The Writing Life Struggles Forward

Their faces were mere inches apart, eyes locked transmitting rage as visible as the dust motes swirling around their heads. She smelled his rotting gums, sweat-drenched shirt, and greasy hair.

Neither one blinked.

He spoke to keep from flinching. "You're a freak."

"It's a secret society," she hissed. We recognize each other, don't we?" She expected him to strike at that moment, but he didn't.

"When I start the killing, you're going to be the first to go. I'll take my time with you."

A slight smile graced her lips even as she clenched her teeth. She raised her chin as if in further defiance. "We'll see about that." Then she slammed her forehead into his nose.

Flotsam and Jetsam

It's a day for thinking. Rain does that to me. I had a story critiqued at the writing group last night, so I have plenty of ideas of how to improve the story, as well as the need to delete and rearrange some parts. It feels ready to be called finished. I didn't feel that way until today but I know I'm close. Plus, I had a small story materialize inside my head yesterday and had the good fortune to write it down before it disappeared into the land of lost memories. It will be an opening to a story that may have some arguments for and against the use of violence.

I worked hard all of the three-day weekend, as did all of the people in our house. The yard is finally starting to look like home instead of someone else's yard that was left behind. The rain is good for the tree we planted and all of the other growing things, but also offers a needed respite so that I can do some writing. The little one is watching a Dora the Explorer video. (It's fantastico!) but I can tell she is just about ready to move on to some real play. We have errands to run all over the county today and tomorrow but we can spend the afternoons at home.

I'm making Green Chile Stew for dinner tonight. It's one of the dinners I actually look forward to preparing and eating. One of our errands involves trying to find decent, fragrant Cilantro in a grocery store.

I think I could write for hours if I was organized and set up. I've lost a ridiculous number of files since we rearranged the house. I had too much paper clutter to begin with, thus the problem. I could do my writing time every night if I could only sleep afterwards. It's fun to dream about your book, and the characters are very true to life, but it's exhausting and doesn't seem to produce good sleep. I might try writing at night for a week and see if I can adjust.

And Don't Forget Antarctica: Moving Your Writing Back to Town

How long are you going to leave your writing out in the cold?  Writing begets writing. Daily writing creates energy and momentum in your writing naturally follows. Pay attention to your own energy levels throughout the day. For most people, morning is when the brain is its brightest and easiest to train  to leap into action with a few prompts from the subconsciousness. Let's call these prompts triggers.
( a very popular word at the moment like zone used to be)

Try this: Write every single day of your life. Write whether or not it's Christmas, you just got bad news, or if you just got good news. Maybe you're too sick to get out of bed, but I'll bet you could write for 15 minutes in your journal. If you can't, then get ye to the emergency room. Journals can be a repository for feelings, thoughts, and ideas for any type of future project, or you can just do some venting  on the pages. It's a win-win situation.

I like to write in coffee places. Sometimes the noise is horrendous but, usually, it's not too bad. Try different places until you find one that suits you. In the winter, I like to go to Vic's Coffee out by Longmont's airport. (It has a new name that escapes me right now) It has an awesome fireplace that turns me on in the winter. (there's more than one way to be turned on, you know) The place is friendly, always has a table open, and I can happily do some writing while I'm there. In summer, Cafe Luna is near my house and has a great porch to sit on. The view of the mountains is a big plus.

Having any sort of a routine will pay off, but you have to start working on some regularity with your writing intentions. Don't say you don't have the time. I hear people who aren't writing, also discuss the television series they're following, the complex video games they love, and they are always checking email and facebook. So try to jumpstart your creative process by trying to write at the same time every day, use your lucky pen and favorite notebook, or toss the laptop in a bag and go to a coffee place. But do it the same way as much as possible every day. Begin with one week. Try to go Sunday through Saturday, putting words on paper or screen each and every day. If you succeed, then don't stop.
The difference between being a writer (which implies a serious lifelong dedication), and being someone who just wants to be a writer, is the marriage of intention with output. Put some out, people.

My writing was out in Antarctica but it's now on a slow boat to China. I'm moving in the right direction.

#

My granddaughter, E, learned a song in Montessori about the names of the continents. As kind of an aside during the song, the kids would sing, "And don't forget Antarctica".  This morning, as her mother was leaving for work, E yelled out the door, "And don't forget Antarctica, Mommy". Substitute writing
for Antarctica for a week and see what happens.

Wasting Away in Margaritaville: Writing Groups

Getting your work critiqued in a writing group can be a real crap-shoot. In one session, you can get a critique worth your weight in gold and, in the same session, you can be forced to listen to 15 minutes of  verbal waste product.

