An ice storm hit a few weeks ago. The trees were heavy with leaves and the weight of the ice made everything melt like an overtired surrealist painting. Our beautiful sugar maple wilted and touched the ground and then quickly sprung back into form when it warmed up again. The hardwoods didn’t do so well. We lost dozens of branches from the crowns of white oaks and hickory trees around the yard. Their broken arms rained down like javelins and stuck several inches into the mud. We’re still waiting for the biggest ones to fall.

When we went to New York for Thanksgiving, we saw huge sycamores split in half and dismembered limbs along the sidewalks of the Upper East Side. The cold came too early and made a mess of what was left of autumn.

I’m not ready to accept that it’s late December. I lost track of time in August when preschool started up for the second year and every parenting pattern that worked until she turned two-and-a-half stopped working altogether. Eva’s three now somehow. The solstice isn’t til tomorrow, but we’ve already had record snowfall. If you know me well, you know that I grew up in Texas where the weather changes quicker than the stock market, but my body isn’t used to this. I can’t seem to get a grip on this particular year. I did finally buy a real coat, and I have no idea why I let my ass go cold for half a decade. It wasn’t worth it; I learned nothing; my blood cells will always be weak; I’ll never get used to east coast winters.

I have been writing more. I took two nonfiction night classes this semester. (I’m thinking in semesters again thanks to Eva’s preschool calendar.) I had a few goals with these classes and am still processing what I’ve learned. I wanted to practice writing stories, and was particularly interested in exploring craft elements like narrative structure and dialogue. I’ve been paying the bills with words for over thirteen years, but I do not consider myself a storyteller. Taking online classes was a great way to try new things, get feedback, and experiment with different kinds of subject matter. (Thank you for letting me experiment on you too, by the way.) I expected to get feedback on the areas of my work where I feel weakest. What I got instead was an enigmatic refrain that reminds me of one of those Magic Eye puzzles where you have to diverge your eyes for the image to reveal itself.

Hold the center of the image up to your nose. It should be blurry.

My first teacher said my work is really strong, and that I have a lot of emotional control. I took this as a good thing. I went into the second class feeling relaxed and energized.

Focus as though you’re looking through the image into the distance. Very slowly move the image away from your face until the two squares above the image turn into three squares.

My second teacher was more rigorous. She didn’t let us talk during our own workshop. I let the feedback wash over me and tried to take in the force behind it. Everyone said pretty much the same thing. Great opening. Strong writing. Engaging story. Emotional control. Emotional control. But how does the narrator feel about this? What was happening in her body at the time? Can you give the reader more access to her internal state?

Move the image away from your face until you see three squares. Hold still and the hidden image will magically appear.

I understand now that what they meant by control is detachment—the story I’ve crafted year after year by writing myself out of the events in my past. They want me to map out the gaps in my memory, the aches in my body, the broken arms, the trauma, the scars that time left behind. They want to feel what I felt even if that means feeling nothing. They want to see the wreckage.

The longer you look, the clearer the illusion becomes. Good luck!

I can never get my eyes or my brain to focus on the picture. It’s just a pixelated rainbow. I have to back away from that kaleidoscope now, from that question of a finished narrative or what readers want to see. I know there’s more for me to learn; I am just starting to find the edges of what a ten-year project deserves to be.

With love,
Nicole