Word Gypsy

Paris, She is my Heart

2012-01-17T10:52:00.000-08:00

I've heard it said that one cannot write about a place until one has left it, and I tend to agree. Perhaps it's because we can't remember something until it's in our past, and the most vivid memories make for the best stories. But even more than that, I think it's because as writers, we often can't give a place the time and attention it deserves while we are in it. But the memories of a given place we have spent time in drift back to us like lucky charms to remind us that there are stories within our experience of place, though they may be buried.

Place in a larger sense can mean the town we grew up in, and so the writing of it will be an epic adventure through childhood; or our first apartment, which might encompass a love story or two, along with a tale of survival and self-discovery. In a smaller sense, it can mean a stolen weekend, a vacation, or even a room, such as the hospital room in which we said goodbye to a loved one.

For me,Paris has once again become a place that I want to write with--by that I mean, I don't want to write about it per se, but I want it to be the fabric of some of my new material.

I recently visited my favorite city for the third time in my life. Each time I go there, I treat it as though it might be my last encounter with it. Fate has only ever allowed me a few days at the most (and a scant two days at the very least) to breathe in the life that is Paris, and grasp at building a few meaningful memories.

And therein lies the problem. A tourist does not a writer make. I have experienced many wonderful aspects of Paris: museums, long walks along the Seine, charming restaurants and cafes, and almost every view is a picture postcard, at least in my eyes. But I've never been a *writer* in Paris. The closest I could come was partaking of a leisurely (and delicious) cheese plate at Les Deux Magots. Combined with the two hours I spent at a cafe across from Notre Dame buying 4 pots of tea from a cranky waiter so I could stay there writing, I'd say I've got a long way to go.

I think in order to be a writer in a place like Paris, you have to be in residence; in other words, you've got to have the freedom to just "be" in a place, to absorb life around you, without concern for train schedules. I still dream of being able to inhabit the cafe of my choice for hours on end day in and day out like Hemingway did. And with life's recent demands, I'm not even seen haunting my local Starbucks like I used to last year. I would also venture that you've either got to be alone, or with someone who will understand your writer's need for long stretches of solitude and introspection. Lastly, you need the gift of time. Weeks, months, even, to blend into a place and it's fabric long enough to make it your own--long enough to know how to write about it.

But there is hope. I found myself writing about my most recent experience on the transcontinental flight home from London to Los Angeles. True, I was partially frought with the sorrow of having been to my favorite city and left again. And I had plenty to say about what more I wish there could have been to it (there is never truly enough time, nothing is ever completely perfect, although my first visit to Paris came close). But the elements I love most about the place have become even more vivid. The colors, the sights the sounds. Some things have changed (the Champs-Elysees has become almost unrecognizable to me), and new layers have revealed themselves in faces and "characters" that I missed before.

And while I may never get back there again, I have a treasure box of impressions that I've added to three times now. It's rich with the love I have for Paris, and the stories of my own experience will lend me their colors, sights, smells, sounds, and textures to build the world of my fiction. So I guess I don't really ever have to say goodbye to Paris . . .

Let the Good Times Roll

2011-03-27T22:27:00.000-07:00

I certainly don't understand where the sense that I'm too old, and that I don't have enough time, that my writing's not good enough to get published, and that my dreams will never come true comes from (probably some tragic combination of the media, all the naysayers in my life, and my own self-sabotage), but I've learned to embrace what I find on the other side of these dark tides: passion for my art, and these keen moments of desire to sit down and get something done. I try to seize them and not ignore them, they're too valuable.

I'm doing that right now. OK, so not exactly working on the next Great American Novel here, but I'm actually seated comfortably at my makeshift writing desk at home. No, really, this is huge. It took alot for this to happen. My husband, bless his heart, had to build me some shelves. I got everything looking pretty good, sorted through all my papers, found a place for everything. It looks great. I can't stand working here in the daytime though, because there's no windows. Although for the past few weeks, I haven't wanted to see outside because the sun has abandoned us. I finally got a candle I loved, though, and my little portable CD player in case I wanted to listen to something other than Pandora.

And then the cat took over my chair. She was roosting in the spot our other cat loved before he died. Now it's definitely the chair. Admittedly, I've been indulging in my past bad habit of "I'll be ready to write here just as soon as . . ."and then when I get it, I'm revealed for the procrastinating sham that I am. But at night, I'm almost able to dig my writing space. The lights are low, it's usually quiet, and I don't feel as anxious to be doing other things. I did it for a couple of nights when I was able to get the chair away from the cat. I know, in the world most people live in, I would just move the cat whenever I wanted to write, and she'd be forced to some other less soft and pleasant spot. But since she has to live her entire existence inside this apartment (I feel her pain on this one, which is why I leave it every chance I get), I want her to be able to roost wherever she wants to.

I didn't tell my husband, but there was another reason I wasn't using the chair we'd bought for me to use. It just wasn't right--it's great for just sitting, especially if it were in the apartment of a 23-year-old. But it wouldn't raise quite high enough. It just didn't feel right.

So, the other day, when I was sitting in Starbucks, my mood deteriorated rapidly. I was all set to get to work, and I did, but when I was looking up new competitions to enter, I became really daunted--depressed even--by the restrictions of some of these. You have to live in Minnesota or Georgia . . . you have to be under 40 . . . or 35 . . . or 30 . . . or you have to have already published an entire book!

What . . . people over 40 who've never been published (well, one short story and a handful of poems) who live in California aren't creative or worthy????

Yes, I took it way too personally. On a normal day, I would have gotten a refill on my chai latte and pressed on. But the place was filled to the brim, and not with quiet types doing their work. Suddenly the music was louder and so was the conversation all around. It was more like trying to work in a roller rink than a coffee shop. I'd had enough. I checked in with my husband and he was fortunately a mere 30 mins away (I think if he'd still been at his desk or decided to go to the gym, I would have gone outside to play in traffic). I shut down my cute little pink netbook and whipped out my James Michener novel (Alaska, the first one I've ever read--they're dense, but once you go down the rabbit hole, he holds your attention), and finished my chai. When my husband arrived, I announced that I was going to do something, and that I needed his support. You see, I'd decided that I didn't really want to go to knitting that night, that I'd rather go home and keep working. I talked him into taking me to Office Depot to buy another chair. Yes, another chair. So that I didn't have to move the cat.

God bless my husband. He did throw me a few legitimate questions: "Are we going to get rid of the other chair?--I'm just asking." No, it will never be logical. It will always be ridiculous that I got a new chair so the cat could keep "her" chair. But I never said it was logical. I just kept saying "I know it doesn't make any sense. Just please let me go do this." The last thing he asked me was if I'd stay home instead of going to Starbucks so often. I actually think I will. He followed though with "of course, I expect you'll still want to go to Starbucks a few times a week." He's really a wonder, the way he puts up with me.

And so here I sit, having only taken a break to watch Chopped Champions, in my new chair. I love it. I love that I can reach over and rub the cat as she sleeps in her---yes, her---chair. I love that she can jump up here on the table (and she does) and demand little loving attentions from me, and then settle back into her chair. She was confused at first, and perhaps a little disappointed because she can't sit in two chairs at once. And I usually leave my purse or messenger bag or both in my new one so that she can't. And I'll never feel guilty about gently moving her out of it if she does decide to nest in it.

Anyway, I'm here. It took me all weekend to shove the dark cloud of discontent over enough to let some sunlight in, and get to work. I'm so glad I've learned to take advantage of these moments of energetic pursuit of my craft.

Clearing My Vision

2011-02-10T15:51:00.000-08:00

There's this picture of me from 2006 when I was in London. My friend who lives there and his mum had taken me to a castle and garden,and he took some fun pictures of me, among which was one of me peeking through the leaves of a giant fern. I had a devilish smile on my face.

And that's how I've been feeling the past couple of weeks. Like there have been these plants, or a swarmof bees, or a dense fog of unsettlement and discontent hovering about me like an annoying net. But I've seen this kind of thing before. So I just smile devilishly to myself,and keep swatting, until my vision clears.

A couple of inspirational things I've read this week have helped me to remain calm and trust in a higher power to get through some family challenges. I've also been gently reminded by reading these things to shelve my ego,and quit thinking I'm at the steering wheel. As amazing as I am, sometimes, I need to let the Universe drive the ship. The waters become amazingly more calm when I do.

I haven't done the kind of volume of creative writing that I would have liked to this week. But I have to consider that I have written almost every day, even if it was for business. I'm still chasing that balance between the two. But I'm not going to spoil my good mood by looking back. I have to seize the day and keep going . . .

Still Writing After All These Years

2011-01-20T22:31:00.000-08:00

Wow . . .August of last year . . . I guess it's been awhile. And I knew awhile was going by, it wasn't that I couldn't get here. But I've learned not to force it. I can't just push something out if I'm not inspired. I just work through being stuck and uninspired until I can get back to the place where I can create again.

Thinking of so much right now . . . dear Becky and how much she and her family completely amaze and inspire me . . . how happy I've been lately, and how that is largely due to "walking the walk" as I read in my notes from T.'s class last May---due to WRITING becuase that's what I do and who I am . . . Sarah Shahe's owl necklace on the premiere episode of Fairly Legal . . . how it's good to be back in such a private place (not like anyone who reads the other blogs can't find this one---but it still feels private here.

I know how funny it is that I've changed the template and design all these times. I still want to find my Native American roots, but the owl and the moon was too much and the colors were too dark. This feels good for now. It has its own sophistication and the brightness that comes with it. I feel the same kind of good that sailing in a hot air balloon would bring, the same sense of reckless freedom, ---I just don't need a picture of a balloon on my blog. I just need to do what I do---and God it feels good to write!

I haven't been dwelling too much on my absences or struggles with not writing. But I read something recently that I wanted to put down someplace. A poem, written by a character (a writer) in the short story Fearful Symmetry by Sherman Alexie.

Who could not produce one goddamn word.
The poems had migrated like goddamn birds.
And no matter what you may have heard,
Writer's block causes physical hurt.
The fool couldn't wear a goddamn shirt
Because the cotton scratched, bruised, and burned
His skin. His stomach ached; his vision blurred.
What happens to a soul that's shaken and stirred?

What happens to a writer who can't write?
Who flees his office and drives through the night,
In search of some solace, some goddamn streetlight
That will illuminate and give back his life,
His odes and lyrics? The desperate fool tried
Every workshop trick. The agnostic fool cried
To God for relief. God, can a man die
Of writer's block? Well, the fool did survive

Dream Weaver

2010-08-13T00:32:00.000-07:00

Sometimes it takes me forever and a day to get down, down, down the rabbit hole, to that sweet spot, that click of the rubics cube that begins all things right with story and song, after which everything flows. I don't know what this is like for other writers, or how they refer to it.

Whenever I'm struggling to get to this place of kismet in my writing practice, I always think of Hemingway. I've heard that he'd sit in cafes for hours just freewriting or whatever, and only later would he actually get into the meat of whatever story he was writing. I figure if it's OK for Hemingway to take his time, dawdle, smell the roses--procrastinate--then it's OK for me too.

Of course sometimes the meandering is a good thing. Journaling, freewriting, writing a letter to my dear departed Dad, or recording the bizarre dream I had the night before about remaking Pretty Woman with Julia Roberts and Richard Gere, and telling her how we had to change the part where she pulls her hair out of the ponytail because it was just too hokey and annoying the first time around while I start pulling down the fire escape ladders for the next take---can empty my head and clear a path for what really needs to come out.

But just as often this kind of thing just serves to put off the inevitable. And why it's so difficult for me to get into a real writing groove, I don't know. I've begun to suspect that I have a real fear of success. This occurred to me when I got a call requesting an interview about my one of my writing classes for LA Weekly. The write-up is going to be a little longer and beefier than a calendar event listing, but still only about 200 words. As I tried to explain the concept of Intuitive Writing to the journalist who interviewed me, I could feel panic circling my heart and moving in for disemboweling kill. I kept it together--barely--and while I was thrilled for some publicity that might actually get some new students into my classes, it was also disconcerting. I found myself thinking "What if it all sounds like a load of crap? What if more people do come to the class and think it's a load of crap? What if it's really not that great after all?"

