The following piece was originally written as a letter to a friend; later, when a magazine asked me to do an essay on what was either my Best Day or my Worst Day as a writer, I tidied it up a bit for the purpose.
Busy Day
Copyright 2008 Diana Gabaldon
[This was originally a letter to a friend, later rewritten as an essay for a writers' magazine.]
The Best and/or Worst Day of my writing career? Geez. Well, I've been doing this for nearly fifteen years now, so we have a wide array of days to choose from.
There's the day I finished writing my first novel. Like giving birth, but no stitches, and you get to sleep as long as you want afterward. _Tres_ cool.
There's the day my agent called to tell me that of the five editors he'd sent the manuscript to, three had called back with offers. Definitely a Good Day--though in fact, I was so flabbergasted that I felt as though I'd been slugged with a sandbag, and went around feeling surreal for about a week.
There's the day one of my books first hit the NYT list--though I heard the news from my husband when I staggered off a plane from a three-week book-tour, and was therefore somewhat too fogged to thoroughly enjoy it.
"Yeah?" I said (as I recall). "Oh. Good. Who am I?"
Bad days. Hmm. Well, I distinctly recall throwing a basket-chair down the staircase a few years ago, while bellowing, "Will you all just LET ME ALONE FOR _FIVE MINUTES_!?!", though I don't recall the specific occasion.
And there was last week, when I arrived at JFK from a book-tour through
And then there's tonight, when I returned from a long day of booksigning at
Really, though, most days in a writer's life don't consist of Big News or Major Annoyances. Most are more like...
...one of THOSE Days, beginning with angst and trauma in the morning when the little one couldn't find her violin
and the middle one was so conked his father couldn't rouse him and
had to call for assistance (I have a secret method; I toss back the
covers and get him by the feet, then play "This Little Piggie" on
his toes. This aggravates him enough to get him upright and
snarling, at which point he can be levered out of bed and into his
closet), and the big one wasn't happy with the way her hair looked.
Having gone to bed at
knee and elbow some six feet from the foot of the staircase) and
freshly strained my shoulder reaching for something.
I rallied round, though‑‑found the violin (by the simple
expedient‑‑which drives everyone in my family completely mad‑‑of
asking "Where did you see it last?"), combed the big one's hair
into a ponytail (had to make her sit down on the edge of the bath
to do it; she's four inches taller than I am), tied the middle
one's shoes, and ran upstairs to write notes to two of his teachers
(he had the flu, on and off, and missed six days of school, with
consequent assignments. Problem is, he's too shy to go up and ask
any of his teachers for a list of what's missing).
The boys from next‑door‑but‑one came and knocked‑‑they'd
missed their bus, could I take them to school? (no good asking
where _their_ bloody parents are. There's a reason they live
_here_ half the time). Loaded up everybody, picked up my purse to
get in the car, when the housekeeper beetled out and said we're out
of X,Y,Z, especially washing powder.
Dropped the kids‑‑adjuring Sam sternly to be sure to deliver
notes to his teachers‑‑went to the drug store, where I got all the
cleaning supplies and checked for the homeopathic flu cure my friend John recommended (felt a sore throat coming on). While driving to and fro, kept thinking of snow (no good reason, it's about 85 F. here). Went home, delivered the window cleaner et al, came upstairs and spent my usual hour having breakfast (Diet Coke and Milky Way Dark) and reading/answering messages and E‑mail, seeing in the back of my mind footprints dark on the snow, and heaped wet leaves, crusted with ice, the dark furrow in the leaves where someone had been lying under the shelter of a log.
Set in to work as usual at 10, stoked to the gills with
Vitamin C and occilococcinum. Read through a half‑done scene in
progress, added a couple of paragraphs, then was overcome by a new,
vivid image‑‑I was following the footprints in the snow, and there
was a dead hare, caught in a snare, furred with ice crystals, stiff
across the path. Switched to a new document and started the new scene, to get it underway. Fell into the state of mind in which I walked off the staircase, feeling the worry of the woman following the footprints. Why didn't he stop for the hare? Where is he?
Settled nicely into the first paragraph, when comes the
dreaded summons from the foot of my stairs, "_Es un hombre a la
puerta_!"
Hombres at the puerta are always an intrusion, but usually
brief, as in Fed Ex or UPS, now and then the exterminator or the
man from the feed store delivering horse pellets (this is a _large_
nuisance, as I have to go collect all the dogs and shut them in the
garage, then go round and open the big gates into the backyard for
the truck to come through).
