Wake Up!
Wake Up!
On friends, family, writing, and an elusive bird.
“Wake up!” the bird seemed to say. “Wake up!”
It was 4:30 a.m., and I bolted out of sleep to cheeing and chooing, rasping, and trilling, a birdsong with more movements than a piece by Mahler. It also sounded like it was directly above my head.
“Chawk-chawk-chawk-chawk! Brrrt.. brrrt… brrrt… Cook-eee! Cook-eeee! Cook-eeee! Twee-diddy-twee-diddy-twee! Cheep! Cheep! Cheep! Cheep! Quawkeee, quawkee, quawkee, quawk-eeeeeeeee!”
I pulled a pillow over my head and attempted to sleep. But an hour later, the sound returned, as it would for the next few hours. “Quawkee! Quawkee!” I was used to Scrub-Jays waking me up early during the summer, but this wasn’t Oregon, this was Texas. And this guy was sounding off in the middle of the night. Who was he? And what did he want?
The bird, of course, was a Northern Mockingbird and he wanted a date. Technically he wanted a mate because no bird sings that passionately for any other reason, but didn’t he know that all the girls were asleep? Normally when I stayed in my parent’s guest room, which used to be my older sister’s room, I heard the faint sounds of Talking Heads and Adam Ant, ghosts from another time when the room was Kelly Green and my sister spent an hour getting ready for school. Music wafted from her room as she primped and preened, curling iron in hand, while I watched her and longed for the day when I’d do the same. Maybe this room still had that energy – and the bird picked up on it.
“Wake up!” he said the next night. I could practically hear him prancing. “Quawkee!”
He was talking to the lady birds, but he was also talking to me.
Except for those three pandemic years, May Texas trips to see my parents were always part family, part helping out, and part break. Early May meant it was warm enough to swim, but not scorching, yet, which allowed us to be outside, at least in the mornings. My mom’s garden, a.k.a. paradise, was always in full bloom, but there were still some weeds to pull, plants to plant, and morning tours to see the new flowers with my mom and get inspired to plant my own. There were vigorous morning swims, traditional coffee runs with my dad, and lots of time for visiting, helping, and being. We played games and told stories; read books and watched American Idol, the Disney edition; had tech lessons, cooking parties, and talked about everything under the sun. We even ventured out to see family and new things in town. My dad describes it as one of the best weeks of the year – and I agree. He’s immunocompromised, so their trips to Oregon have paused, so my sister and I visit them, instead. This year, I was even busier than usual in the months leading up to the trip, so when I landed on their doorstep, I was ready to slow down, sleep, and embrace their retired lifestyle, nosy bird, or not.
There’s no substitute for laughing and loving.
At the end of my parent week, I joined my BFF at his place for a few days to run around the city. We hung out like it was 2019 again, visiting bookstores and new neighborhoods, vintage shops and restaurants, and spent a Saturday afternoon at the Dallas Museum of Art to visit our fave paintings. A lot of them weren’t on display, but we still saw Picasso and Pollack, Kahlo and O’Keefe. Art is like air, but so are friendships. They allow you to breathe more deeply – and relax into yourself. When I got back to Portland, my roses were in full bloom. My nephew was in town for the week! And my writer-sister Nina St. Pierre was on tour for the Powell’s launch of her incredible debut novel, Love Is A Burning Thing. There were after-parties and dinner hangs, nephew breakfasts and vintage shopping, family dinners, and full-body hugs. Giving love and seeing the people I love shine is the very best thing in the world. And for weeks, I was soaking in it.
Usually, when I’m in Texas, I write. After a morning swim, I sneak onto my laptop and get in some words before everyone wakes up. It would have been a great way to prep for #1000wordsofsummer, which started less than a week after I got back. But this time I was so sleep-deprived that I read, instead. I didn’t have the energy to write. On the plane ride back, I found myself drawing in my journal for hours, sketching my trip instead of writing, too. Sometimes, writing is not writing. This year, the best prep I could do was to let go and make space for new ideas and words to come in. After months of hustling and writing a manuscript’s worth of words for work, I let my spirit rest and refill, and it returned. Just in time for #1000wordsofsummer.
On the first day of the challenge I worked on this post, but on the second day I wrote new material, picking back up on a few notes I’d made while I was away. I have edits to return to, but for me, #1000wordsofsummer has always been a bit of magic, a place to play and remind myself why I write fiction, in the first place. It’s a time to go wild, try something new, and crack myself up. The word count is just a container, and I usually write more, staying in a scene, exploring a question, or just having fun. It’s a time to be immersed in the work with other writers all over the world doing the same thing.
writes inspiring daily letters, and curates them from other guest authors, too, to keep us going. To help us refill. Thanks, Jami! It’s two weeks of pure joy. A wonderful way to kick off the summer, a season full of long days and nights, perfect for the writer’s life.
This year, I think about Petey Sellers. We participated every year since 2018, and this is my second year doing it without him, but he’s here, of course. Petey loved #1000wordsofsummer because we would write, walk, write, but it was also the time of year, like many others, when writing came first and I was happy. I’m always the most joyful when I’m drafting a story, discovering, communicating, and creating worlds out of nothing. It’s why I’m here, and Petey Sellers knew that. This year, Petey’s dog beds are in the closet, but his spirit is here, on walks and during writing sessions, waving at me with a bird or a breeze, a butterfly or a memory. “You’re writing the story!” I hear him say. “Keep going!” A little pep talk from the beyond.
The mockingbird’s cries weren’t just about finding a mate, they were also about me, a reminder that even though Petey’s not here, my bird friends are. Wise winged ones that Petey and I paused and watched, together. They exist! And my voice does, too. After some rest, I woke up with the birds, again, arriving at the page, eager to write. They were there, waiting for me. Ready for me to listen.
“Cheep-cheep!” a bird sang outside my window. “Twee-diddy-twee-diddy-dee!”
I wonder what story will show up, next?
It’s not too late to start! Join Jami Attenberg’s #1000wordsofsummer! Join in at Week 2 and then extend it a week for yourself. She also wrote a book!
Speaking of books, Love Is A Burning Thing by Nina St. Pierre is out now, and it’s getting great reviews. She’s on Poured Over on B&N; People magazine calls it a Best Book of May 2024; and more.
Catch my favorite band, The Bellrays on Tour with Social Distortion this summer!
Thanks for reading, sharing, and subscribing! Changes are coming next month, thanks for showing up. Happy summer, happy reading, happy writing! And sound off: what else would you like to see in this space? More dogs, more writing advice, more process thoughts, more Kari? Let me know! The cauldron is brewing…