And then I went running for the shelter of testimonials from my students. Still, ultimately, I need to continue to believe in myself, because not all reviews will be good ones.

I've though of this stubborn lawnmower of a writing practice I have, the start cord of which seems to need to be pulled endlessly on some days as it shudders to life, sputtering fumes and remnants from the last effort. And finally, after three days of arriving at the page, and eeking out a few sentences before I get scared, or bored, or whatever it is and going back to reading one of two novels I'm into right now, finally today, I finished an excerpt from one of the novels I'm writing.

My god, it felt good. I am really pleased with this draft, and can't wait to post in on Blue Agate. Writing it even gave me ideas for refining a previous excerpt. I could also see that some things I'd had a good instinct about some things I'd written before and what I wrote over the last three days played into that almost unconsciously on my part.

And this alone is worth it. Worth fighting off and subduing procrastination. Because there's nothing in the world like settling down enough, and just pushing through the mental gauze enough to where I can hear my characters, see what they are telling me they are going to do next, and then the ideas just descend around me and I start to spin and weave them together. No, not a web . . . not a grid either, that would be a little too strict, a little too orderly and less beautiful. More like a beautiful crystalline work of art, splinting off into an orderly yet chaotic pattern, and coming round again, to form and idea and then another and then another until a story is born.

Yeah . . .

Better Here, Than There

2010-08-08T01:55:00.000-07:00

I went down to take a walk at a local park one day last week. It's been unseasonably cool (or at least not scorching hot) lately, so I was really enjoying the warm sunshine and cool breezes.

At one point, I realized how familiar everything had become to me, not just in the park, but in our neighborhood, in Los Angeles, in life, since we moved here five years ago. Sometimes, I'm tempted to regret that feeling of familiarity, because it can easily descend into one of not having accomplished enough since our last major transition. But I was able to resist that temptation this time, because my mind went back to another routine walk I would take when we lived in Weehawken, NJ. We were very fortunate to live in that beautiful pocket right on the Hudson river, with a stunning view of the lights of 42nd street, not to mention a whole panorama of the west side of Manhattan. It's also where we watched the second tower of the World Trade Center crumble before our eyes.

Anyway, I realized as I thought back to that route I would walk, that I have come a LONG way since then. Not only do I not miss the East Coast or ever want to move back there, I also don't miss where I was as a writer.

Admittedly, I've gotten caught up once again with the bottom line of things (overdue bills will do that to you), and lost sight of the fact that I can't be a successful literary coach, teacher, or editor without first being a successful writer. That doesn't mean I have to have won a Pulitzer Prize, but it does mean that I have no reference point for helping others with their craft if I don't maintain my own writing practice.

In that spirit, I've reconnected to my passion for words. I've been posting a lot more on my various blogs. In the case of my business blog, I've let go of the notion, that I have to *make* it sound busniess-like or appealing. Again, the reason I have the business stems from my love of writing, from my identity as a writer, so my artist must show up at work, in all aspects of it. I've made that blog a lot more personal, and am also starting to include many more of the things I thought I'd be looking for others to publish such as book reviews---since the purpose of my business is to help writers, part of that is encouraging anyone who wants to become a better writer to read more. I'm choosing books that speak to me as a writer.

And in my own creative work (meaning fiction), I've really settled down into it again, consistently, if not voluminously. I'm in close relationships with my characters again. Like the pen drawing I'm working on for an art class I'm taking, instead of trying to rush through what I used to think of as the boring exposition parts, I'm tending to them more lovingly, becoming interested in hearing them in my storyteller's mind, instead of trudging through them just to get them out of the way. I'm savoring each moment in the story as it develops.

I'm still trying not to focus on the sheer number of story ideas I want to develop, and to not panic about how little time I think I have to do it. The thing is, I realize, to just keep writing. I wanted to post this blog at least three days ago. I wanted to actually finish writing the short story I started on Monday. Things didn't work out that way, but I'm so energized with joy about the writing that I did get done this week. I've kept my goals in my sights, and I'm still not finished with the story yet. But I'm inching along.

I know I can't stop and smell the roses too long, but neither will I be ghostwriting Bilbo Baggins's sequel "There and Back Again: Volume II." Here is good. I'm making the most of now, and going forward with it. I will be interested to see what I think of Here when I'm at my new There in a few more years . . . or even tomorrow.

Getting Lost, Getting Found

2010-08-03T18:52:00.000-07:00

I've learned to expect these rides, up the long ascents of literary effort, and back down into the depths of inertia, or rejection, or the sound of crickets in place of the phone ringing with a new editing contract or a magazine that wants to publish a story.

I've learned to expect them--I didn't say they'd gotten any easier. Fortunately, the drops are not as steep, as I also learn to grab onto my words, and "Just write" as Natalie Goldberg admonishes. This one, this particular drop I've experienced, I have to say has been pretty bad. But thanks to the encouragement from some dear friends, I finally picked myself up off of the proverbial floor (the couch, really), closed the tin of chocolate chip cookies (they're damn good, by the way), and sat down at my keyboard.

I finally got my newsletter out in spite of how futile I thought it would be. I started a new Facebook page dedicated to my business. I posted a small excerpt from my novel on my website. And here I am blogging away. But the one small writing project that put a smile on my face and put everything in perspective, was my first Wordle. There's a site that will take an excerpt of your writing and turn it into a colorful, playful word cloud. I highly recommend it---it's like blowing bubbles for writers. It totally put a pep in my literary step, and blew the cobwebs out of my stressed-out mind. I have a former writing teacher to thank too, because it was on her blog Letterpress, which was formerly an e-newsletter I received, that I discovered Wordles today.

Here's mine.

I turned over the key; the wheels are turning again; with my trusty assistants Pen and Paper, and my words gathered close around me, I think I'll do some more organic freewriting in my notebook while I watch the sun go down.

The Year of Writing Dangerously

2010-06-09T15:15:00.000-07:00

Just a few days ago, it was my one-year anniversary from leaving my full-time day job at the publishing company. I had some pretty hefty goals for my first year. I haven't made them, specifically, especially regarding the personal creative writing projects. But what I found interesting as the date approached, is that I had experienced so much of my progress just in the last month or so. I had an initial burst of euphoria at my new found freedom when I first left. Then the slow build toward the fall and winter, which was also muddled by the background tv and film work I was doing. In the winter I seemed to stall big time as far as my business goes. Then, after a passing in the family, and the appearance of Spring, I realized something was missing. I realized I needed to rethink my path--not to say that I suddenly thought I was on the wrong path, just that it needed distilling and refining yet again.

Some really good ideas came to me, and I plowed ahead with them. But I had so much more work to do--INNER work. And I had no idea. I just pressed on and looked for answers in the best ways I knew how. And that's why I believe so much of my progress has taken place more recently, just before this milestone date. And it's all been amazing. The outward progress has been great, but the inner growth is what I really treasure the most.

Along with this has come yet another revelation. First I experienced more regret at not having accomplished more creative writing as I wanted to do and set out to do. Then a wave of fear that more time was ticking by and I'm not accomplishing much creatively because I've been a bit overfocused on my business out of a fear of lack. I won't get into what I've been studying as far as money goes, but my whole belief system about that has been overhauled as well.

Which means I am now clear to bring these other areas of my life back up to their full potential. First the artist. I realized that for all of my desire to help others with their connection to the writing process, if I've stopped writing, those endeavors will fail. And from that it follows, that I fully and finally must put the artist first. It's what I SAID I wanted to do a year ago, but have still blocked myself from doing, and from embracing more fully. Yet, this morning, when, before I'd done anything else, I took my pad outside and wrote--both a journal entry and a small scene in my novel, nothing has felt more right.

Following this, I need to raise my self-care, spiritual care, and physical care. It all works together. I got a good start with my wellness classes back in February, and doing a package of yoga classes. But I returned to my obsession with money and business, and once again neglected this. I think by putting these elements of my being first---my artist (which I have claimed in the past to have been the core of my soul, as a writer, my very identity), and my spiritual health, and my physical self-care, the rest of what I want to have in my life will more easily follow.

So that's where I am---one year later. I also like making my year June to June instead of following the calendar year--it really puts a new perspective on things. When I think of the novel I've started over once again, the short film script I completed this year, the short stories I've started (one finished and sent out to a few places for publication), placing in the poetry contest, the new play I started,---when I think of these things, I feel so excited and brilliant. I also have gotten this feeling when I developed my classes and when I've done editing and coaching work for clients. I think it's a coin that will always have two sides. I will just always have to be sure that both sides are being equally fulfilled. Stay tuned.

Creative Focus

2010-03-17T21:00:00.000-07:00

I've been loving my outdoor "office" this week. The weather has been delightful--while the East Coast is gradually moving into its own springtime, and soon I won't be able to call my friends there and lord the delightful temperatures over them, we are still ahead of the weather game out here in CA. And I am loving it. Each morning this week, I've brought my canvas chair out, along with my work and a can or two of Arizona green tea, and spent most of the day working, even though the "hot" hour between about 4:30 and 5:30, when the sun hits me directly. This will become more intense as summer approaches, and I'll have to move my chair back or just stay inside after around 11am, until about 6 or 7 pm.

Something else that has happened for the last three days is that I've looked down to find a small spider riding the breeze across from the plant on the patio, trying to alight on some part of me, or the chair, and fashion a bug-catching web. On Monday, it was a rather intimidating little brown spider. He made it to my blanket before I noticed and gently shook it off. (I do have a sort of pact with nature: if a spider makes inside my house, it will only live if my husband is home to put it outside. Since I am in the spider's All of the Great Outdoors, I respect that--unless it's a black widow, I'll try not to kill anything in its own habitat). Yesterday it was a little white spider with a more bulbous abdomen. I caught her pulling her silk and riding the breeze as she went, about halfway to my chair, before I blew her back onto the plant. Tonight, I had brought my work in, and then got distracted by feeding the cats and checking my e-mail again. It was after dark before I folded up my chair. And there, just dangling on a silk under the arm, was another tiny spider. Even with the bright porch light on, I couldn't really tell if it was the same little white spider from yesterday, but part of me wants to think it was, because I know that that is the kind of solid determination I will need to succeed as a creative writer.

One other important thing has taken place this week. I've put my creative work first. I haven't abandoned my business, but I've felt an unmistakable pull to work on and get some of my creative work out there---my children's book; my short stories; a book proposal and the first 50 pages of my novel. I've had two clients this week, and I haven't let them down. But I have been so much happier, getting up in the morning, doing my Morning Pages (I am working through Julia Cameron's third book in the Artist's Way series called Finding Water: The Art of Perseverance), and choosing one of my creative projects to work on. I've made so much progress! And I'm really putting what's most important to me first. What a feeling.

I plan to come back to this blog, along with the e-mails of my supporters--not just friends, but "believing mirrors" as Julia Cameron calls them--on the bad days, the days when rejection letters come, when I slip into doubt again. Believing mirrors are people who will remind me whenever I need them to, that I am talented and worthy of the life I've chosen for myself.

But for now, I will continue to enjoy my week, which has been full of wonderful creative unfoldment. I'll take the good weather as long as it lasts. I'll take my rejections when they come. Just like I won't allow the little spiders to build webs on me and my chair. But I know they will find their place, just like I will find mine with my words and works.

Miles to Go Before I Sleep

2010-02-26T01:06:00.000-08:00

I used to think I loved all poems by Robert Frost. But at some point I realized I only like one or two, and sad to say, they are the most popular. But tonight, those words pretty accurately describe my state.

It's been a couple of weeks of strange highs and lows. I was really down when one of my financial resources appeared completely dried up and absolutely nothing was happening in my editorial business. Then I rallied. I think I learned one of the most important things I needed to this past week. That all of it, even so-called success comes from within. I didn't understand the degree to which that is true really, until now. I kept waiting for the goodwill of all my friends and past clients to sort of magically morph into new business and financial success of astronomical proportions.

