The difference a year can make

Early morning jitters.

Cup of tea in hand, 

Waiting for the sun to rise over my quiet little corner of England...

It is quite remarkable, the difference a year can make.

This time last year, I was exploring my new world, trying not to look back on what I'd left behind, keen to make a fresh start, and anxious for what the future might hold. And, I started this blog, which has been a saving grace in so many ways. 

That seems such a long time ago, as I look upon myself now. There are still things yet to be discovered and chronicled, to be sure. The journey has just begun. 

The coming year will undoubtedly be no less adventure-filled than the one which has just passed. It begins today...

Last year this time, I went along to magnificent Coughton Court for the Throckmorton Literary Festival. This year, this morning, I will be speaking there as a feature author. I am sure I must be dreaming, but I hope that no one wakes me till its over.

But more than the dizzying high of being in the company of such illuminati as Kate Adie and David Starkey, what I am aware of most profoundly is a deep sense of wholeness and love.

I cannot fully describe what I mean, beyond saying that I have never felt so loved and supported in my life. This morning, my inbox was peppered with cheery messages of encouragement from friends and neighbours here in Barford. Other Barford friends and family made cheerleading phone calls or left rallying voicemails for me yesterday.

Practical support has come alongside the moral variety. The Darling D.E.B. has taken the day off work today. Not only is he planning to come along to cheer his little Wifey on, he's volunteered to be one of our Elizabethan waiters. 

We are serving samples from our cookbook as part of our session today. The D.E.B. in floppy shirt, short trousers and tights, a la Jonathan Rhys-Meyers in "The Tudors"...lovely!

Our wonderful Sally arranged the costumes; sweet Hannah--who sang 'our song' at our wedding--has stepped in to be Elizabethan Server #2. (I've decided to call them "Romeo" and "Rosalind"...let's see just how twee I can get today.) 

Maggie, from the Barford Heritage Group, phoed with good advice, prompting me to think about having our session recorded, which in the great mix of things had escaped me. 

I could go on and on, and name dozens of other Barfordians have been here for me with pep talks, cups of tea, and hugs that have helped bring me to today. And not just "today" in the literal and date specific sense, but Today. This Life.

That is the difference a wonderful, English year can make. 

Thank you, dear Reader, for sharing this journey with me.

An early gift from "Santa"

How like a winter has my absence been!

Time has a way of passing so quickly when you're trying to stay on top of things. And, Dear Reader, I have not been completely honest. I have been utterly shy and evasive about the main drain on my time these days. I have been squirreling away on a new writing project. 

The D.E.B. and I have a very dear friend who is a culinary expert. (He taught the guy, who taught Gordon Ramsay everything he knows!) I have mentioned him here before, as he is the mastermind behind the wonderful culinary evenings the D.E.B. and I have attended at Stratford-upon-Avon College.

Getting to know our friend, Master Chef, over the past year, has revealed that he has a healthy interest in literature, history and theatre; and that I consider myself more than just a passing "foodie". So, we have decided to combine our respective passions and knowledge, and collaborate on a "Shakespeare Cookbook".

And I will confess, it has been a truly wonderful, guilty pleasure! I have no doubt that my friends of the "scholarly, academic" persuasion will be queuing up to scoff at me with disdain... 

Truth be told, I have put as much of my heart and brain into this, as any other project I have pursued. But, the fact that I'm actually having fun, somehow makes it feel less "worthy" than if I were spending hours upon hours slaving over  writing something along the lines of "the performative and deconstructed social realities, abridged discourse, and political anxiety of gendered violence in early, 18th century, Italian productions of Titus Andronicus according to Derrida". 

Ugh. 

No more of that for me, thank you very much. I have served my time in the academic trenches, and now, I doing what I please! And I can think of few better ways to spend my time than sitting in my garden, sipping tea, and contemplating the (over 2,000!!) food and culinary references in Shakespeare works.

Master Chef and I are both taking this project very seriously. We have done very good, earnest, and hopefully entertaining, work. And, we've had quite a favorable response so far. Even without a physical, printed text to hand as of yet, we have been invited to preview our work at the Throckmorton Literary Festival next month, at Coughton Court. 

(I cannot say what it meant to me to see my name in print alongside such legends as Kate Adie and David Starkey--a.k.a, the Thinking Girl's Pin Up!)

So, I have been keeping my head down as they say, and getting the work done. At the end of last week, Master Chef and I sent out our first book proposal (to my favorite, UK cookbook publisher), and we'll be getting more proposals out this week. It's a funny old game, a lot of hurry up, and wait...and wait...

This weekend, after a successful trip to the Wellesbourne Post Office, I was feeling quite proud of myself, and had an overwhelmingly uplifting sense of infinite possibility! But, in the bright sunshine of this brisk, Monday morning, I feel the need to brace myself for disappointment.

It sometimes make me wonder why I even bother. All the effort, putting yourself out there, only to get rejection, after rejection, if anything. But still, we keep trying. I think one has to. The only other option to to give up, and not try at all. And that won't do!

Over the weekend, I read an interview with Italian novelist, Santa Montefiore, in W.I. Life magazine. Her words were a gift to me, just when I needed them. She said: "The secret is this. Write what you want."

 

   

Coughton Court

Coughton Court, ancestral home of the Throckmorton family

Yes, this is someone's house, 

and someone other than the Queen! 

Members of the Throckmorton family still reside at Coughton Court. 

Amazing place.

www.coughtoncourt.co.uk

Lazy Sunday

Having a lazy Sunday morning, listening to Classic FM. 

