting being back, and nothing had changed, not that I had expected anything to be that different, other than that the Somerfield supermarket now is a Tesco. A few shops had a new lick of paint, but otherwise the things I found wonderful and frustrating about life on that island are still both wonderful and frustrating. Lattes still take 25 minutes, the seals are still uber-curious, the food at local restaurants is delicious as long as you are there when the chefs can be bothered to cook. In all, a perfect week away to remind me why I should appreciate Inverness. Below, a sheep posing in the Highland countryside.
Finally, the world lost a special woman on January 27. Mary Crist Fleming went to Radcliffe when Harvard wouldn't admit women. She was the first woman to be approved for a mortgage in Switzerland. She once got out of a speeding ticket by offering the carabinieri a gin and tonic from her glove box. She founded TASIS in 1956, amid a male-dominated European education community. I remember meeting her in the summer of 2003, at a garden party at Casa Fleming, the house with a 17th century tower where MCF stayed while in Lugano. She was clad in a black dress, her makeup was perfect and her fingers gripped a cocktail. Her wit was scathing and quick; her heart was huge, and her memory sharp for a woman in her 90s. Her voice was low and sexy; this was a woman with a story to tell. She was captivating. And I thank her for creating TASIS, a place where I met some of the best people that I know.

Education is man's best hope for a better world. - Mary Crist Fleming, 1910 - 2009

A lovely thing about Christmas is that it's compulsory, like a thunderstorm, and we all go through it together. ~ Garrison Keillor

I'm a fan of the holidays, especially when living in a foreign country. I recall the over-the-top multicolored lights that decorated the already ornate building facades in Prague, the quirky way Lisboetas lit up the fountains in the squares, and the lovely, massive tree by the Prešeren bridge in Ljubljana. Shetland dinnae do much last year, other than the obligatory lights along the main drag, but Inverness. Mismatched multicolored strings of lights line the river and the pedestrian bridges (making for festive views from our living room), and the islands are home to lit, person-sized plastic penguins, polar bears, deer and an igloo. Above the streets of the city center, rectangular outlines of the usual suspects (stockings, packages, Santa + reindeer, etc.) hang between the buildings, which are tacky enough in daylight and shock the senses once night falls (at around 3:30pm) and horrid colored lights confuse the outlines into blobs of lights hovering above the streets. (Side note: this does freak out the drunks; they point and shout, "Look! In the sky!" - have seen this a few times in the past month.) The river does look bonny though.
Lucky Matt had three whole days off in December, so last Monday-Wednesday we took the train down to Edinburgh to see how it does Christmas. I was impressed with Glasgow's Christmas markets and lights and was hoping the Burgh would be similar. Just off Princes Street was a German market with a few rides and a nasty security staff that kicked people out at eight o'clock sharp. I was a bit disappointed with the Royal Mile and George Street, but the lights of Edinburgh are beautiful enough on their own, so adding more to the visual cocktail could lead to overkill.
I love this shot of the trees and the castle. The Scotland skies are just stunning.
Settling into a Highland winter has been easier than it was in Shetland. The light is brighter, more cutting, and having close to six rather than four hours of daylight is easier on the soul. We've had some biting days, and the wind frequently hurls itself against our stone cottage, but then a day will be sunny and warm enough to forego the gloves and hat. I've tried to get out for walks on these days, and watching the trees change and observing the the hills as they're covered with snow is magical. Nature is seductive here. And the river is still the constant, speeding past the cottage on its way from the mountains to the sea. Living by water is a wonderful thing.

So I've been blessed with a flu bug, which has been annoying me since Sunday and will hopefully be through with me soon. I miss American drugs at times like this. M's on nights all this week which also stinks. I have to change the channel when I see the Mastercard ads about being home for Christmas - which is worse, being far from family or leaving your fiance on his own on Christmas which is also his 30th birthday?! Thanks to a massive Christmas box of treats from my darling mother, our tree now looks loved, and Skype will help on the big day. Wishing you a wonderful holiday from the middle of the Highlands.

If there is a special Hell for writers it would be in the forced contemplation of their own works. - John Dos Passos

And I suppose revising could be included in the 'forced contemplation'. I am sick, sick, sick of the book I just finished. At the same time, I love it. I suppose it's like a rerun of The Office or Friends that I've seen a dozen times but will still sit through because something inside won't let me turn it off. But it's gone now, off somewhere in Manhattan's Upper East Side. Now we wait, and I continue the next book, which has been simmering long enough that it's boiling over. This is a good thing.