But I saw that I had to dig more deeply into what I wanted to happen, specifically what kind of editorial work I wanted to do, and how to get to the clients I wanted. Two more key pieces of information came in from some other sources. I might be appreciated by my current and past clients, but I still wasn't known to the kind of people who would hire me now, or could recommend other people who need my services. Second, I read in a newsletter that if we're doing one thing and it isn't working, we should do something else. Kind of like when we look in the same place 50 times for the keys we can't find, even though we know they are someplace we haven't thought to look yet. So I've spent quite a bit of time developing new strategies. I've felt good about opening new doors for myself, but all of this is supposed to be so that I can get back to the creative stuff, which I still fear I will never complete or be successful at. But it still beats the stressful 9-5 job I had before.

I've also had to consider doing office work again on a temporary or part-time basis. But with this consideration, another lightbulb has turned on. In another place, I read "live your soul, not a role"--and for the first time, I'm not labeling myself as any one job I'm doing--not even "journalist" although some of the writing I'm doing now qualifies as that. Because I realize that the core of who I am, my spirit, will be the same no matter what work I'm doing. Even when I'm in the nirvana of creating, and getting published or recognized, I have to reach in and see that it's the joy I've taken in the achievement--in the doing of the thing--not the thing itself that is making me happy. And along with that, I need to see that even a published book or whatever the greatest material height I achieve, is not the whole of me---I remain essentially unchanged, my core is my core, my soul is my soul. All of these thoughts working together have been very freeing for me.

I've had to work with some tight deadlines this week, and a lot has been pushed back that I thought I would get done at the beginning of the week. Some things have taken a lot longer, like sending out my company's first e-newsletter tonight. I had to repeat several steps over, like entering all of the e-mail addresses because I didn't see that it would only accept one at a time. And so I remain a little creatively frustrated, because my children's book languishes; my short film and the story I finished last week are only half typed into the computer so that I can post them on my blog and send them out to key friends to read and review for me. Then the second play, the next two short stories I have in my head, my NOVEL for crying out loud, and any scripts I want to attempt before I die. And yet, I can see it all coming togeether more tangibly and feel it more palpably than before. I have faith in the new things I've tried, and I feel like I will get more clients very soon. I'll get into a rythm with the online articles I'm writing. I'll get to that "set up"place where enough work is flowing in, so I can really module my time and get the blocks of devotion to the creative stuff I want. Along with the great frustration of all of the projects that are languishiung is a sort of adrenaline, an excitement, that feeling of possibility again.

The Writer's Life - Checking In

2010-02-10T22:22:00.000-08:00

To say it's been a hard winter is not exaggerating. I was feeling pretty good before Christmas, carried through on my plan to work quietly, if not as steadily or with as much proliferation as I'd intended, through Christmas. But my mind of course was always on my husband's mother. Then he returned from spending Christmas with her and his dad and brother, her health issue even more of a consuming issue. She was moved to a nursing facility, and then passed in early January.

January is a blur. I was so glad to be done with the blogging assignment I'd had, because I was anxious to return to my other projects. But I'd be hard pressed to recall what I actually got done outside of the writing workshop, between visits from family. I hardly saw my husband between his full-time job and rehearsal schedule.

When the last of the family finally left on January 29th, I was utterly exhausted, and not a little depressed. I woke up on the 30th feeling on the verge of being ill myself, and realized that I was at another crossroads, both physically, mentally and spiritually. This also affects my life as a writer, since one of my sources of income, a big one, is about to dry up completely, with only one client on the docket. So now, into February, I am faced with having to concentrate most of my energy on the business and the creative stuff is getting pushed to the back until I can generate more income.

I have, however, begun a new path--not starting over, just refining. What started me on it is yoga. I'm at the very beginning of my practice, and I won't blog here about what's happening with that (I have another blog for that--I tend to compartmentalize). But I know that it is having a positive effect on the next steps I need to take now. In combination with the guided journal I'm working with, I'm reaching a new stage of my growth as an individual. I'm cautioned by several resources to do a few key things: live my soul, not a role (this makes these steps I'm having to take to earn more income secondary to who I really am--just a step along the way, not my identity--I would have quickly become wrapped up in it again, afraid I was becoming a "journalist" which I didn't want to do--practically speaking, it's all so that I can have time to do the other writing, and I know I'll get back to that. I feel more energy, so I know it will be fairly soon--my children's book awaits! I'm still excited about that and my next play, and stories--it's all good); release attachments--mainly I see this as my attachment of happiness to any material thing that seems to be going well, thus misnaming it my source of good, supply, money, happiness, etc., and then emotionally crashing when it seems to dry up or disappear. So now I'm just learning to live more evenly through all these steps and learn from them and grow even higher, and I'm able to find more joy and energy to write diffferent assignments, whether for money or not---writing is my sould and that's what I'm living each moment; and lastly to be more flexible--something I've needed to cultivate for a long time.

It would take more hours than I have now to fully capture the depth of growth I feel. I'll just try to record as much of it as I can when I think of it. I feel good--but not the zeal that flies and then crashes, that goes high up and way down low--more of a steady peace. I'm going to keep working on that.

I find I look forward to little things, like a possible guest post on a friend's blog--it's expression which may not be attached to a paycheck, but it's part of the proliferation that didn't exist at all a year ago for me. And I attach neither too much hope, nor a bitter disbelief in my ability to the queries and other fishing lines I've put out for paying gigs. I just am. I just keep writing, and living the truth of that. I feel confident that it's all leading to a more lucrative place, but I'm not pinning all of my hope to any one opprotunity, but letting them each feed me, and teach me as they need to.

Telling Tales Theater - Session 4

2010-02-10T22:01:00.000-08:00

In some ways, the experience of this class is coming together for me. I wouldn't use the word "easier"--I don't want it to be easy. I guess I'm feeling more at ease again the other members of the workshop, in particular the individual who made the comment about my story about getting attacked by the dog. This week I was able to interact with him again, and feel relaxed in general about sharing with the class, on his work as well. I think we're past the worst of it.

Telling Tales Theater – The Adventures of Self-Discovery

Session Four – Kelly Thacher

Two writing exercises done in class, each chosen from the following list of Questions:

1. Write about a time you fell madly in love

2. Write about an adventure you had in a foreign country

3. Write about an extraordinary gift you either gave or received

4. Write about your favorite singer or movie star

5. Write about a lie you told that had important meaning for you

6. Write about something you stole

7. Write about a reconciliation you had with a close friend

8. Write about a disappointing experience you had on a camping trip

10. Write about a person you thought hated you

Exercise One – Question : Write about an adventure you had in a foreign country

[I haven’t revised as suggested yet, but plan to rewrite and perhaps pick up right at the last meeting with Patti, with flashbacks on some of the incidents of miscommunication in the classroom—really focusing on the story of me and Patti, rather than the other vignettes of my trip to Argentina, but still weaving in interesting details when I can in the context of the story.]

It was my first real trip abroad. I didn’t count Canada and Europe would come later. For the time being, I was one of 22 college students traveling to Argentina led by a history professor and his wife, who was a Spanish language teacher.

I could tell you about how my favorite bell hop at our hotel looked like Eric Estrada; how the first time I ordered hot chocolate at a restaurant (“chocolate caliente”), what I got was a demitasse of melted bitter chocolate, but that once I learned how to order it properly at the café across the street from the Cultural Institute where we took classes, I’d get a mug of rich steamed milk with a thick stem of sweet dark chocolate to melt in it.

I could tell you how I would stare at the only other black girl (who had skin just like mine) in the group of Uruguayans who hosted our visit in Montevideo, and how I was completely incapable of finding the right Spanish words to communicate with her about our shared doubts and frustrations and identity crises that I saw in her lonely eyes.

But instead I think I’ll tell you about Patti, our Argentine teacher of Spanish literature and culture. Patti, who became the shyest doe of a person, a child really, when she tried to speak English. She rarely attempted to reach us in our own language. It was all up to us. We were the visitors, the intruders; we were there to learn and to absorb. It put Patti at a power disadvantage to piece together what little English she knew, and that was something she couldn’t afford.

I failed my assignments for her class on a regular basis. There was the night that my friend and I ran around the hotel with the other students, listening at doors to hear who was having sex, and generally raising hell, all the while ignoring our homework entirely. But most of the time I made painstaking efforts to form complete and complex Spanish sentences, with every accent in place, every verb conjugated correctly . . . and always came up short.

By the end of our time there, I had thrown the towel in as far as Patti’s class was concerned. I no longer cared whether or not I pleased her. But I’d been keeping a journal, in my best broken Spanish all along. I handed it in for a final assignment.

Patti met privately with each student at the end of the term. I sat across from her, expecting a tirade in Spanish, the words of which I wouldn’t understand, but though which I’d smart with her utter disappointment in me.

Instead, she said to me, in English, “This is the first thing of yours I have understood.”

Exercise Two –Question 3: Write about an extraordinary gift you either gave or received

We’re sitting there, my husband and I, at one of London’s many Asian restaurants. These are the place I feel most likely to find something I will enjoy eating.

Mama Mia is sold out. Just as well, he’s got a lot of homework—scene study—part of his 8-week Shakespearean acting class at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art.

We’re not saying much to each other, when a man sitting alone at the table next to ours speaks up.

“Are you two free this evening.”

He’s American, and he’d obviously been listening to what little we’d been saying. Which does nothing to ease my suspicions about his motivation. I look at him warily and admit that we are indeed free and chatter nervously about our dashed hopes for the West End and Andy’s studies.

“Here,” he says, and passes us two tickets to see Shirley Bassey at the Royal Theater. He goes on to explain that his date for the evening had essentially stood him up, and he had no desire to go alone.

We ask if we can pay him, and he just tells us to pay it forward someday.

[to be continued—more on how wonderful the concert was, and some of the characters we saw there]

Session 4 Home Writing – Tell about an unexpected and surprising visit you had with someone

Rose watched the child as she said goodbye to a woman, without crying, and boarded the bus.

The little girl with light brown skin could have been from anywhere. She wore a brown and white plaid shirt with a red accent stripe, and brown pants. She carried a little green purse and a brown paper bag—she’d probably been a girl scout, the dear.

She’s a little woman already, Rose thought, watching the way the girl walked down the aisle looking for a seat. The child was demure, unassuming, yet trying with all of her might to look as though she needed no one or nothing at that moment but to travel.

Without looking at Rose, the girl took the aisle seat next to her. Rose had somehow missed the one glance from the girl that must have reassured her that it would be safe to sit next to Rose. Surely, though, the woman who’d seen her off had advised the driver that the child was traveling alone.

The little thing sat with her back straight and her hands folded in her lap. She smiled, Rose noticed, and looked forward for a moment. Then suddenly, she unclasped her hands and spread her fingers across her lap.

Rose took the plunge. “That’s a very pretty shade of polish you’ve got on your nails there.”

“Thank you,” the girl answered politely as she ventured a glance up at Rose. “It’s called Chocolate Fudge. It matches my outfit.”

“So I see.”

“My mom says I’m really not old enough to wear nail polish, but she let me this time.”

Rose settled in and pulled a knitting project, a hat-in-progress, out of her bag; she didn’t wait for more from the little girl, neither did she think their conversation had ended.

The bus lurched forward. The journey had begun.

“This is the first time I’m taking a trip all by myself.”

Rose smiled. The hundred miles between Cincinnati and Columbus must seem like a very grown-up distance to her, Rose thought.

“That’s very brave—how old are you?”

“I’m 9.”

“Oh, I see . . . and were you visiting someone in Cincinnati, or are you visiting someone in Columbus?”

“Oh, I live here . . . I mean, in Cincinnati. I’m going to visit my aunt for the weekend in Columbus.”

“Well, that’s lovely.”

So it had been her mother who dropped her off. Rose was glad that the girl felt safe talking to her, and then shuddered at the thought that the sweet little thing might have ended up sitting next to someone quite unsavory. But children are smart, she reminded herself. Smarter than we give them credit for.