D.E.B. up and out early -- no lazy lie-in together for us today. The Darling English Boy is in the studio this morning, recording a demo CD with musician pal, Ewan. D.E.B. and Ewan have formed a folk duo, part-time only, just a hobby at this point. They are quite good in fact. Went along and heard them at the Warwick Folk Club, the other week. That was fun! 

So, I find myself at home alone with "the furry girls" (Lucy & Lily).  I am in fact pleased to have a bit of "me" time. Its been quite a hectic week. Okay, not anywhere near NYC-hectic, but hectic for me nonetheless.

I received a call from the Shakespeare Birthplace Trust on Thursday afternoon offering me my first lecturing gig with them. A bit of short notice as they needed me to fill in for a lecture on Saturday morning.  Yikes, I thought. Thankfully, a lecture on the performance history of A Midsummer Night's Dream was all that was needed. A joy for me, really. I am completely at home with the material, my angst was centered/centred on the logistics. It was a question of prep time -- always a dilemma for me.  Prior to getting "The Call," I had planned to spend my Friday at the Throckmorton Literary Festival at Coughton Court. I was dying to go along to the Festival as it looked to be an extraordinary event, and a chance for a bit of research for the new idea for a novel that is currently rolling around my head. The question was whether I would forego the "research" visit to Coughton Court, in favor of prepping for the Dream lecture. This dilemma was/is far more existential than it seems. At the moment, in the midst of this new and exciting life, I am routinely pulling myself in two directions. 

As an academic, I have written and published a number of "scholarly" works. Basically, three (3) very good, learned, and highly over-priced books that few people have read, and even fewer have bought.  And like most academics, I have dreams, hopes and ambitions beyond that. As I told the D.E.B. when he first offered this incredible opportunity to me to have the space and time to "rediscover myself as a writer," I said to him: "Let me just assure you, I am not sitting on the next Harry Potter..." (To which he just smiled "that smile," and hugged me.) But, I do have a story inside my head that I really want to tell. And, as J. K. Rowling once said, oh, so, wisely, I think, all one must do is: "Believe in your story." Whether anyone else will believe it, or believe in it, is of course another very significant matter to contemplate, but I think Rowling is right to suggest that that initial belief and commitment to ones own idea/dream, etc. is vital. However, while I am taking these tentative steps into the "real writers" writerly world, I can hear the serious, uptight, respectful voice of academe crying out: "But is it scholarship? Is it tripe?" and, "What a waste of a first-class education!"

To be honest, it does feel like "play" -- my dreams of writing fiction. And surely, at my age, at this point in my career, I should be doing more "meaningful" work. But, its funny isn't it? How the word 'meaningful' changes over time. I have worked very hard over the years. I worked my way through graduate school temp-ing, waitressing, whatever I could find. And comforted myself with my lofty and "meaningful" goals. I was then lucky enough to score some freelance teaching gigs, built my resume, got my Ph.D. and tah-dah! Academe! But something was missing. There was a place inside me that no matter how much joy I gleaned from teaching -- and joy I did glean, daily. And God, I did and do love my students, each and every one! -- but there was what felt like a hole in my soul. A feeling that I was not and had not been utterly true to myself. But I stayed on the treadmill, kept running the race, the years trickled by and "the hole" just got bigger and bigger. Then, the classic female dilemma: family or career? Biological clock, and so forth. Then, again, the classic life dilemma: do what you love, or shoot for success -- as often these two are not the same thing. 

As my 39th year loomed in the distance, I feared my destiny had been set. I would end up alone, and disappointed, single, but successful in the City. But all of the changed, in a heartbeat. As sickeningly sweet, the English would say "twee," as it sounds, love changed everything. Yes, it is a huge gamble. As friends and family have (and continue to) lovingly remind me, I have taken a unimaginable risk in packing in my job, packing up my life, and moving to England on a promise of love. But, what is life without risk?  

 

Living on the edge, as I now do, I decided to follow my gut/heart and spend Friday at Coughton Court. And what a day it was! Difficult to explain here, but I had what I'd like to think is a "writer's instinct" that I would be inspired by the surroundings at Coughton Court for the story I want to write, and I was absolutely right!!!! And I met some fabulous people there to boot. Excellent, excellent day. Research, of a very different and interactive kind. 

Came home, completely exhausted, didn't get started on my lecture prep until around 9 PM on Friday night. Yikes, again! Panic set in almost immediately. What was I thinking! Pratting around Coughton Court all day when I should have been prepping...I burned the midnight oil, got the lecture together, and then tried unsuccessfully to sleep. D.E.B. woke me at 7:00 AM with a cup of tea on my bedside table, just as I had drifted off to sleep. Darling that he is, he rushed about taking care of the "livestock" and cooking breakfast as I fretted about what to wear. I entered the kitchen to be showered with much-needed praise, and was handed a fresh cup of tea and a hot bacon buttie (sandwich). The poor boy had no idea that at this point the very thought of food had me on the brink of hurling. He then drove me into Stratford-upon-Avon and dropped me off at Starbucks (Yes! There is one!). As I walked down Henley Street with my Grande Soy Latte in hand, I realized I was going to be okay. I also realized  -- and not at all in an arrogrant way --  that I probably have forgotten more about Shakespeare and A Midsummer Night's Dream than these kids will ever know. (Okay, most of it is probably just useless information and mindless trivia, but still.) 

So, as it turned out my first lecture for The Trust was for a delightful group of "Drama Majors" from the Midwest. Sassy Americans. Excellent. Just my sort of crowd. They were warm, attentive, engaging and receptive. Of course, it is, as they say, like riding a bicycle. And I really like this bicycle, it's all new, red and shiny!