DUCKDOG DAYS by Lawrence Kessenich

 

DUCKDOG DAYS

by Lawrence Kessenich

When I met my wife, Janet, she was a pianist and Eurythmics teacher. She had a variety of ways to make me melt, but one of them was playing Brahms. She would sit at the piano, back straight, head held high, fingers poised over the keyboard, her beautiful green eyes aglow, and then start in, leaning into the piece as she played with incredible feeling, teasing every ounce of emotion out of each measure. It sent shivers up my spine.

I was an editor at Houghton Mifflin, then, and I wrote some poetry and short stories on the side. I was the word guy. I had never played an instrument in my life, so what Janet could coax from a piano astounded me. Happily, though, she was as impressed with the way I used words. We had our separate creative spheres, and though I sometimes wished we could share them more intimately, our mutual appreciation for each other’s skills was enough.

Janet was surprised the first time I asked her to critique something I’d written.

“I can’t do that,” she said.

“Why not?”

“I’d have no idea what to say.”

“Just say what you think about it – what you like and don’t like.”

“But I’m not an editor.”

“An editor is just an intelligent reader, someone who takes the time to read something carefully and respond honestly.”

“Really?”

“Pretty much.”

“What if I give bad suggestions?”

“I don’t have to take them. No writer does. If it resonates with me, I’ll use it. If it doesn’t, I won’t.”

She hesitantly agreed, and, after reading the piece, offered a few tentative criticisms.

Over time, Janet became more confident in her editorial instincts, and it turned out she had good ones. I always found her criticisms valuable (not that I didn’t occasionally get huffy about ones I didn’t want to hear, but she persevered.) Over time, she got better and better at it.

It also turned out that when she had to write something – a course description or instructional material or family newsletter – she wasn’t bad at stringing words together, herself. Feeling insecure about her writing, and being less experienced taking criticism, she didn’t always enjoy being edited, but she was open-minded enough to learn from it.

About fifteen years into our marriage, in the midst of raising two children, Janet began to have less and less interest in teaching and performing music. She had experiences with an acupuncturist and a homeopath that piqued her interest in alternative healing, and she started thinking and reading about it. Eventually, she decided she wanted to become a healer. She was trained in Reiki, and went on from there. She stopped teaching at Longy, kept a handful of piano students, and took on a few healing clients. As her business grew, she eventually gave up the piano students as well.

Sadly for her Brahms-loving husband, she also gave up playing the piano. Her heart just wasn’t in it any more. I cried foul, at first. I’d married someone who could serenade me while I sat reading in the living room, and it just wasn’t fair for her to bait and switch like that! But I got used to it. She couldn’t bring herself to get rid of her “engagement piano,” though (we’d bought it in lieu of an engagement ring – just as her parents had done), so it became an obstacle around which she had to work in what was now her healing room. Her clients didn’t seem to mind. Apparently, there is something comforting about lying down on a healing table beside that lovely black hulk.

I had made a career change, leaving book publishing my living writing software manuals and marketing materials, which left me more energy to do my own writing. Over time, I’ve written in virtually every genre: children’s books, short stories, novels, poetry and plays; and though I’ve never worked hard enough at getting published to have more than a little success, I love writing.

When the second of our two children flew the nest, Janet suddenly had a lot more space, literally and figuratively – in her day, in her mind, in the house. Part of what emerged in that space was a desire to write about her healing work.

“I’m not really a writer, though,” she said.

“Anybody who writes is a writer.”

“But what if I’m no good at it?”

“You are good at it. You’ve just never put a lot time into it. If you do, you’ll get better.”

She started with a few paragraphs on a spiritual theme in the monthly email she sent out to more than two hundred clients and acquaintances. The pieces were well-written, and they got enthusiastic responses. She started thinking about someday writing enough of them to produce a book.