“Where are you from?” the girl asked. Rose knew by the sound of marvel in her voice, that she was asking about the accent.

“I’m from England.”

“REALLY? Where the Queen lives?!”

“Well, I’m not from London, but yes, the same country as the Queen.”

“Wow . . . how long have you lived in this country?”

“Oh, a good many years now.”

“Do you live in Cincinnati?”

“No, I live in Columbus. I’m going home today.”

“Oh.”

A child’s attention was never guaranteed, Rose thought. Rather than ask her who she’d been visiting in Cincinnati, the girl turned her entire attention to the brown paper bag. She pulled out what Rose suspected was a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and a snack bag of Ruffles. After taking a few bites of each, she turned back to Rose.

“Do you have potato chips in England?”

“Yes, but we call them ‘crisps’. For us, ‘chips’ are like your French fries.”

“Wow, you had to learn a lot of new words, even though it’s the same language.”

“Yes, well, I’m used to it now. Would you like to learn some more English words from England?”

“Yes, please.”

“Well, for instance a ‘truck’ is a ‘lorrie’.”

“uh-huh . . .”

“ . . . and an elevator is a ‘lift.”

And they went on this way for almost a hundred miles, and when Rose couldn’t think of any more words to teach the girl, she asked about some that she thought of, and often they were the same in England as they are in America.

Just as the bus pulled into the terminal, the girl looked at Rose as if she’d just remembered something important.

“What’s your name?”

“Rose.”

“That’s really pretty.”

In the next instant, the girl was out of her seat and halfway to the front of the bus.

Telling Tales Theater - Session 3

2010-02-06T00:20:00.000-08:00

Not much to say about week three's workshop; it still felt a little off-kilter, especially since, as I mentioned in my last post, the teacher made a real deal of my "incident" with the other guy, and really I'd hoped she'd mention it in a generic way. I also just didn't feel like it was my best writing. Two of the exercises are conflict-related, so that may have something to do with why I didn't enjoy this week as much.

Anyway, moving on--it's really about the writing (at least as far as why I'm posting it here). I should note that the Homewriting assignment last week was fictionalized in one of my short stories, but there was no rule that said we couldn't write about something we'd written about before, so I wrote about it again. As always some names of places and individuals may have been changed to protect me from the innocent.

1. Adolescent Years (12 – 20) Write a list of people you disliked intensely in these years. Choose one of the people and tell us about why you disliked them and what happened between you.

my mother

Kirk

Jerry (my aunt Barbara’s friend)

Kate (one of dad’s girlfriends)

Melanie (the daughter of Bob, one of my mom’s boyfriends)

He waited until she was gone. Jennifer, my roommate and friend, and Kirk’s girlfriend, had gone to Spain to visit her mother’s family. I missed her, but the idea of almost two whole weeks without sigh or sound of Kirk the Jerk thrilled me to no end.

Until the phone rang. I was immediately suspicious of his good-natured inquiry into my well-being. How was it going? he wanted to know. He hoped Lisa had landed safely. Then he dropped a bomb—would I like to get together sometime this week?

Why did I take the bait? Always trusting the best in people, I guess part of me hoped for something approaching an amicable friendship with this guy. That would be nice since Jennifer appeared to have surgically attached herself to him, heart and soul (and body, when she was stateside).

I agreed to meet him at the famous Strand Bookstore, where he proceeded to present me with every offensive title he could think of and suggested I read it.

I wasn’t biting, so we then next went to lunch and on the way, he ducked into a withcraft shop. I followed. Bat wings and eye of newt—no joke. He relished in the fact that I was completely creeped out.

[Dramatic blow-up incident still to be written—not sure I will finish writing it at this time].

2. Adolescent years (12-20) Write a story about one of your experiences in one of the following categories:

spiritual life

sexual life

learning science

relationship with a grandparent, parent, teacher, doctor

going to the movies

summer

She was so afraid of what Grandpa would say. She hadn’t chosen the Zion Baptist Way, washed in the blood, dunked in the pool to get clean and be purified. Although looking at the mural painted on the walls around the Baptism pool every Sunday had certainly created a curiosity in her. Plus, the minister was her own grandfather, the Reverend James P. Terwilliger, Sr.

But she hadn’t taken that trip down the middle aisle when he called for lost souls. She hadn’t been led by him down the steps into the cold water of the pool.

She’d chosen her own spiritual path. God was on this path, but not in the way Grandpa would want, she thought.

Now she sat anxiously beside him, on her first holiday break from college. She thought of the time a few years back when he’d pointed to the empty space on the couch beside them and told her that on Judgment Day, she might be safe, but the devil himself might be sitting right beside her—that someone else might be burning in the fires of hell right next to her.

She bravely asked him what he thought of her choices for college, for God, for life.

“No one on this earth can tell you how to get your relationship with God,” he said. “As long as you believe in what you’re doing, I’m proud of you. It’s only when you begin to doubt that I’ll worry.”

She basked in the anointment of his approval.

3. Adolescent years (12-20) Write a story about a serious conflict you experienced and its consequences.

Who can remember the first moment you fall in love with someone? I sure can’t, but suddenly, I knew I was in love with Parker Mattheson. I’ve heard often since then that drummers are bad news, but Max Weinberg looks OK. I know for a fact that Parker turned out fine—I found out at a reunion a few years ago that he was happily married with kids.

I don’t know whether it was his perfect hair or his great smile. Fortune was a double-edged sword. We were in marching band together (grin) and we had a couple of other classes together, one being Oral Communications. Both situations were heaven, and both were the source of deep embarrassment for me. I played the flute, so for our indoor set-up, I was in the front row. Nothing worse than finding out from the trombone player after practice that my skirt was unzipped. Nothing except realizing that Parker probably saw it when I stood up, from his pedestal in the back. God willing, his cymbals hid the worst of my indiscretion. Then in Oral Communications, when it was my turn to do a demonstration speech, all I could come up with was a “recipe” for “canapés” made of Ritz crackers and Cheese Whiz. It was my mom’s idea, bless her, and when I practiced at home, she insisted that I add “I have the recipe if anyone wants it” at the end. God.

But the real conflict wasn’t my acute embarrassment, or even that Parker decided he was in love with the 2^nd chair flutist Wendy.

The problem was, I wasn’t supposed to have a crush on Parker, or on any of the white guys in our school. Period.

When I confided my feelings to my closest friends, they told me that our school just wasn’t ready for something like that.

The result would prove to be detrimental in many ways. Not only was I hurt by the lack of support from my friends, but once I’m told I can’t do something, of course I do it with a vengeance. And so began the campaign to date whoever I wanted regardless of by true feelings for them. It only got worse when I went to college (I didn’t think I’d feel comfortable at a large university, so I found myself at another small Midwestern establishment with a superior record in educating its graduates—and only a handful of black students on campus).

By the time I really began to look at myself, and also to open my heart to friendships and relationships with many people, it was almost too late. I’m still learning not to try to “be” black to make up for being “too white”, and not to be afraid of deep relationships with other black people. I’m still discovering the core of who I am. And I smiled when I looked up Parker Mattheson on Facebook to see that he looks nothing like he did in high school.

Homewriting

As an adolescent you might have had some real fun. Write a story about a genuinely amusing time you spent. Try to make your reader laugh.

(*note – I realized after I wrote about this that it occurred before age 12. But it is funny, so I’m still using it)

I want to break it right down for you, get right to the essentials you need to know so that I can get quickly to what my high school English teacher referred to as the irony of the story.

First, I hung out with my friend Chrissy almost every day during the summer. Sometimes Pam to, but only Chrissy in this story. Except to say that I could miraculously hear my dad calling me home for dinner, even from the basement at Pam’s house, which was where we played when she had us over.

I digress.

The incident I’m trying to tell you about took place on my way home from Chrissy’s.

The next thing you need to know is that our favorite thing to do together was to play Barbies. I had the Townhouse, Chrissy had the camper. Between us, we had her wardrobe covered. We even had some of her friends like Skipper and PJ. I had that midget Dawn and her convertible. I also had Ken. Worthless bastard. I mean, really, why did Barbie get a decent rack, and Ken not get a—wait! I’m dipping into the irony. We’re not quite there yet.

The last thing you need to know about this set-up is that it was hot. The air was hot. The road and driveway were hot. Fry-an-egg hot.

OK. Dad yells for me to come home for dinner. I gather my Malibu Barbie and all of her crap and run home. Just across the street from Chrissy’s. I eat pork chops or pizza and first watch Lawrence Welk with my Nana, who when watches CHiPs with me Eventually, I go to bed and the next day the sun is out and it is hot again. Right about the time I’m thinking of calling Chrissy and Pam to see about playing Barbies, my dad comes up to me.

“Um, honey?”

“Yeah?”

“I found something in the driveway this morning.”

From behind his back he brings Malibu Barbie. She’s completely intact, except for one thing. The poor plastic creature had landed face down on the driveway when she fell from my irresponsible clutches. Her little pixie nose, her perky little boobs and her pointed little toes were all melted flat. It was until well into adulthood that I realized how funny this is and why hysterical laughter bubbles up inside of me every time I see photos of Pamela Anderson or Kendra What’s-her-name.

My dad, however, got the joke right away. It was all he could do not to guffaw in my face. He walked away quickly with his mouth quivering. I bet he let loose once he was along; he probably hadn’t laughed so hard since I talked him into letting me watch him shave when I was three and fell into the toilet when I sat down. But that’s another story.

Telling Tales Theater - Session 2

2010-02-01T20:11:00.000-08:00

Something happened to me, not just at this session of the workshop, but this month--this very difficult, exhausting month. It's funny, because it's been really difficult to separate my husband's stress from my own: his has been losing his mother, followed immediately by the unrelenting schedule of a full-time job, and rehearsal for a play almost every single night since he returned from a trip which turned out to be the last time he would ever see his mom. My stress runs a close parallel: a quiet Christmas laced with the uncertainty of the state of my mother-in-law's health; followed by several weeks in which I had to develop the ability to speak to my husband about whatever I needed to in the 30 minutes between the time he awoke in the morning and left for work, or the other 30 minutes between the time he came home from the rehearsal and his head hit the pillow; two weeks between the 17th and the 29th with family visiting (it's shocking how much energy it *still* takes even when they aren't staying under your roof with you); the bitterness of a birthday overshadowed by loss, which was also the date of the second session of the workshop; and the increasing crankiness and despair I develop when I don't write on a regular basis.

The smoke is clearing, however. My husband is left with the grief that he doesn't really think is there, and I am left with a very long list of tasks, both creative and practical that I assume will lead to my continued ebb toward my success as a writer and editor.

By the way, I'm including this long preamble to the exercises for Session 2 because it's all part of a very nasty but necessary growth spurt that is a key component to that success I just mentioned.

I'd already been angry in general about what I thought were utterly lame responses to our loss. Ironically, one of the assignments from my life coach is to write down my reactions to certain events and actions of others. I next became angry about the lack of attention I would get for my birthday. The lovely cards and facebook messages I received warmed me for a short time. But it just became glaringly evident that those closest to me would either not have the time (my husband), or be too grief-stricken ( my husband, my father-in-law, my brother-in-law) to remember. Not only was I not getting a surprise party (highly unlikely even in the best of times--surprises like that are just not in my husband's skill set), but there would be no cake and presents either. The arrival of my mom the next day, and the lunch we were treated to later in the week by my aunt (my mom's birthday is also in January), we also a great temporary boost. But then came that moment the following week where my brother-in-law realized he'd missed my birthday when he saw the photo in our digital camera of me holding the cake I bought for myself. He looked at me knowingly, but never said "I'm so sorry we missed it" or offered to do something for me to celebrate. It completely passed over my father-in-law's head. He called me on the way to the workshop, I thought to wish me a Happy Birthday. He was calling me about something else.