One time I gave up and disregarded our rule for sitting through a critique in vegetable silence. After listening for ten agonizing minutes to a person beating the same point to death, I finally interrupted her to explain that "Margarita" wasn't an underdeveloped character who dropped into the story out of nowhere but, rather, was the name of a mixed drink. She then spent a few minutes of my precious life explaining that she doesn't drink.

This example highlights a couple of problems: the reader who does a piss-poor job of reading the material, and the agony of having to listen to the same comment in as many variations as possible. I try to trust the reader to carefully read my work, and I expect the reader to trust me to listen to his/her observation the first time it's said. An opinion isn't any more, or less, true just because it's repeated over and over and over.  (should I make that point a few more times just to make sure you know I mean it? No.)

On the other side of the coin, I spend a lot of time being the reader and writing up critiques for other writers. The last thing I want to hear is that you just hammered out your pages the night before. Why should I spend more time working on your pages than you did?

The best scenario is when people, who are committed to the art and craft of writing, get together to provide insight into each other's work. It's good motivation to have a reader who appreciates the good writing, as well as being able to offer constructive criticism.

Trying to Come up With a Dynamic Plan

It's not easy when you want to devote a part of your life to a creative pursuit. In fact, the world conspires against you. I was reading a chapter of Elizabeth Berg's book on writing, Escaping Into the Open, and she said it's the same for even a famous and successful writer like herself. She tries to have a schedule for writing, but even friends and family who should be understanding, implicitly feel that she should always be able to reschedule her writing time around their desires. Anyone who writes (or paints, or does fiber art, or pottery, etc.) knows that it isn't that easy to stop and go from that creative space inside the mind. You get into the zone just are certainly as an athletic does. It's jarring to be interrupted, and you can't just flip a switch to begin, either. (Although there are techniques and ways to discipline yourself to get into your creative mind a lot faster)

I care for my granddaughter who is a power-house of energy and intelligence, all in a three-year-old body. Tomorrow is her last day at the kiddie gulag, if we take her at all. Then twenty days will pass before she begins attending her new awesome preschool. We attended the open house last night. The caliber of the staff and the excellence of the facility make me feel so much better about how she will be spending her three mornings a week. Still, twenty days is a lot of time.

Friends hesitate to come over for a visit, knowing there will be lots of interruptions. I have an arrangement to go out to a small writing group one day a week for a three and a half hour reprieve, with 70 minutes of that being devoted to driving.

The GD is working on a present for her mommy. This little project is buying me enough time to quickly type a blog post, and requires the sacrifice of a pad of paper, pens, and copious amounts of tape. Tape is still a fascination to her. God bless the young child's interest in all things.

I have to write something new for the writing group and have a week to come up with something. I used to be able to write if I had a deadline, but that was before my life became so, shall we say, dynamic. The good news is that I rarely have insomnia these days.

I have always said I would hate to have a boring life. Be careful what you wish for. My life is anything but boring.

Moving Dirt Around...Still

A young man named Joe followed us up to the cabin this morning to put the track back on the excavator. After a two-hour drive, the repair took him five minutes. Steve worked until 3:00 then called it a day. Dirt has been moved around. Holes have been made, and the hope is that any future flooding (which is almost a certainty after such a severe fire) will now channel itself around the cabin.

I've driven the four-hour round trip to the cabin for three days in a row now. A break is needed. I did almost no work while I was up there, but made myself useful by emitting anxiety and low-level panic every time the excavator was not perfectly level. I also put toilet paper in the outhouse once.

 The last day with the John Deere.

The pasque flowers are doing great this year.

 This used to be the beginning of a hiking trail.

RAW

I attended "RAW: Natural Born Artists" on Friday night in Denver. One of TFW's writers, a young woman named Izna, from Kashmir, was presenting her art for the first time. I had no idea what to expect, not having the time to research in advance. I was surprised to discover the show was in an interesting venue called "City Hall". The place was a brick multilevel building with two bars, stages, techno rock blasting, and performances taking place below and above.

Here's some information about RAW in its own words:

"Our mission is to provide independent artists with the first 10 years of their career with the tools, resources and exposure needed to inspire and cultivate creativity"

"We welcome all genres of art including independent film, fashion, music, visual art, performing art, hairstylists, makeup artists, and more."

They have monthly events from February through October.

The only thing I disliked was the admonition to wear "fashionable attire".  It's insulting to be told what to wear. It's a shame that they include this ridiculous dress code in an effort to increase the hip factor. What's truly cool is to let people dress themselves in the way that best expresses their individualism.

Izna's show was a success. She was right in the thick of things and I'm proud of her.

The Cabin Ordeal Begins

We waited all winter for the time to come when we could procrastinate no longer, and the time has arrived. It's time to face the damage that happens when a wildfire and a flash flood conspire to bury the cabin.