Then, she got another inspiration. She often used musical metaphors when talking with her clients about spirituality and healing, and it suddenly occurred to her that she had enough ideas to start exploring a book called something like Music Lessons for the Spiritual Life. She jotted down notes for a while, and then started in on trial chapter. But she found it difficult to set aside blocks of time to write, so it didn’t get very far.

At about this time, I reconnected with Steve Lewis, an undergraduate writing teacher of mine, who, it turned out, held writers’ workshops at his summer place on Cape Hatteras. Five solid days of serious writing and critiquing in a cottage on the Outer Banks of North Carolina in October didn’t sound bad at all to me. Janet encouraged me to go.

Then a thought occurred to me: Why don’t we both go? Our time was much more flexible with the kids out of our daily life, we liked to get away to new places, and we both loved the beach. I suggested it to her.

“I can’t go to a writers’ workshop!” she said.

“Why not?”

“I can’t write for six hours a day.”

“You’ve been complaining that you don’t have blocks of time for writing.”

“What if I don’t produce anything? It will be a big waste of time and money.”

“There’s no pressure. We’ll be on Cape Hatteras. If you run out of things to write about, you can walk on the beach or read a book.”

“But strangers will be critiquing my writing. I’m scared.”

“Steve is the gentlest, most supportive writing teacher I’ve ever had. That’s why I still remember him after all these years. He won’t let anybody get nasty.”

She thought about it for a couple days, and decided it was worth a shot. If it didn’t work out as a writing workshop, it would still be a nice vacation.

At the affectionately name Duckdog Cottage, where the workshop took place, Steve set a schedule that freed us to focus on our writing. We ate breakfast between 8:30 and 9:00. Steve did the dishes, while we started writing, and we wrote from 9:00 to 12:00 or 12:30. Late in morning, Steve went out and bought sandwiches for us. We ate lunch together, and continued writing until 3:00 or 3:30. After that, went on an outing to the beach, a nature preserve or a historical site, and then we came back and, over wine and cheese, read to each other what we’d written that day. The goal was to produce 3,000 words each day. It was a productive and supportive atmosphere, and Janet, though “not really a writer,” was right in there with us.

On day one, she completed a draft of her first chapter. With many caveats about its inadequacy, she read it to us that evening. It began with her sitting under the piano as her mother played, feeling the sound waves wash over her body and watching her mother’s feet dance on the pedals. It was clear, concrete, well-organized, and moving. We all responded with sincere enthusiasm. We also offered some challenging critiques, which she took in without withering. She was clearly amazed at what she’d produced.

Later, as we lay in bed, she spoke about how she felt.

“Thank you so much for encouraging me to come down here. This is a life-changing experience for me.”

“Isn’t it exciting to write something like that, and have people respond to it?”

“It’s wonderful. And I’m looking forward to making the changes everybody suggested. I can’t wait to get started tomorrow!”

“Do you see why I love writing so much, now?”

“Absolutely.”

Over the course of the workshop, I felt as if I watched Janet become a full-fledged writer. She stuck to her chair, took in the daily critiques of her work and set about acting upon them the following day, often going her fellow writers one better in making revisions. She went to Steve for advice whenever she got stuck or needed a clarification. Over days three to five, she rewrote her first chapter and drafted a second and third chapter – a level of production that even the most experienced writer would be delighted with. I was incredibly proud of her.

While we were on the Outer Banks, she and I resolved to have our own “Duckdog Days,” on which we would mimic the writers’ workshop schedule at home. And we did it, with a friend of ours and our daughter. We were both eager to get to our writing, and to share what we wrote with our fellow writers.

Although I occasionally miss the musician I married, that loss has been more than compensated for by finding out that was married to a fellow writer. After the workshop at Duckdog Cottage, our empty nest was filled with the sounds of pens scratching on paper and computer keyboards clicking away—which led to Janet finishing and publishing a book of essays called Music Lessons for the Spirit. The piano keyboard remained silent, but there was a different kind of music in our relationship then. We entered a whole new phase of creative sharing, of artistic camaraderie. And I have a feeling we'll be playing this tune together for the rest of our lives.