During the workshop, I read the exercise below about a frightening childhood event. The guy sitting next to me said "Well, I'm on the side of the dog." Hmm. While I've had a revelation about this, and he told me later he was just joking, I still think he doesn't know me well enough to joke with me on that level, and also that when someone has gone out on a limb to share a very personal story with strangers (the moderator had tried to establish that this should be a safe environment for us to write these touchy autobiographical stories, some much moreso than mine), no one should joke about it.
Well this week, at the beginning of Session 3, I arrived a few minutes late, and it had blown up into this huge discussion. I was sorry I ever brought it up to that guy, and sorry I asked the teacher to get involved. He claimed that it was OK because he followed up his comment by telling me that the story was very well written. Even when the teacher pointed out that we shouldn't comment on the subject matter.

When I left the workshop, I saw a church bulletin announcing that Sunday's topic: "You Can't Always Get What You Want". Then as I drove home, I heard that song, with the follow up verse: "But if you try sometimes/ You just might find/You get what you need."

Great. Throughout the rest of the month I spiraled into bitter mental tirade: "I guess God doesn't want me to even have a good birthday, much less for my husband to get a good acting gig, for me to get more clients, and forget about me ever getting published or my play getting produced, or my scripts getting bought." Oh, yeah. It was that bad.

Then I chanced upon my horoscope today. I don't hold completely with astrology, but it does tend to reflect in some degree whatever I'm going through. The title of the post for this month: Growing Pains. So a light went on. All of the stuff that cropped up for me in Janaury is pointing to a growth lesson, which I believe involves dedicating myself more to my goals as a writer (instead of sending out one thing and expecting a miracle from it---I think God or the Universe *will* reward me once I really get down to it, which I haven't been), and also a personal transformation which involves not taking offense to everything. It actually saps my energy to do that. It's hard to look at one's self in the harsh light of day (like a make-up mirror shows all of your blemishes), and it's very hard for me to let go of my righteous anger (which starts out as righteous annoyance and builds from there). But I know that this is a huge part of what I need to overcome in order to move forward in all areas of my life.

With that, I've realized that the purpose of this writing workshop far overreaches what I thought I was signing up to learn as a writer. I'm meant to see myself as others see me and to learn to grow from that.

As always, some names of persons or places have been altered to protect me from the innocent.

****

Session 2

1. Childhood memories (birth to eleven): Write a list of eight important people you remember from your childhood. Choose one of the people and tell us about something that happened with this person.

Mrs. Barnigan

Mrs. Whitestone

Irina

Nana

Grandma

The Music Man

Mrs. Armistad

Sluggo and Jane

I never knew him as Mr. So-and-so. Just the Music Man. My mom and her baby sister took me to the mall with them every Saturday morning, like an accessory, an extra plaything. I behaved, and only needed to be fed something once in awhile. But before hot-dog lunch at Parisian with the orange cityscape wall paper and black wrought-iron chairs, we’d beeline for the record store.

The details were filled in by my mom in later years—he owned the store, and his two sons were part of the business, but it went downhill when he retired. My aunt moved away. I grew up. Times changed—I knew that’s what had happened in our lives while the record store disintegrated.

But back then, it was perfect. My mom and my aunt went straight for the 45s. And the Music Man came straight for me. He was a large man with smiling eyes, a mustache, and thinning hair. He’d take my hand. It thrilled me that my mother trusted him, which was so opposed to her regular paranoia.

And we’d go right to Greater’s bakery near the mall entrance. Part of the thrill was that we almost always came in that way, and I suppressed my giddiness and pretended that I didn’t know I’d be coming back to the bakery just a short time later. There was usually a redheaded woman with beehive hair. He knew her, and she knew both of us. Even though she also knew what we came to get, she always asked me what I wanted.

The pastel cookies. Little butter cookies, each with a round coin of frosting in the middle: pink, pale yellow, sky blue—was there a lavender?—and . . . chocolate!

I carried the little white bag of cookies in one hand, and held to the Music Man’s large hand with the other as we walked back to the record store together.

The day in my mind ends there. I know he remarked to my mom and aunt that I was a good girl, that records were bought by them, and that there were other customers milling around. Eventually he disappeared into the office at the back of the store. We went to the department stores, to Parisian. Maybe I ate a cookie along the way and saved the rest for when we got home. I ate them until they were gone, knowing Saturday was always just a week away.

And even when the next weeks were over (did mom ever tell me when he died?), the truth about those Saturdays, those cookies, stayed with me. There is something in humanity that can still be trusted. Something that can still be loved.

2. Childhood Memories (birth to eleven) Write a list of eight places you remember from childhood. Choose one place and tell us about something that happened there.

Aunt Elaine’s living room

Greenlake Wisconsin

Seven Caves

School

King’s Island

San Fransisco

Grandma’s house

Sluggo & Jane’s house

“We’ll see.” Everyone knows what to expect when they hear those famous words, especially as a kid. Expect that nothing will happen. Or at least not the good thing you requested or hoped would happen.

That’s what my dad had said to me about whether or not he’d be able to attend parent visitation day at school: “we’ll see.” I don’t remember any father-daughter dances, but I remember that one day, how badly I wanted him there. But getting out of work was tough, and even then he wasn’t sure how long he could stay.

I largely convinced myself he wouldn’t show. I wasn’t even sure he really wanted to come, or if it was just another obligation of divorce, like sending a monthly check to my mother, or picking me up every Friday night when he’d rather be on his way to a disco.

But another small part of me still held a candle flame of hope as I sat eating my lunch. I’d chosen a table near the lunch line with a view of the whole cafeteria. I stared across a sea of other kids to the open door of the other entrance in the opposite corner that led to the front hall. It was the entrance my dad would use if he made it.

I had forced myself to look away from that far door, and take another bite of my lunch. And when I looked up again, I saw him. He’d just come into the cafeteria, and his open overcoat was flapping as he walked. He didn’t see me right away, but I jumped out of my seat, abandoned my lunch and began my flight across the room to reach him. I’m sure my arms were held out from the moment I stood up.

When he saw me, he smiled, and when I finally jumped into his arms, I clung to him for many long moments before he pulled me away.

He could only stay with me for art class, and for once, old Mrs. McGhee’s bitter anger didn’t affect me. Not only did I not care if she yelled and scolded, but my father’s presence seemed to still the sea of discontent that raged within her.

Clay was the medium that day, and together my dad and I formed a clay man. I imagined it was Adam. Not that my dad was God, but he seemed pretty formidable to me that day, and whenever he helped me with an art project—slayer of doubt, protector against the awful McGhee, art-maker extraordinaire, my hero.

3. Write a story about something that frightened you in your childhood. Or, write a story about a deep love or attachment you had in your childhood.

I knew he was dangerous. But my mom and her ignorant boyfriend left me alone with him anyway. I wasn’t finished with dinner yet, but they didn’t care. The basketball game was on, so off to the bedroom they went.

But I knew. He had a record: jumping the fence, chasing the neighborhood kids. Dumbass Boyfriend even left the chained outside for the entirety of his business trip, and his collar rubbed a bloody ridge on his neck. The dog was not safe. He was angry, on the edge. He must have hated his life.

I chewed the last of my peas or French fries , or whatever cold remains of dinner I was trying to finish. He trotted over to my chair, his nails clicking on the floor. I notice him scratching his ear, so I reached out in a friendly gesture: “let me get that for you, pal.”

I didn’t count on finding the sore behind his ear.

It only took an instant for him to try to swallow my face—for me and my glasses to end up on the floor on the opposite side of the room. Of course my screams brought my mom running. Neither of us could believe I only had one nick on my forehead. A sore for a sore.

Telling Tales Theater Workshop Exercise Three

2010-01-13T23:42:00.000-08:00

(Complete each sentence - note: the names of some of the places and individuals have been changed to protect me from the innocent)

When I was seven, I wanted all of my girl scout badges.

When I was 14, I wanted to meet Erik Estrada.

When I was 21, I wanted Bill Jones to kiss me.

When I was 30, I wanted God to tell me why it was taking so long for me to find a husband.

When I was 40, I wanted 10 years back so I could do them over.

Telling Tales Theater Workshop - Exercise Two

2010-01-13T23:40:00.000-08:00

(Choose one aspect of your life narrative and write about this in detail - note: some names of places and individuals have been changed to protect me from the innocent)

There seemed to be so much trouble about this one thing.

We’d moved to the Sunshine Acres apartment complex. The separation had been made, but also my mother had begun to stitch the relationships back together with her offerings of comfort: “you’ll see your dad every weekend” . . . “we love you just as much as before.”

And so I was ready, excited even. Right away, we found the bridge that crossed the creek and connected the lower parking lot of Sunshine Acres with the field that bordered Fairdale Elementary School.

I wore my favorite orange dress. My mom held my hand. I couldn’t yet envision my new best friend Shelly or my favorite teacher Miss Brubaker, but I sensed that I would like school, that good things awaited me.

The secretary in the front office said: “we don’t have all of her paperwork. She’ll have to start tomorrow.”

The second day of school can never be the first day. The second day of wearing the orange dress, the second walk across the bridge—it’s just a mockery, a cheap do-over.

I cried and cried, but it’s all stitched together.

Telling Tales Theater Workshop - Exercise One

2010-01-13T23:37:00.000-08:00

(Write the story of your life in 15 minutes)

Little innocent, how could I know what I was falling into, child of a bride running from home at 19 and a boy-husband blinded by his lust for her.

There was a happy blend of toys and songs . . . oh, and that one fight I remember, the one mom told me I couldn’t possibly have heard, since I was asleep . . . and then the divorce. I hate it when people think it’s too sad, but I guess there is no way for them to envision the monstrosity that life would have been if they’d stayed together.

The rest, for a long period, is a split screen of school and living with mom, and of Nana, and visiting dad; of one place, or the other; of what color I should be in an all-white school; of who I should love best; of who loves me best; of two Christmas and two birthdays every year.

As a girl-woman, I’ve moved to many places, shifted many times to get to where I am, to arrive at who I am. All the desks in all the apartments in all the cities, stumbling on the boulders of jobs that killed a light in me.

I found a man, a good man, and I thank him for his love, but I almost side-tracked myself again with my love for him.

And here I am now, poised in this time and space, living the closest to what’s inside of me as I can, and trying to write it down.

It's Been Such a Long Time . . .

2010-01-13T23:35:00.000-08:00

I'm thinking of a verse from a classic rock song, but I can't remember the name of the band. I can only hear it in my head . . .

Anyway, hello from my desk once again. I've let myself get distracted again over the last few months. But not to the detriment that I have in times past. Part of it has been a dry writing spell, but I've also been refining my path--how much time I want to devote to my editorial business, and what I really want that to be about---and ever returning to Self as Writer. I always come back stronger than before, although thankfully, more often than not now, it just feels like a continuation of a larger picture of my experience than a stopping and starting, or the old horrible feeling of actually having lost something or taken steps backwards.

So, without wasting too much time on what I haven't accomplished since October, I'll say that I have managed to secure illustrations for the dummy book of my children's story (although I have to do some more reading of the reference book I have to know exactly what the next step is to construct the actual dummy book); I've weathered the table reading of my first play, and realized that the theater company that hosted it may not ultimately be the best home for my work; and right on the heels of that, I sort of wished for two things--some kind of writer's group that was just there for writers to share their work--not for critique, just to share, to read it aloud, to get it out into the atmosphere. And also I was wanting to find the right resources from which I could improve my skills in writing autobiographically. Part of the feedback I received from the table reading was very valuable--that I couldn't successfully make the transition from writing fiction to playwriting while I was too bogged down in the personal nature of the material.

And lo and behold, a friend forwarded me an e-mail notice about a very special workshop held at a theater and cafe in Altadena, focused on a non-critical and supportive environment, on the practice of autobiographical writing--with a performance/reading at the end of the 8 weeks!

Now before you think I've gone soft, there is still a time and a place for constructive criticism. We all need it. But sometimes, I feel so good about my work, and regardless of how rough it is, I just want to share it, and get it out there.