This time it was an hombre from the phone company, come to fix
the FAX machine's line (cf. staircase, above). Showed him the
miscreant FAX, helped him track the phone line‑‑which had been
installed by one of my husband's programmer employees, back when he
had his office in that room‑‑then left him to it.
Reminded of phones, checked for messages (only one phone in
the house rings, for reasons I won't go into; this means I normally
don't hear it from my office‑‑a Good Thing, on the whole‑‑so I'm in
the habit of checking the voice mail once every hour or so).
Message from my father, wanting to know when girls are off school
so my stepmother (bless her heart) can take them to have their hair
cut. Message from person wanting to sell my house for me (ignore).
Message from person wanting to come and demonstrate anti‑burglary
system (ignore. Inside dogs have finally quit barking at phone
person, but he's gone outside, and outside dogs are now having
hysterics. There's a reason we've never had burglars, aside from
the fact that we haven't got a lot of stuff anyone would think
worth stealing, unless you count the collection of PlayStations and GameCubes. If anyone wants to come steal my ancient XT clone, they're welcome to it; it's insured). Message from librarian in
Minor panic. _Did_ I agree to go and talk to people in
in May? Rustle through tray of speaking/workshop engagements.
Evidently I agreed conditionally (hint: never throw anything away,
and when you talk to people on the phone, write down on their
letter what it is you told them), provided I didn't have to go to
BookExpo. Think suddenly that I don't _know_ whether I have to go to BookExpo.
Telephone editor, who is out, but get her assistant, who
promises to find out for me about BookExpo. Return to work, get as far as lyrical description of shadows lengthening under the trees,
turning from vanilla to chilly violet and then cold blue on the
snow as the sun goes down. Get up to open balcony door, as it's
getting rather warm in office. Phone hombre comes inside to ask
where main phone‑line panel is. Luckily I know this (from earlier
phone adventures in this house) and go show him.
Go upstairs. Come downstairs at once, as Airborne Express
hombre has arrived with parcel to be signed for. This proves to
contain a dust jacket proof for new book causing mingled
interest and panic (said book being in a state of severe
incompletion upstairs). Set proof on kitchen table and stare at it
for awhile in attempt to decide whether I like it or not, while
feeding bloodworms to fish and newts who live on table. Put fresh
seed and water in parakeets' cups (if the dogs don't announce a
burglar, the birds will, noisy things).
Leave cover proof to marinate in my subconscious and go
upstairs. Finish sentence about shadows, start worrying about the
man out hunting, why hasn't he come back? Is he walking his
trapline? Go look at book on animal tracks, find out what hare
tracks look like in snow. Take passing note of ferret tracks,
various bird prints. Check Roger Tory Peterson field guide
(pausing to wonder whether constant exposure to this in my field‑
work days is where I got the name "Roger." Hope not, as I've met
RTP, who at the time was rather a pompous old geek) to be sure that
kind of bird would be in
Federal Express hombre arrives, bearing mysterious box labeled
"Norm's
it to discover that my sister has sent me...a mushroom garden for
Christmas. Roughly a foot‑square chunk of rot, oozing brown liquid
inside a plastic bag. I am assured (by the enclosed directions)
that if I remove the plastic, spray this object with water, set it
in a pan of same atop a chunk of wood and leave it in a quiet, cool
place where it gets roughly 6‑8 hours a day of diffuse light, it
will sprout shiitake mushrooms.
Put mushroom garden on downstairs desk, where I will not
forget it (next to large pile of bookplates waiting to be signed,
which I will make every effort to forget, but my husband's secretary is coming round Monday to make sure I don't), and go upstairs, feeling pleased that I have ordered an Archie McPhee potato gun for my sister for Christmas.
Sit down and re‑read the six sentences I have onscreen,
sinking back into scene. How long will I/she wait before setting
out to look for the missing man? It's dark outside, it's getting
colder. She's stoked up the fire, but her hands are still cold.
Dinner is cooking, but she doesn't feel hungry, and the scent of
food doesn't comfort her. If he's had an accident...Phone rings
and I hear it, for a wonder. Editorial assistant, informing me
that they don't know yet whether I should go to BookExpo, but they've changed the date and it isn't 'til mid‑June, so I can go to Utah if I want.
Meanwhile, husband arrives downstairs, complaining of acute
pain in foot, asking a) did I remember to buy him wart remover, and
b) do I want to go and eat a hot dog with him? Answer yes to both,
and go to eat Polish sausages with sauerkraut and mustard, while
discussing whether I should go to Utah in May. Upon finding out
that they're offering me $1000 to come and talk to them, husband
agrees that I should, and remarks casually that he has always
wanted to build a kit plane.