We spent the last two weekends in Edinburgh attending a birthday party, the Scotland-New Zealand rugby match (better score than last year) and laughing to the point of exhaustion with old friends. It was great to get away, even better to get to a real city again, and made me miss having friends so very much. I wonder if some sort of shared past is essential to friendships past the age of 28 or so. It's been difficult meeting people here, understandably as so many people my age are transient, but also because Inverness is lacking in the cultural scene and places where I tend to meet like-minded souls. I am lucky to have two fabulous sofas to crash on in Edinburgh to get my future fixes.

The past couple of weekends have also reminded me that I do live in a foreign country. I often lose sight of this because of our shared language - it's far easier to feel an outsider in a place where nothing makes sense until you learn the language. British culture shares more similarities to American culture than most other European nations, but Scottish culture is distinct. Walking along the Royal Mile on Sunday, my friend Joseph and I passed shops peddling tartan everything and blaring electronic bagpipe music, and pubs with placards claiming the 'best haggis and clapshot', and clothing shops offering (cheaply made) kilts for £100 - all cliches, and for good reason. So I tried to think of more obscure parts of Scottish culture.

• Techno music. Even if I pop to the post office for ten minutes, I'll hear at least a few cars blaring speedy techno. The drivers don't move to the beat; they just stare straight ahead.
• Irn Bru. Everybody drinks this stuff. The security guard at the consulate, the woman in Prada on the train, the teenagers with pierced cheeks. It's neon orange, and the flavor resembles Hubba Bubba bubble gum.
• Chips and Cheese. Basically a styrofoam sandwich case of thick french fries topped with shredded, semi-melted orange cheese. I mistakenly thought this treat was limited to late-night drunken munchies, but have seen numerous folk walking down the street in daylight shamelessly tucking in to this concoction in Lerwick, Glasgow, Edinburgh, Aberdeen and Inverness (which means it's pretty ubiquitous).
• Scantily clad lassies. It doesn't matter how cold/windy/rainy it is, the girls will wear as little as they possibly can. This rule, while somewhat relaxed during the daytime, is in full force once the sun goes down. The boobs are out, the legs are out, the toes are squeezed into stiletto sandals and the makeup is thick. (Weight, height and other seemingly relevant body issues are dismissed.)
• Pay-as-you-use hair straighteners in public bathrooms. Perhaps this phenomenon has hit America, but it's still weird.
• Chat. If you happen to catch the eye of the right person at the right time, they'll talk your ear off. Recent conversations have included a ten-minute diatribe on the merits of Highland winds from a traffic warden in Inverness, a six-minute discussion of her Christmas plans from a woman at an Edinburgh post office and fifteen minutes of why Glasgow is the best place to live in the world from a lovely chap at the Apple store. I love this trait, and love that people do it wherever you are in Scotland.

It's the end of an era. My new passport took three days. I took the info to Edinburgh last Thursday and received it today. Obviously, the election of the Great Obama has already made the State Department more efficient. (That's a joke, Kevin.) It's the tackiest passport I've ever seen; muted color drawings of Mt. Rushmore, the Liberty Bell, a farmer ploughing his fields with cattle, cowboys, a steam train, a totem pole, and a satellite in outer space, among other things. Every two pages has a quote about freedom, the founding of America, etc. And a few pages at the beginning with some words of wisdom. My favorite: #6, page 6: "Avoid violating foreign laws." Um, thanks for that.
I still have to travel with the old one for another 18 months, as it's got my UK visa inside. They were nice and didn't mess up the pages, only the front and back covers. I love my old passport - there's one blank page left even after getting extra pages put in. Stamps clutter every page. It's tangible proof of so many memories, and of the days when borders existed in the EU. Perhaps more poignantly, of the person I've become since making Europe a part of my story.

Killing the darlings

Killing the darlings is a necessarily evil of revising. Darlings include this gem: 'She'd done this before - going through the motions amid a dazed apathy that vanquished reality.' Readers gagging. Hemingway's shit detector blaring. I am horrified.

And so it begins, the tedious, line-by-line dissection of letters and ideas and function.

I've been ignoring the book for the past two weeks, as distance helps me become more objective and removed. I salvaged the good stuff from the last draft and rewrote the whole novel with a new protagonist and secondary characters; then thought I'd be clever and change the point of view to first person. It didn't work. So then I changed the whole thing back to third person. I revised the ending twice and now have 70K words that share only the title and a few flashbacks with the most recent finished incarnation. It's a better book now, a tighter story, a more focused read. Goal now is to have it out the door by Election Day. We'll see how that goes.