One thing that struck me at our first session last Saturday, was that I approached the experience strictly from a writing standpoint, as in, I want to become more adept at writing autobiographical material. After listening to others, I could see that while strengthening the writing muscle would be a great fringe benefit, for others it was almost a therapeutic thing--they were really looking to resolve some deep personal issues. I came away realizing that in the end, we'd probably all walk away with some solid growth on both sides of that coin, and that I hadn't really give enough credit to the personal development that I will undoubtedly experience during the workshop, which I believe directly affects the success of all of my life's work.

So, I feel inspired to share some of the work I've done in the workshop here in my blog. It's too early to tell which pieces will be part of the performance. But if any of you care to weigh in, I'd love to hear your thoughts.

Back in the Saddle Again

2009-10-06T15:02:00.000-07:00

This has been the longest dry spell I've had---writing and blogging both--since I started my new writer's life in June. I was almost afraid that it would overtake me and really damage my journey. Then I was starting to feel depressed by it. But more and more I am trying to train myself to go with the flow--even these seeming "down" cycles. I read recently that even when things are off-kilter or don't seem to be going smoothly, we should just go with it. Valuable lessons could be lurking in these times of inconvenience, or darkness, or whatever they seem to be when we're not in the Pleasantville of everything going our way.

In this case, it was really a combination of a couple of different events, with a spurt of doing extra/background work for nearly 4 consecutive days. First, our friend visited from London for 10 days. We hadn't seen him in years, and it will probably be years before we see him again, so I felt no guilt about focusing on spending time with him. Then there was the background work, most of which was a great experience this particular time. Then we decided to make a big transformation in our apartment. This is key because it means I finally have a space at home---not quite the dream studio with an oceanview I aspire to, but I did a lot of meditative work and realized that I had to envision a space right now, right where I am. This not only demonstrates my gratitude for what I already have, but it's a show of faith that if I start incorporating the qualities I want in the space I have now, I will be open to further development.

The only problem is that it's meant a sort of domino effect for the rest of the apartment. Two big pieces of furniture moved out, but the rest got rearranged, something major in every room. Which means major cleaning and preparing more stuff for the Good Will or what have you--lots of work. There is still more to be done, but the major pieces are in place. And I forgot a third event---my 12th anniversary! So I've spent the last 4 days celerating with my husband. It was marvelous, and allowed me some reflective time too, so that by the time today rolled around, I decided I needed to dive right back in--the rest of the cleaning will have ot wait. And I have GOT to make fitness more of a priority! So in two hours I will break for a yoga class.

Part of why I feel OK about my so-called "lapse" is inspiration I got from John Steinbeck, which I will go into in my "On Steinbeck" series, probably 3 or 4 posts about visiting the Steinbeck Center in Salinas recently, and reading his work from a new perspective, and reading about him. But mainly it boils down to something I've been working on since I left my desk job in June--there needs to be a time for everything. When something comes up, even if it seems to be appearing as writer's block, or distractions, as writers we shouldn't be afraid to let ourselves investigate it. If we don't feel well, we should rest or take a day off. If we need a little recreation (in the form of a good friend visiting, or an anniversary weekend) this is actually an opportunity to refresh the creative spirit. True, it's good to at least keep up with a journal or stream of consciousness work, if not on a specific project. I'm still working on this aspect too. But I don't feel totally destroyed by missing some writing time. I didn't beat myself up or think that I've failed as a writer. I don't think of myself as starting over from day one to see how many days in a row I can write consistently. I consider myself as starting from the same point I left off with my novel and other projects, only enriched by the experiences I had with my friend and my husband---and well-rested for a change! Since writing is really what I consider my work now, it's no different than taking a vacation from a "regular" job when we need one. I'm also not afraid to do fun things on weekends like see movies or spend time finishing the knitting projects that litter my livingroom. All of these things are part of who I am, and are reflected in some way in my work as a writer--whether I am directly inspired, or just refreshed and able to approach my work as such.

So stay tuned for some Steinbeck in the next few days, and happy writing to all.

An Infinite Equation

2009-08-10T18:25:00.000-07:00

Today I feel a little like I did in my college calculus class. Not quite as good as when I got an "A" in that class, but very much like I did as I began to grasp not only that my teacher's intention was to have us learn the principle of how to solve problems rather then just to arrive at all of the correct answers, but that some problems don't really have a final correct answer--in other words, there are those equations can only get one closer and closer to an infinite number or solution. It's the part about getting closer and learning what principles are at work that's the real adventure not arriving at some cold "right" or "wrong".

Today I have approached more closely the basic life I want to lead. That balance I wrote about in another post that contains mostly writing, along with some exercise and fun and responsible stuff like preparing good and healthy food for me and for my husband, and keeping our dwelling from staging it's own coup and swallowing us whole. It also includes time for my favorite hobby, which is knitting, and fun stuff which could be anything from travel, to hiking, to going to the movies. One thing that has helped me is to realize that not everything on this list needs to happen every single day. Ideally, writing and exercising would, but if I have to pick one, it would obviously be writing. And if some wicked event conspires to keep me from doing even that, I try not to beat myself up.

But today has been pretty ideal. I got to sleep until I felt rested. I did morning yoga, ate lunch at home instead of eating out (not saying how healthy it was, but having gotten my kitchen in order, I feel good about actually going in there to prepare meals), I took care of some important errands, and I've been writing for the last few hours. In another hour or so, I'll head out for a fitness walk, then home to make dinner with hubby. I've got some laundry to do, and I think I'll try to make a little more progress on either my new story or a new script I've been tossing around.

I feel good about this day. It feels real, and balanced, and productive. Two things I think have been key for me--the first has to do with neatness and housekeeping. It sounds silly, but once I get a certain area of the house really cleaned up and organized, it makes me so happy and not frustrated, and not agitated, to keep it that way as I go along, putting stuff away after I use it, etc. It makes a huge difference in not feeling stressed about all the housework I'm slacking on to go and write, and I'm not depressed and weighed down when I'm at home. I used to hardly be able to wait to leave the house every day--I couldn't stand being in the chaos. Now I either really enjoy just being there, or it's a place I can look forward to coming back to if I've been working outside of the home.

And now I can't remember the second thing--but if I do, I'll come back and edit this post to include it!

The Things People Say

2009-08-10T17:46:00.000-07:00

So here I am working on a new story. I'd actually started another one today, and was looking forward to making progress so I could put it up on Blue Agate, especially since it promises to be something alot more fun and whimsical compared to some of my other recent stories. But alas, I have the one fun thing that gave me the story idea, as a vehicle, but can't really pinpoint the characters and plot to build a story around it. It's kind of like seeing a beautiful artifact, and just looking at or being around it inspires you, so you want to write a story around it--but do you do the typical Indiana Jones thing, or just write about some old lady who lives on the Upper East side in Manhattan who has the thing and dies one day and her poodle hides it from her greedy children and they realize the dog is the key, and one of them tries to cajole it with raw hamburger and the other just wants to poison it, and the third wants to hire a pet psychic . . . You can see what is happening to me over this. I'm purposefully not saying what the major set piece is that made me want to write a story because I want it to be a surprise. I'm fairly certain I want there to be a little girl in the story, because this thing I want to write about made me feel very silly and carefree and clownish, not at all my age. But who the little girl is going to react with, and what exactly the story will be---well all that is escaping my imagination right now.

But then as I was writing an e-mail to my aunt, another story, which may actually be a novella by the time I get finished with it, popped into my head. I kept thinking and thinking about how I wanted it to start, and all I could think of was a conversation taking place between two of the characters. And I decided that's how I wanted to start it. So now I'm wondering what, if any other stories or novels or chapters of stories or novels begin with dialogue. I don't remember any of my teachers in the MFA progam I was in forbidding me to do it, and I actually think it's an interesting way to get things started--just like if you go to a movie or sit down to watch a tv show and the first thing you hear is a telephone conversation or the first thing you see is a split screen with people calling each other, or just one character talking on the phone. It sets things up for a "happening" of sorts--is the person trying to get more time to pay a bill? Calling to apologize to a lover after an argument? Calling an attorney to help them get out of trouble? Have they just answered the phone and been given news that a loved one was killed in an accident or discovered that it's a dear friend calling who they haven't talked to in years?

I've dedcided I'm a fan of this "device", although I certainly don't intend to overuse it--maybe I'll never use it again after this story.

Anyone else out there care to chime in?

Speaking the Truth

2009-07-10T15:44:00.000-07:00

Back when I was working on my MFA (I decided that, for now anyway, I don't need a degree--I just need to write!) I had decided that my thesis would be on using dialect in dialogue--whether or not it hinders the reader, or adds authenticity to the story. I started by contrasting works like Uncle Tom's Cabin and Huckleberry Finn for instance. Stowe's writing seemed to capture the authenticity of her slave characters, and no two of them "sounded" the same. Whereas I felt that Twain's use of dialect for his black characters made them far too stereotypical, and I found it difficult to know them as individuals.

Even though I abandoned the MFA program, and was frankly quite glad not to have to write the paper and present it to the review board for that program, I found myself revisiting the question a few months ago as I began to restructure the novel I've been working on, and again this past week as I revised another story. I had chosen the topic originally because it really was the only sort of academic topic that had any meaning to me as a woman of color.

In both the cases of the novel and the short story, the main characters are black. I had been forcing voices onto them that ended up being so pronounced in my effort for them to seem real, that they were almost caricatures. In the short story, there is a character who largely represents my father in real life--but I was trying so hard to mask him, that he wasn't like any real black man I'd ever met or talked to. Just a string of cliched phrases made up his dialogue and actions.

So this topic is still important to me, along with other questions--will I be accepted by the black literary community if I write any pieces that are only about white people? In other words, can I claim success as a black American author and market myself as such if my characters aren't black? I think others will agree that the black experience is as vast, varied and individual as the entire world population. There is no one right black experience. So I am becoming more comfortable as an author with my own narrative voice, the subjects I choose to write about, and the characters in my work.

Ethnicity aside, I wonder how authors build authentic characters and "realistic" stories.

Coming Out of the Writer's Closet

2009-07-10T15:24:00.000-07:00

Now before you readers get all up in arms, I don't pretend to know what it's like to be a gay individual coming out of the closet to your loved ones. I only know what I've been told secondhand. Still, when I think of what it's been like over the last few weeks to have finally staked out my life as a writer, and all of the disapproval, doubt and skepticism I've faced over so many years, it's the closest analogy I can think of that describes what I've been feeling. So no, I don't pretend to know what it's really like in one sense, but for me, it really has been a little more than nerve wracking to finally declare that while I have a loose structure for earning income, I'm really almost totally focused on writing at last.

I won't bore everyone with my Psychology 101 account of how I wasn't supported in childhood (although I think I spoke about it in a recent blog), or all of the sidetracking and distractions I've experienced over the last several years.

What I really wanted to say in this entry is that my "coming out" or "coming clean" or finally telling my loved ones that I left my steady corporate job over a month ago, actually went much better than I thought it would. I'm convinced it's because I'm finally in a place where I feel good about it instead of waiting for permission or approval. Although the lingering hope that my loved ones would give me their stamp of approval and the fear that they wouldn't is what made me so anxious about telling everyone.

I gradually let the cat out of the bag, first with a few friends, then with my mom, who left a message on my cell phone saying she didn't think she had the right work number for me any more. Then I told my in-laws, and finally my knitting group. There were just a few comments which I don't even consider to be aggressive or negative--like how courageous I am, or how there will probably be a period of adjustment. Only one person asked me how much money I am making doing background TV and film work for income. The best surprise of all were my husbands relatives, technically cousins, but more like aunt and uncle because they are our parents' age---who have always been supremely supportive of their kids, one of whom is a documentary filmmaker, and another a writer, and another a singer/performer. Even Becky, the mother, is a performer, and when I told them, they thanked me for sharing my momentous decision with them and Becky said that she had made several returns to her performing life along the way as she tried to balance raising 6 kids. It made me feel so good.

