Open Space

A colleague, now several years retired, recently cleared out the office he had occupied for more than twenty years. It’s lighter now, without the file cabinets, the bookcases lined up two deep against the walls. Just a couple of old computers, an older desk, a fan. I miss seeing him day to day on campus–we shared the end of a corridor, along with several creative and pedagogical interests (poetry, advising). Now, the room is not quite a blank slate of possibility, nor does it hold any real traces of the scholarly personality–conscientious, deeply kind, widely read–who occupied it for so long. It’s an almost empty room, almost ready for redefinition. A little sad, a little inviting.

He also left behind two copies of a book I’ve borrowed from the library, but never owned–Home Ground: Language for an American Landscape, edited by Barry Lopez and Debra Gwartney. When the books appeared, mysteriously (to me) in the mailroom, our office manager identified the source and I pounced. Some days, it’s worth going in to the office.

It’s a kind of dictionary, alphabetically arranged, but I’ve been dipping in and out, more or less at random, since I brought it home this afternoon.

I’m in the midst of revising a manuscript, one I love, though enough trusted readers have raised questions that I have come to recognize certain shortcomings–fixable, I hope. I’m working on it. But meantime, there’s another story taking shape–not even in the back of my mind, more of a midpoint; is there a mezzanine of the mind? A front hall closet? Somewhere like that. It’s a story very much about place. Or a placed story. Maybe places.

The manuscript under revision is more about character–loyalty, idiosyncrasy, failure, redemption. I’m hoping to find some inspiration (nudges, pointers) at the Willamette Writers Conference this weekend–looking through the schedule, a number of workshop titles (on character motivation, on sympathetic–or not so sympathetic–protagonists) already jump out at me. Truth be told, when I’ve attended conferences in the past–writing conferences, or scholarly meetings–the bits that stay with me, that move an idea or a plan from the box room to the newly-opened office space of possibility, are often the talks I hear by chance, the panels chosen on a whim. So maybe I’ll wander a little, looking not for the obvious fit, but the tangential.  (Debra Gwartney will be there, too, teaching memoir–not what I write, but likely something I could learn from.)

Sorry, no office photo to wrap things up. This seems like a day for outside options, detours, suggestions. Don’t bother the bees and they won’t bother you.