Return (in car, I find myself crouched behind a screen of
rocks and twigs. There are Indians I don't recognize, passing in
single file through the wood a few feet away. Their faces are
painted, and they're moving in the direction of the house I just
left) to find that another Federal Express hombre has come by, but
missed the housekeeper, and instead left a delivery notice on the
door. Go upstairs, quickly download and skim messages, then sit,
list in hand, and try to organize rest of day. Phone rings; in‑
laws inviting us to come over for dessert after supper. Phone
rings; woman in Alabama wanting to get hold of autographed copy of
new book for Christmas present for sister. Explain politely that it isn't finished yet, suppressing various uncharitable remarks that come to mind when she exclaims, "But why NOT?"
Little one comes home from school. Have five minutes to make
her a snack, listen to her report of her day, and sympathize with
her teeth (she needs orthodontia, and we've just had the first
spacers put in yesterday), then go to collect the older kids from
their school.
Discover that son hasn't given teachers their notes. Grasp
him metaphorically by ear and drag him off to beard teachers in
their dens. Extract lists of missing assignments from two, but find
third one has already left for day.
Decant everyone at home, distribute food and drink all round,
load up little one, who wants to come with me, and set off for
afternoon errands‑‑feedstore, to buy nosebag and two hundredweight
of oats for elderly horse who isn't getting his share of the
pellets, Alphagraphics, for new shipment of bookplates, and grocery
store, because we are out of necessities like milk and tunafish,
and because little one is holding a Christmas party next day
(that's TODAY), at which she and six friends intend to decorate
cookies, among other things.
Return home, having discovered in the car that the Indians are
indeed sinister, being Mohawk far from their home range, raiding
for purposes unknown (has this got anything to do with Father
Alexandre, the Jesuit missionary whose flesh is weak, and whom
we'll meet a good deal further on?). Cook dinner, slug down more
homeopathic flu remedy and Vitamin C, go off to dessert at in‑laws.
Return (she's found him, denned up in a cavity under a pile of
brush. The Mohawk are being stealthily followed by a small band of
Tuscarora Indians that they _do_ recognize). Superintend massive
homework while baking ten dozen sugar cookies ("You know," remarks
my little one, who is (haha) "helping" me bake cookies, "I feel
kind of bad." "Your teeth still hurt?" I ask. "No," she says,
"but I was just thinking, I'll be in bed in a little while, and
you'll still be baking cookies. I feel kind of guilty about that."
While feeling gratified at this evidence of developing conscience,
I assure her that that's perfectly all right, I _like_ baking (I
do, but), and dash upstairs to find Sam a black marker with which
to prepare visual aids for a presentation on current events).
Oldest daughter comes out to ask whether I can type her
Constitution for the nation she is designing in school, as she is
a very slow typist and overwhelmed with work tonight. Assure her
that I can, and take document up to park by computer, where I will
not forget it.
Tuck people in bed. Take more anti‑flu stuff, while listening
to husband tell me how exhausted he is. Tuck him in bed, eat a
bowl of rice and leftover Chinese beef from dinner, drink more Diet
Coke, and go upstairs to work at midnight.
Answer a few messages, play one game of Solitaire, discover I
am falling asleep, lie down on floor and nap for an hour. Wake up,
but can't stay awake‑‑get a sentence or two down, but discover it
doesn't make sense. Decide flesh and blood has limits, and stagger
downstairs to lock up, check kids and animals, turn off lights,
feed rabbits and hamsters, etc. Heading for bedroom when I realize
I have not typed Laura's Constitution, which she urgently requires
for class next morning.
Unlock office, go upstairs...came down at 2:30, took more
Vitamin C and passed out. Net result, writing‑wise, being that I
have maybe 300 words actually _written_, which would be
discouraging (and is) in view of my 2,000 word goal, but I _do_
know a heck of a lot more about what's going on than I did in the
morning, and in fact, I didn't stop writing all day.
So I'll get there, eventually. If I don't die first.
And that's the truth about writing: A good day is any day when you get words on the page. A bad day is when you don't.
That's awesome! (I especially liked the part about sleeping on the floor.) Now I think I understand a little more about Claire's strength...if YOU can cram all that in one day, then what she accomplishes in those "moments" is really possible..