But even though I feel a certain relief that I'm not living this secretive existence any more, it's still a daily pep talk to myself that I'm doing the right thing, that I'm finally living or at least approaching the life I always wanted. And I have the moments of supreme joy, like finishing my play, or finishing anything, and really feeling good when a story starts to flow the way I want it to when I can feel the words flowing and I know it's good.

I've started the journey--now I need to do a lot of inner work on the issues of non-support from loved ones and feeling like I've wasted so many years. But the good part is, I know I'll never go backwards now that I've started.

The Notebooks

2009-06-18T13:25:00.000-07:00

Nicholas Sparks apparently only needs one notebook--the one in his novel of the same title--the one in which his main character chronicles the love story of he and his wife so that he can read it to her at the end of her life as she battles Alzheimer's. Touching isn't it? Lucky bastard (the husband, not Nicholas Sparks). As a writer, I've never been able to survive with just one notebook. Ever. The same way I've never been able to carry a purse that isn't big enough to stuff a toddler into. I just can't. I've tried. But I start to panic and think I'll need all the stuff I've left behind just to have this teeny tiny bag, which usually only has my glasses case and my credit card because it won't handle my giant wallet. I digress.

So for the past two weeks, when I haven't been otherwise occupied, I get up in the morning and traipse off to Borders with my purse and Bag O Writing stuff--which includes my netbook and its accoutrements, several pens, any reference materials---and at least three notebooks. OK, there's my general diary. Then there's a notebook in which I can just jot ideas or freewrite in. Then for any larger projects, like my play or my novel or a specific story, they would each have their own notebook and I would have brought with me any of those I felt inspired to work on that day. My process (in general) is that I compose longhand, and I consider my first revision to happen when I type it into the computer. Although, with my play, once I started typing it in, I changed so much, that I hardly referred to my written draft at all--but the foundation was still in my mind.

I can't help myself. I love pens. I love journals and composition books and spiral notebooks. Part of the reason I think I liked school so much as a kid is because at least until I got to high school, there was so much writing (as opposed to using computers for everything). I mean come on, who doesn't remember their Trapper Keeper? Compartments, and sections and folders, Oh my! And getting back to purses, the more pockets, the more I love them.

If I see a beautiful journal or notebook, I'll buy it, and it will be ready for me the next time I fill one and need to start a new one. Sometimes I just get bored with the one I'm writing in and start a new one anyway.

Suffice it to say, one will never be enough for me, when it comes to notebooks. I wonder how many Nicholas Sparks has going at any given time?

Strange Days

2009-06-11T17:57:00.000-07:00

I just want to give a fair warning, this post may be more like a journal entry than most. Feel free to skip it if it gets too touchy-feely for you.

I've felt this sort of weight on my since last night. Never mind the usual pull of inertia as I try to exercise daily discipline. I know that, just like working out, this will get easier to fight off the more I get into my routine. But this was something else. Old voices haunting me. Now that I'm into my new writer's life, ghosts of disapprovers past raised their howling voices again. In a way I feel more equipped to deal with them now that I've taken some real and important steps for myself. In another way, I wonder why I just can't seem to let go of these haints forever.

Two specific memories popped up. One of my first feature article coming out in an international daily newspaper, me telling my dad about it, and him just never going out to get a copy of the newspaper. Eventually I sent him a copy, but to this day I wonder whether or not he ever read it. The second is of a woman who was almost like a mother to me (and don't get me started on my own mother's criticism of my poetry) saying "well I guess you must be writing SOMETHING in all of those little notebooks of yours." These are followed closely by more unpleasant memories--my dad trying to force me into computer science at college, and grudgingly accepting journalism as an acceptable consolation prize instead of a full-blown return on his investment in my college education. Also of Iris (that was her name) telling me that people like she and my dad (i.e. business professionals) would never understand my creative desires. Both are dead now, but I am stuck with a question I want to scream at them--I know Iris at least loved movies and books, so did she, did either of them really think that the writing of these was for the select few? Did they think I just wasn't smart enough, talented enough to beat the odds? I think this ties into my present fear of telling my mom and in-laws that I have in fact left my 50+ hour a week job to finally become a writer. Iris's remark still hurts, as does the memory of my dad's lack of enthusiasm and support for my article. He expressed the same dull interest in the next two articles I published as well. At least in my dad's case, I know he abandoned his talent for art. His girlfriend (another soap opera for another blog entirely) told me that he told her he'd never pick up his drawing pencils again. I ended up giving a good deal of his art supplies to a guy in NJ that was really grateful to have and use them. I still keep a handfull of his pencils--I've taken them to every Joe job I've ever had. I can't draw worth a darn, but it comforts me to have them near. Once I finally get my writing studio together, I will put them into a pencil cup once again. I don't write in pencil, even when I'm composing longhand, so they'll never be used, but they will be there, as a reminder of the art he let go, and the one I'm finally grasping onto for dear life. So, at least in his case, maybe his inability to be supportive of me stems from his own guilt and sadness at letting his art die. As for Iris, I can't say. So if any of you writers and artists out there have encouragement, I'd love to hear it. I know I just need to give this up. My mom is starting to come around--she's excited about my children's book. But I'll never get approval from my dad and Iris, mostly because they're dead. And I may never have gotten it if they had lived to see me become me.

Moving on, I'm experiencing something interesting which may help me as I continue to learn script writing. After a couple of unsuccessful classes, I am taking my friend's advice just to write, and then share it with people I trust. I recently started a treatment for a comedic web series, which I felt would be a better format for the idea I originally tried to make a romantic comedy out of. As I'm writing along, I realize that I've allowed myself to be more, well, "me" on the page--more conversational, quirky, funny. Not so worried about form, especially for a treatment. I want whoever reads it to laugh, and be interested. I'd never done this before, and it's really freeing. To a certain degree, I'm willing to follow my own rules.

I'm blaming June gloom on my sleepiness and struggle to stay focused, although I did perk up this afternoon and get some real work done. I think I can look back and feel good about this week. I booked my first gig as an extra on a film set (my new source of income, since I can take my laptop and continue to write while I have hours of down time on a set), got some great resources including a photographer for a decent head shot, for which I have an appointment on Monday, through a contact I met when I was registering a casting agency, and a pretty decent amount of work done on both my play and this treatment.

I'm also spending a few minutes each day doing this guided journal called 40 days and 40 nights, which was given to me by a co-worker on my last day at the office. I thought it would be a good time to start it. I'm also doing fairly well with yoga, decent food, and vitamins, but my fitness needs improving. Off to do the journal now, then to Target for a couple of things I need for my outfit for the shoot tomorrow, then to knitting group!

The Play's the Thing

2009-06-09T14:08:00.000-07:00

So, I've been trying to focus, more or less on one project at a time until I can finish one thing. But necessity has dictated otherwise--since a few opportunities have been advertised, and I don't want to miss any of them. So I'll have to take time out to try and slap together a treatment for a webisode (which I've already had the idea for). I've also had to take time out to pave the way for one of my income ideas, which is to do extra work, which is kind of like temp work for actors. It's slightly more involved than I anticipated, but that's OK. Turns out, even though I'm registered with two different places, a third requires me to provide my own photo to register online. Which now means I need to get professional head shots taken. But thank goodness I was given a name by someone whose photos turned out well. But all this so I can get this extra work, which will allow me the time to write. Still worth it though--I have no aspirations to be an actor. I'm just going for the stuff where I sit in the background and drink a cup of coffee. I've already done it once by accident when I tagged along for a student film my husband was in. But who knows what will happen. Maybe I'll meet someone who can read my stuff one day. Or because I have a unique look (woman of color with REALLY short hair) they may toss me a line one day in a commercial, and if it's a national, I'll get my union card and there's my income for the year, and I'm free to write.

Anyway, I've still been putting in regular time with my first play. I was away from it for a few days while I wound down from my full-time job and prepared to take the leap. When I tried to pick it up again where I left off, it was almost like I felt this force field trying to keep me from making any more progress. Not writer's block. Just that old inertia trying to keep me down. I thought about what's been going on with me since my last day,which was just Friday. I've really only experienced 1.5 days in my new writer's life so far. And the first day was not that great. I felt a little sense of panic from my husband when I told him that Central Casting was going off line for the rest of the month. Then I felt that old anxiety grip me--to hurry up and make some money. My actual writing fell so far down the totem pole yesterday. I typed a few words before I went to bed last night. I wasn't wrong about feeling better today, but it was still like I had to go through this sort of warm-up . . . I did a little knitting that I brought with me. And then I felt the renewed urge to write sort of welling up. Finally, I turned on my netbook, and started in where I left off before. I had to delete a couple of lines because I couldn't remember where I had been going with them. Finally, I got back into that space that I wish I could feel automatically--that flow, where I'm not anxious and it's going well, and I believe in not only whatever I'm writing at the moment, but also in the way I'm leading my life now.

I realized that every day we start over as writers. Even within the same project. We've left our story, our characters frozen in mid-experience somewhere. It's uncomfortable. I can't quite pinpoint why it is, or why it takes so much (for me anyway) to rev up again. I'm hoping that once I establish a certain routine, and keep practicing at this writer's life, that it will get easier. We'll see. In the meantime, I made it through the opening scene of my play and almost to the end of the first transition scene (the main character always has these asides in her own head between scenes). I feel back on track, I feel that rightness that I felt when I was planning this new writer's life. I wonder how it is for other writers out there.

To write or . . . something else

2009-05-28T14:42:00.000-07:00

This post is based on an idea for an article that I wanted to write for a friend's newsletter Letterpress, which was about the craft of writing. Speaking of which, I need to e-mail that friend and ask her what ever happened to the newsletter. She liked the idea of my contributing on this subject, but I never got around to it. Just last weekend, I thought of it again, as I re-entered my hobby world which meant taking time away from writing.

I'm a knitter. I learned how to knit once as a kid and got discouraged because the first project I chose was knitting a hat in the round. Only the knitters out there will understand why this was not a good idea. Then about 8 years ago, a co-worker of mine sort of re-taught me, and I've been addicted ever since. I could devote a whole post to how amazing Netania is--she can look at a magazine picture and knit herself the sweater in that picture with no pattern, and even make design changes to it! But I digress.

I've never been good at creating balance in my life. I've always wanted this perfect pie chart of all the elements of my life. This included equal time for writing and knitting. They are both my passion, but in different ways. I need writing to breathe basically. When I don't write, I quickly become Bitchzilla, and everything else is affected negatively. With knitting, it's so therapeutic, and I just love it so much. When I don't do it, I miss it, and also get frustrated by the growing piles of UFOs (Unifinished Objects)--but that is also another story.

Having felt overwhelmed with stress from my job, and feeling the need to rededicate myself to Extreme Writing just to keep my sanity, I abandoned knitting for about two months straight. Didn't go to my knitting group on Thursday nights. Had no desire to work on any of my current knitting projects.

Then over the Memorial Day weekend, I really felt the need to pick up my Purple Pet Sweater again. I'd become frustrated with the pattern I'd chosen and started the hunt for another one for the yarn I had. (It's my favorite yarn ever--the kind you could just cuddle up with, even in California.) I found a free pattern online and knit through almost the entire sweater in one evening! I am stalled only because I need double-pointed needles to finish the sleeves, and had to order those online also.

The next day I feared that I would be loathe to get back to my writing, and that I would just pick up another languishing knitting project. But I didn't. I felt satisfied, like having eaten a meal and ready to take a walk afterwards for some exercise--I'd fulfilled my jones to knit and was ready again to pick up the pen/netbook and get back to the writing process.

Which also led me to want to blog on this subject. I had some questions for myself, among which was "Why is this time so different? Why didn't I get consumed by one thing and abandon everything else?" I think one huge difference is that I am moving toward a work situation that will allow me ample time for both writing and knitting, so I don't feel like every spare moment must only be devoted to one or the other. Also, I just feel more disciplined in general, but not from a sense of forcing myself to do something. It goes back to living the writer's life instead of forcing the writer into some other kind of half life. By living the way I want to, nothing is forced--it's all a joy, so as I move from one thing to the next, I'm not afraid of losing any part of myself as a result. I feel free to enjoy all parts of myself, because I'm not squeezing them into tiny made-up inner spaces, or sacrificing them to a false life that isn't authentic (I know, such an Oprah word, but I don't have time to look up a decent equivalent right now).