During the Great Ignoring of the Book phase, I spent a few days in Edinburgh catching up with friends and basking in the glow of a proper city. I love Edinburgh. The vibe there is fabulous. I love the basement organic cafes and the Harvey Nicks shoe department and the booze dens and the castle and the hordes of Japanese tourists flashing peace signs and the mediocre bagpipers on the Royal Mile (yes, I can now judge piping talent) and the surly bus drivers and the sound of the wind whipping down Princes Street. My friend Tracey flew in from Klagenfurt on Saturday night and we spent Sunday on a whirlwind Edinburgh tour (Proper Bacon Breakfast! Castle! Elephant Cafe! Scottish Parliament! Grassmarket!) before boarding a train back to the Highlands.

Matt had a 'surprise' for us, which often means some sort of outdoor activity; Tracey's not big on the whole activity thing, so I'd prepped her for it and we were promised a flat, 5-mile walk to our destination. On Monday we drove to Kinlochbervie, where Matt had booked us a room at the local hotel. On arrival, Tracey and I fell inside, the wind whipping the doors open, and the poor manager had no idea who we were - two small, loud American lassies asking about a room booked for three. Then he saw Matt and started to get suspicious. We were the only guests at this hotel, and he thought something weird was going on. We let the staff gossip. After dinner and a few drams while Matt played the pipes, we watched Black Sheep in the room and weren't afraid to scream and laugh. The next morning the waitress didn't greet us - she just frowned and brought us our food. Such a strange place.

And then we were off. We drove to the hamlet of Blairmore (below) and began the trek across saturated moorland. (Check the rainbow! We saw four!)
Much of the scenery resembled this - gently rolling hills, yellow moors, peatbogs, rain moving across the Highlands. The wind made the lochs rival any sea waves. Many of the lochs had burst their banks, and our 'waterproof' shoes were tested by the time we arrived at the holy grail of Sandwood Bay.
It's gorgeous - a vast expanse of sand and massive waves. The lower right corner shows the ruins of a cottage said to be haunted by the ghost of a lost pirate, who died trying to find a mermaid on Sandwood Beach. (Also the site of the most recent mermaid sighting in Britain.) And the upper left is Cape Wrath, the most NW part of mainland Britain.
Of course it wouldn't be Scotland without schitzophrenic weather, and we saw it all. Bursting sunshine, driving rain, gales, fog. When we sat down to lunch, it hailed.
We gave up on lunch and soon realized how cold and wet we were, and that we still had to make it the five miles back. In driving gales. Trudging through soaked peatbogs and rocky paths in driving winds ain't the best way to spend a Tuesday. But we made it, of course, and then the sky decided to be blue again.
And the sunset was spectacular.
I love the Highlands. It feels so remote, and you have to work for the breathtaking views. It's refreshing to know there are still places like this on the planet.

Only a week left. I feel so involved in this election - perhaps because the UK press is obsessed with it, but more because I think Obama is such an amazing person. I've now read both of his books and am even more convinced that he will make a legendary president. Thanks to the evils of Facebook I'm in touch with random people from back home, many of whom are Obama supporters. Others refer to him as "BHO" and are afraid that Obama's Muslim background means he will steal their babies out of daycare or turn America into Yugoslavia - not that they know who Tito was or what he did (or where Yugoslavia was). The most ridiculous rant I heard was that Obama is the antichrist and has an Evil Plan for America. (I wish I were kidding.) The Guardian and Times have been asking Americans about the 'elephant in the corner' (race) and it's surprising how many people are admitting their friends (or themselves) may lose their nerve when in the voting booth. The good thing to come out of this is that people are questioning their beliefs on racism, on equality. I think that's important.

Sending huge Obama love into the universe.

"He's nae been bloody Scottish since he moved to LA." - Waterstones check-out woman

Sir Sean Connery's book is out. The official hoo-ha is Monday night at the Edinburgh Book Festival - yeah, one of the many events that sold out within fifty-three seconds of tickets going on sale - but the book's out in full regalia. It's a gorgeous book (seriously - it's beautiful) with 312 pages of text and color photos, and I'm sure a copy will make its way to our SNP household, but today at Waterstones, whilst thumbing through one of the fifty or so copies stacked on a table, the folks had other things to say.
"Bastard." - random man in his 50s with a copy of "Jamie at Home" in his other hand
"What a load of rubbish." - agitated woman in her 50s with a stack of Jilly Cooper and 3-for-2 romances in her arms
"He's a bit up himself, innin-ee?" - agitated woman (above)'s companion, pulling a tartan shopping trolley
You just can't win. You're a national icon. You don your kilt whenever possible, bringing attention to your small country. You loathe the English like any good Scotsman. You've launched a zillion vocal imitators, most men in their 20s trying to pull. You're the best James Bond ever, for god's sake. And random folk in the Inverness Waterstones don't even give you any love. Even at £4 off the £20 price.

On a lighter note, Michael "The Grouper" Phelps has a book deal. Note to self: win 8 medals = book deal. And here I thought I had to actually try to write something.