Dear Readers,

It’s MAY which seems utterly impossible because it was New Year’s only about ten minutes ago. But my peonies are blooming and the Giro d’Italia is on—you know I love my cycling—so it must be May.

Usually, I have lots to say in these newsletters. I keep a running list in my planner of books and movies to recommend, TV series to shout out, experiences I want to talk about. But this month? Nope. Nothing. I’ve had a very busy 2024 so far, and I’m a little wrung out. I’m feeling small and quiet, like I just want to sit and wait for the hummingbirds to find the feeders and visit for a bit.

But there are things that must be done, and so I do them. I’ve been working hard and revisions on the KILLERS sequel, up every morning at 6:30 to meditate and write. I’m clear and focused then, and by the time I have my first cup of tea, my goal has been met for the day. Whatever else I do—or don’t—get done before bed, I’ve done that.

I’ve also spent far too much time worrying about my grandmother name—did I mention there’s a grandchild on the way? The Instagram query about what I should have him call me turned up some hilarious responses. Yes, him! We’re having a boy in the family for the first time in three generations. I’ve been buying children’s books already, mostly myths and folklore. I want ours to be a house of magic for him, and isn’t that what stories are all about?

And I’ve been working hard at my French lessons. It’s so strange to undertake learning a new language at my age. Because I studied Spanish in school, the grammar is not entirely unfamiliar, but the vowels are completely the opposite, twisting me up when I least expect it. When something clicks into place—and it’s almost audible, that click—it’s deeply satisfying. I want to polish those words up and tuck them into my nest to gloat over later, a little hoard of pretty treasures that belong to me and at such a small price! All I have to do is recall them and there they are. It’s mostly nouns and the occasional verb that have me enthralled. The prepositions apply blunt force trauma to my ego on a regular basis, and the less said on the subject of numbers past sixty, the better.

What I have discovered is that French is elaborately, beautifully rooted in context. Take the word “avocat”. It means both lawyer and avocado. How do you know which one I mean? You don’t. But if I tell you I made guacamole, chances are I didn’t mash my attorney up with garlic and lime. If I say I hired someone to draw up my will, you will know it was not a green fruit with a large pit in the center doing the paperwork. All is context, and that is elusive and lovely. It means you have to take your time with French. You have to approach sentences carefully, courting the phrases until they’ve opened the door to you. You don’t study French so much as you flirt with it.

There is also something restful about being a beginner. I communicate like a child in French. “I have thirst. I want water.” I know how to construct present tense and a single construction of the future. “I am going to.” That phrase is definitive; there’s no equivocation or room for hesitation. There is little subtlety or nuance to what I can say, no limit to the mistakes that I make. No one expects more from me. But it’s exciting to know how much I have to learn. Scientists will throw around words like “neuroplasticity” and tell you that challenging yourself mentally is one of the keys to staying sharp as you age. I could do Sudoku or crossword puzzles or drag out an algebra book to noodle over some quadratic equations. Instead, I choose poetry I can’t yet understand. But someday I will.

Happy reading,

www.DeannaRaybourn.com