ReplyDeleteJust a hint - if it's not the Sefton, Claremont or Mount Murray Hotel in the Isle of Man then don't bother! :)
ReplyDeleteYou took me through the gamut, laughter, groaning, frustration...I've had days that are similar albeit not nearly as crammed full of the book related stuff but still, I can understand how you would 'pass out' at the end of the day.
ReplyDeleteAnd yet, you still find the time for all of us, to which I'm sure I can speak for us all, we are eternally grateful.
:heart:
nm
You have talked about that in one of your podcasts,haven't you?
ReplyDeleteI give you great amounts of credit to survive such a day! If I had even one day like that, never mind days that, to you, are status quo, I'd've used the gun ... on myself! The only reason I write fiction is to live vicariously through it, but I manage to keep it out of my life. I guess I'm into the Zen of peace, quiet and calm.
ReplyDeleteBest of luck living. I will send you some peace, if only for a moment.
Mary
Diana:
ReplyDeleteTwo things come to mind -- You are Claire. No, it's actually the other way around. And I now know where that looonnngggg day at The Gathering came from in FC.
While having both an autistic child and a neuro-typical child has given me a run for my money, I still haven't had a day such as one of yours. Well, maybe when said autistic child had his California mission report to complete the same day younger, NT (as we "normals" are called by autistic folk) child had to go to the ER to have his appendix removed..... that was hairy.
Midge
Thank you for continuing to write through it all.
I'm exhausted just reading about your day. Wow.
ReplyDeleteMuch admiration for taking time to interact on the forum as much as you do!
This comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteI've seen this before, and still marvel that with all you have going on, you manage to make time to write at all on days like that. And I think Midge is right about that verrrrry long day in FIERY CROSS [g]. It's just amazing how much can be packed into 24 hours, if you really try. It makes me exhausted just reading about it.
ReplyDeleteThis is a good example of a "kernel", isn't it? The footprints in the snow, which eventually developed into the scene where Claire finds Jamie in the snow and she tells him the story of "A Christmas Carol". I love that whole sequence; it's one of my favorites in DRUMS [g].
Karen
Phew!I now can say I admire(from a distance)your energy, creativity, and stamina, but I do not envy you.It took me years to understand that I'm not wired that way. My husband was a Type A personality (age has mellowed him alot) who went full speed from sun up to sun down. Me on the other hand thought if I got out of bed I had accomplished a miracle. I had to fight the guilt that was instilled in me as a small child that you took care of your home, husband, and children first. Don't even think about setting down and reading a book. Let me tell you, that guilt is now long gone. Of course, having my children grown helps. I'm at the point now if I want to read for hours (Outlander Series)and let my bathroom ferment and grow mushrooms on the tile, fine. It will eventually get de-toxed.
ReplyDeleteYou just keep on doing what you do and I will reap the rewards of your hard earned work. Thank you for entertaining me throughly.
WHEW!!!
ReplyDeleteDiana: I have to agree with MerryMags...I have always thought that "you are Claire", or vice/versa....
You are such a great inspiration...I enjoy your posts almost as much as your books, and I am forever grateful that you share with us these little insights into your life as a writer/mom/wife/friend/sister/daughter/woman...
I remember reading another of your posts a while back...maybe sometime in February, where you gave us an example of a typical day and night...and I was extremely impressed to find that you read your Bible every day. (Something you have now inspired me to get back to doing again myself.) I had neglected this aspect of my life for the past 3 or 4 years, though it used to be a very important part of my life. Now that I am back to daily (Bible)reading, I am reminded how much more can be accomplished when there is a positive outlook on life, when you feel at peace within yourself, and when you give freely of your time...(which you continue to do with all of us, no matter how busy your life already is!!) I absolutely love and admire you for being so open and honest with us...thank you, thank you, thank you! As Nightsmusic said, we are eternally grateful!
♥♥♥♥
Sharon
I bet _your_ husband never comes home and asks you what _you_ did all day. (Or if he once did, he doesn't anymore!)
ReplyDeleteThank you for writing, you have given so much to so many people.
ReplyDeleteThanks again for the reminder that unlike the rest of the world, we writers live in more than one place at the same time.
ReplyDelete"Multitasking" on a level most folks would cringe and cower if asked to do.
Once again, I love the way your mind works and the way the bits and pieces come together.
I loved following the creation of the snow tracking episode. And I sooooo agree with comments about the long day in Fiery Cross (which I''m in the middle of rereading ... and wondering if the sun will ever come out again as Claire and Jamie discuss Bonnet). I would love to follow the creation process for the weather that day on Mount Helicon!
ReplyDeleteThanks for thousands of pages of my favorite story...