I have the same questions for whoever might be reading this---do writers have other art that either feeds their writing process or distracts from it? Do artists make space in their process to write or journal? I was reading a book about artists and their spaces, and a couple of them either incorporated writing directly into their art pieces, or journaled as a way to jumpstart their creative process and determine what their next project would be.

I think I'm getting closer to that pie chart--except the size of the pieces is more flexible, more fluid, and I love it!

The Next Place

2009-05-22T17:03:00.000-07:00

OK, a few more tiny bubbles from my soapbox before I move into today's topic--it should not be this difficult/expensive in THIS DAY AND AGE to be mobile and get an internet connection!!!! If you already know the story, just skip this part---(my real topic is interesting, I promise, and I really hope to get feedback on how place effects the creative process--so just skip down, unless you want to join my tirade). I get my cute new netbook to set me free from the Dungeon/Office at home. We have free wireless through the landlord. Connect it once, then it picks up some random key, so I have to enter the murderously long key each time I turn the computer on. I think I got the answer to this from the one person at Fry's who knows something, though, today. But we're sick of the landlord's network anyway (not ungrateful--just tired of it not working or disconnecting when I'm on deadline with freelance projects due at 11:00 at night) so I get on AT&T's website. Mayhem ensues. I find something that might work, but only if I'm at a hotspot. So I try to find out how much it will cost to get a permanent connection through our home OR cell phones. They don't offer DSL/high-speed in our neighborhood. REALLY?!?!?! The first Stupid Woman I talked to today couldn't even tell me about wifi hotspots because that's offered on the internet and she only deals with DSL home connections. REALLY?!?!?! So as a representative, you can't even tell me about my other options just becuase you don't sell them in your little cubicle there?!?!?! The next person I talked to--AT&T Will Rule The World One Day Lady proceeded to give me the sob story about how we may not have a tower in our community because the city won't allow it because the towers are unsightly, but I should understand her when she says that it's At&T's goal to "own the world" as far as networking and communications and they are going community by community until they reach this goal and I should consider an iPhone or a Blackberry because that's what she uses when she can't find a hotspot to get on the internet--this after I've explained to her that I need internet on my laptop because I'm a writer, and what if I have down time in my other work (I could be on a film set wherever) and be doing a writing assignment and trying to develop my business and need to e-mail a story to someone or check my e-mail.

The end result: Hopefully I can finally fix what's wrong at home so I can connect there without the Bourne Identity security summersaults every time; I'm at a Borders now, so I've figured out the WiFi hotspot thing, for which I can pay per session. But if I want to be trly mobile and connect to the Internet even if I'm in BumbleFuck, I need to buy a card that costs $100 and pay $60 per month for a laptop connect program.

OK---I'm done Bubbling for today.

So, my mind drifted back to a time when I had moved back to Ohio after living in NY and finding it too much to handle--looking for another place to live, trying to find a new roommate, finding a job that didn't require me to spend an hour on the subway every day (or even a job I liked)--it was too much. I just didn't know what I really wanted to do. (Looking back I actually did know, have known almost all my life, but talked myself out of it to please parents and others, or out of fear). I was trying to fit the writer I am into some other life (it's turned out to be several little lives that have not been right for me) instead of carving out a writer's life and shaping other things around that.

I went back to Ohio because my Dad was there. My "rescuer" --always ready with the rent-free apartment, for instance, or money, or whatever. And always ready with the pressure and the terms and the Quality of Life lecture. That was the lecture that told me I couldn't be happy without money. A journalism major and a vague B.A. in Communications was a compromise from the computer science he told me he wanted me to major in so I could make $45K (this was a long time ago) right out of school. Because, you see, he wanted a return on his investment of putting me through college.

I digress. But this is what I went back to out of fear--I hadn't learned to trust myself, believe in myself. So I sat at this little low white formica table in the corner and thought--this is mywriting table, and I am going to make this happen. And that was kind of the beginning of these little "places" I have tried to carve out so I could "become" a writer. They improved over the years. In NY/NJ I had a beautiful carved Spanish Style desk. In FL I had a cool modern thing in blond wood. I had the luxury of my own room until we moved to CA. And the space/desks just got covered with junk, papers, little trinkets to beautify the space, meaningless stuff. And in all this time there has only been one story published and a short script that placed in the top 10 of a contest (I'm not counting my journalistic writing because it's not my passion).

Why did this happen? Well, part of it is what I said before--I was always trying to squeeze the writer into some other kind of life that was always about some other job/making money/pleasing parents/seeing my husband's dreams through instead of finding a way to make a writer's life. I wasn't putting the writer first. In another 2 weeks, I will be able to do that--first thing every morning when I'm not called for extra work. I can't wait. I still long for my own beautiful room again. Part of me thinks by by doing the writing, I will earn that again, and it won't be a thing that is a stage, or apart from me to try to bring out something in me that I wish were true. It will be an extension of who I AM--the writer I've finally allowed myself to be.

For anyone stumbling upon this I am really curious as to how place plays a part in your creative process, whether you're an artist, musician, or writer. Color and light two of the obvious elements that cosmetically and even spiritually make a space inspiring. But I am just clinging to what's inside me, and bringing that alive before I endeavor to create a new writing studio for myself (for which I would need to find space away from home or we would have to move to a bigger apartment). Don't get me wrong, though, I visualize paint colors and woodtones and velvet furniture almost every day . . .

Tiny Bubbles

2009-05-20T23:15:00.000-07:00

So sometimes it's the little things that wreck the process. Like little varmints eating their way out from deep inside your brain (I wrote a poem about something like this--I was thinking it was very similar to losing your mind completely).

It's like this for me today. I could hardly concentrate at work (although I'd like to think I'm above the epidemic called short-timer's disease). I just sort of daydreamed my way to the end of the day, and I could hardly wait to spend the last daylight hours sitting on the patio, which I consider to be my outdoor studio, journaling both online and off, checking out a few Web sites for sweater patterns, and also visiting some other writing blogs. I'd planned my engine revving to a tee. By this I mean that these are the sorts of things I do to unwind, calm down, get into that space where I can stop thinking and start writing. Because I was so pissed off at having to stay an extra 40 minutes, which ate up the time I had slotted to stop at the store and get cat food. I wanted to be in place and going in my journal or on my netbook by no later than 6:30.

When I finally did get home, I fed the cats and came outside. I'd just spent about an hour last night finally connecting to my landlord's wireless account. And lo and behold the thing wasn't working *once again*. So it took me until almost 8:30, the light then nearly gone, to re-enter the blasted code. (It looks like I will have to do this every single time I turn the computer on because some wicked Gremlin keeps reautomating the code to some 6-digit thing instead of accepting and retaining the code my landlord gave me. My poor husband arrived home with a cute little bucket of popcorn from the private movie screening he went to as a gift for me, and my mood was still venomous.

Then I had to break off and deal with my hunger. I hate that. I'd rather just be able to replicate the hot dinner of my choice on a plate next to where I'm working, take 60 seconds to turn to the side and eat it, and just get back to work, leaving the raccoons to gobble up the dregs, and the birds and squirrels to shred the paper plate for their nests.

No such luck. I gave my husband the leftover Curry (and gladly--I didn't really want it, but then again *nothing* sounded good), so that meant another trip to the store (I would have gotten food when I was there at 6:50 pm if I had known my husband was eating sushi at the reception before the screening and wouldn't be hungry--I love going on food dates with him, either to a drive through or even back to the store--I just hate being in the grocery store alone).

So here I am in the last 29 minutes of Today, trying to make the most of it. I think it might be working.

But since I've been so niggled by so many annoyances (think of your brain falling asleep and then being full of those thousands of pin prickles when you try to wake it up by moving it), the end result is that I feel the need to stand on my soapbox for a little while, hence the tiny bubbles. Which I hope will be no more vexing to anyone than the bubble machine on The Lawrence Welk Show--just me in a tiny voice gurgling for a few minutes about what's bugging me.

And briefly, it's this. Why do people care so little about words lately? I feel like instant publication ability has made us sacrifice our care of words just so that we can simply be heard. It goes beyond laziness. I was briefly investigating a social networking site as a way to get the word out about my expanding editing business. I got an e-mail from one of the members who was trying to get me to sign up for the next level, which will supposedly get me earning money for making new contacts, but of course costs me money. His e-mail sent me packing with the first sentence: "Hope your having a great weekend." Now why would I want to do business with someone who can't even be bothered to make his communications clear and CORRECT. What that says to me is that he doesn't care about silly details like words--and he confirmed this when I e-mailed him to point out that part of what I do as an editor is not just copyedit words, but really help people polish what they are writing so that they put their best foot forward--tell their best story with whatever they are putting out there. I stressed that I didn't mean any offense, but that he could contact me if he was interested in getting my help in this regard. He wrote back that basically he's not worried about it because he makes money hand over fist, but that I should read about how I can too (below this was another shpiel about what he was peddling) because positive people get ahead in life.

GAWRRRRRRD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I mean REALLY????????????????? Maybe I'm the only person left who cares about words. I don't know. And there's probably some typos in this blog, so I also have a double standard--when it's my "journal" of sorts, it doesn't have to be correct.

BTW, for those of you who don't know what was wrong with his first sentence, it should read "Hope *you're* having a great weekend." I'll leave it at that. I'm turning the bubble machine off.

And don'tcha know, I may have cleared out enough Gremlins to get to work. I'm hoping for another 300+ words or better.

5-18-09

2009-05-19T01:14:00.000-07:00

Taking a breath . . . I feel like it's the first real one in awhile. Pandora is playing my Flamenco guitar station. It's taken me some days to arrive at this point, sitting here, and to arrive at this point in my mind too. How can I say it? I've repeated a pattern for so long of edging toward what I really want, toward the woman I want to be so many times. I've been in danger of losing the vision of that goddess completely. Each time, I've started with good intentions, the best . .. only to become someone else . . . again. What I mean by that is sidetracking down into the most banal of purposes again (you know what they are--they empty your soul, and quick). I muck around in those until I can't breathe, and then start out again. The difference this time (oh, good, this has a point, you're saying)--the difference this time is that I've finally given myself permission to be that and to live that which I've wanted--a real writer's life. Simple enough. But what I mean is, I've given myself permission to strive just as hard to be a writer, as I've striven to be [enter title here] at all the corporate jobs I've held out of the necessity I've created for myself or put up with.

And oh my god, I've never been more peaceful! Excited yes, but more of a quiet thrill.

So I bought myself a netbook so that I could leave the darkness and chaos of the office/desk/computer I share with my husband--FREEDOM. The minions (I love that word) of Conspiracy sunk their sharp teeth into my ankles with every step I took. Navigating the purchase of the netbook (what was in the store, what was online, which warranty to buy, the last cautious doubts of my husband, realizing I needed an external drive to load software, then realizing I could at least get a trial version from the Internet, then spending two days trying to get piggybacked on my landlord's wireless---one little item was clicked and it shouldn't have been, which meant the computer was choosing the key code for me, and not accepting the one he gave me to enter) . . . and finally,finally,finally, I am here tonight, working on draft of The Next Good Thing I'm Writing . . . carried along by the peaceful yet vibrant energy of Flamenco . . . and making progress. I'm in a kind of bliss. I'm actually doing what I've wanted to for so long. And as the next few weeks go by, I'll be doing more and more of it. The writing, and the writing life will be the thing that I do more than other things, the "it".

So I found myself wanting to journal about it here on my computer. I love my paper journal as well. But it felt good to just break away to a new screen and lay the thoughts down. This is another freedom I've found ---- just open up my little netbook almost anywhere and tend to my blog gardens, such as they are.

Well, I'm making less and less sense to myself. But I'm on my way. Nighty-night.