Penny in San Diego
This post has exhausted me. But beyond the multi-tasking of a writer (that I do not know), you also have the multi-tasking of a mother (a reality that I can relate to).
ReplyDeletewow. that is incredible. Will you give us a window of another more recent day? btw, everyone! I would like to announce that audio book version Drums of Autumn is now available at Audible.com in the unabridged version! YAY!!!
ReplyDeleteI always need a nap after I read about one of your days! :-)
ReplyDeleteWOW! I can relate, having five kids myself, a needy husband (what man isn't?), numerous animals etc, etc.
ReplyDeleteThe one thing that I envy is you have a HOUSEKEEPER! I can't imagine you having time to clean with everything else you do.
:)
Dear Diana,
ReplyDeleteThat's why Claire can describe so good how it is to work _and_ to have a baby/child at home!
Diana,
ReplyDeleteI'm tired after that one! ; ) At least I just have 2 to chase after and run around to places, well 3 if you count the hubby! But I can relate. This weekend I wrote some, but also spent a lot of time knocking down plaster in our bedroom. We decided to take the room down to the studs and do it right. House was built in the 1920's. But, it did give me time to decide what to do about the unexpected turn of events in my story. I pulled down some ceiling tiles, then when the hubby took the older son to the driving range, I finished then sat down at the computer to write. The younger son went upstairs to play X-box. I am still tying to decide the fate of the slave who was beaten with a chair leg...and what to do about the overseer who almost beat him to death. The slave is the master joiner and the overseer is a bad guy.... like most. My main character doesn't like slavery, but at this point doesn't know how to change that... he is only 19 and his older brother is off to war. I am sure it will come to me. We also went to buy a new bed yesterday afternoon, ate stopped at the mall and Menards to buy more stuff for remodel. I have a student who requested a recommendation for a scholorship that I have to finish... today! It is due tomorrow... nothing like him asking me over a busy weekend. Oh, gotta go set up for labs today too.
Guess I better get on it!
Take care!
Vicki
Dear Diana,
ReplyDeleteThank you for the "throwing the basket chair down the stairs" comment. That is part of it - is it not? Balancing Lives 1 & 2!!! I always enjoy your honesty!
Jewell
This is a little off topic, but I'm dying of curiosity. I was channel surfing the other day and paused on "Scariest Places on Earth" because I heard the term "the White Witch." Intrigued, I learned that Rose Hall in Jamaica is haunted by this woman, who can get very very angry and is apparently very Evil. I missed a lot of the back story and only caught the tail end of it, but now I need to know: did you know of this ghost story before you wrote Voyager?
ReplyDeleteDear mstold,
ReplyDeleteWhy "VOYAGER"? "La dame blanche" (The white which) appears also in "DRAGONFLY IN AMBER".
Well, Sarah, I was connecting the two separate ideas, the White Witch and Rose Hall, both which appear in Voyager. But you're right, maybe she knew about it before.
ReplyDeleteDear mstold,
ReplyDeleteI don't know if she knew about Rose Hall before "Dragonfly in Amber" or "Voyager" or if she knows it, but know I understand what you meant. [s]I thought you were only talking about "La dame blanche" and was a bit confused why you asked if she knew it before Voyager and not before Dragonfly in Amber .
I'm sorry, this is completely off-topic (mostly, anyways) but I had to share.
ReplyDeleteThis week is Scotland week! It will be celebrated in major cities like Toronto, New York, Boston, Chicago, Seattle and more (I'm not sure how far it extends in North America).
I'm going to go fish out my Newfoundland Tartan and make some bannock to celebrate!
you are awesome! :D... feels good to know its possible to live through such days and still be sane
ReplyDeleteBTW.... i had something I thought the scientist in you might like... we were shown this in a Molecular biology lecture this semester.
the video (seen on high, whatever high is) is reallly nice... makes me feel sophisticated to know all that stuff going on :)
http://www.studiodaily.com/main/technique/tprojects/6850.html
I am so excited to see this blog. I am a diehard Diana Gabaldon fan. On my slow days at work, I spend time keeping up with a couple of DG discussion groups. Now, I can subsidize them with this blog.
ReplyDeleteBTW, I would have sworn you were just reporting on historical figures; your characters are so real to me.
I look fowrad to hearing more about your process and whatever is happening in the life of your characters as they are developed.
Thanks for sharing this. It's easy to think that no one else has days like this. To see your day spelled out so completely, knowing what you've been able to accomplish...well it's very encouraging and I appreciate it:-)
ReplyDeleteTracy
BookCloak Blog