The Cabin Master rented a mini excavator from a rental company in Longmont, then had to rent a truck large enough to pull the trailer and, more importantly, to stop it. Saturday was a bit nerve-wracking as he learned how to use the equipment, and figured out the best way to start moving the dirt, mud, and rocks away from the walls. Then, just before they were going to stop working for the day, the rubber track came off on one side. 

I went to Ted's Place (a store and gas station) that is the nearest place to get a cell phone signal. The rental place was closed for the day, wouldn't be open on Sunday, and the voice mail said they don't check their voice mails so, if you want to talk to them, call on Monday. 

We couldn't do any work today because of the equipment failure, and can't even get the excavator back onto the trailer to return it. I'm hoping the rental place will be reasonable about this. I want them to go up into the mountains, get their badly maintained piece of equipment, and I want them to offer to refund us all of our money.  If they don't offer, I'm going to tell them that's what they should do. The Cabin Master has to miss a day of work tomorrow (if they can get up to the cabin to get their machine), and we lost an entire day that was crucial for digging out the cabin.

Even with the problem, the recovery has begun. Unless another flash flood hits it again.

An optimistic beginning

Getting the front of the cabin unburied

Happier times

How is Your Inner Monarch Doing?

Heather Sellers is a writing professor who is perhaps best known for her memoir "You Don't Look Like Anyone I Know".  She lives with a neurological disorder called Prosopagnosia,  but commonly known as face blindness. She's managed to earn her PhD in English/Creative Writing and teaches poetry, fiction, and nonfiction in Florida. About 2% of the population is afflicted with Prosopagnosia, and I know three people dealing with this complication, so I'm sympathetic.

I was pleasantly surprised to find an article written by Sellers in the current issue of The Sun. The title "Sparky" caught my eye. I used to do freewriting with a young woman who sometimes referred to her friend "Skippy".  I'm a little slow on the uptake so it took me a while to figure out she was talking about her periods.

The story is about her experience with personal growth, to put it in a cliche-type terminology, but that's what it was. She objectively relates her behavior, present and past, tries therapy and meditation, both without any success. Then she has several of those ah-ha! moments we have all too rarely (because of the therapist and the meditation) , and manages to relate the sensation and the experience pretty succinctly, considering how difficult it really is to communicate spiritual growth to each another.

The best part was when she addressed a topic that is near and dear to my own convoluted heart: How our whole being is comprised of many parts. At the risk of being sued, I'll quote part of her text:

      (referring to her staid colleagues)

     "And I know they must be struggling to rule their kingdoms, too, trying to honor their renegade selves, monitor uprisings. I'm sure they have their own daily coup attempts from warring factions within the psyche....
      It's difficult to get the various parts of myself -the good girl and the lover, the wild child and the suck-up, the bureaucrat and the plate spinner, the holy seer and the nun- all to cohabitate. It seems impossibly hard to develop a good monarch inside, one who can supervise and tend to and hear out all these raucous subjects."

And an incredible bit of writing about her meditation:

     "It's like running a chaotic kindergarten. But once I get everyone welcomed and set up with juice and a snack, I sit."

I love to recommend The Sun for all you bleeding-heart commie liberals out there, and I highly recommend the writings of Heather Sellers. I haven't done "Sparky" justice here, but hope you'll take the time to find and read her essay.

Colorado

It's Raining in Longmont

I went outside this afternoon and listened to the thunderstorm to the south of Longmont. It's been a long time since a roll of thunder shook the windowpanes. Now, this evening, it's raining steadily.

Unfortunately, we have two sick people in the house as of tonight. (not me) I'm still not over the psychic trauma of my last illness. In the past, I've gone years without any colds or flu. so this last winter has been a humbling experience.

We're gearing up to begin the rescue mission up at the cabin. The cabin is still half buried in rock and hardened mud (which is different than plain dirt in my mind). The plan is to take a large piece of equipment (resembling a small backhoe) that requires coordination and dexterity, and use it to move the dirt and rocks around. Drainage needs to be created to keep the rocks and mud from assaulting the cabin every time it rains for the next five years. There will be unforeseen complications that no one has considered about the project, there always is, but I hope there won't be any danger involved. At best, the guys will have fun with the challenge of reshaping a large piece of nature.

I appeared in court for my jury summons on Monday. It is a civil trial that should last seven days. Luckily civil trials only require 7 jurors, improving the odds of being excused. After five hours, the last of the rigmarole was over and I was set free. When I looked at the 7 people chosen, 6 women and 1 man, I could not even guess why they settled on those particular ones. It's all a crap shoot at best, I suppose. There is a part of the process when you have to answer six questions about yourself. The questions have been conveniently written on a large piece of paper and set in front of the jury box. People chose the most inane things to tell about themselves. There was a lot of the typical Boulder pissing contest  going on. One woman, a textile artist and potter, managed to work in her husband's equally brilliant career as an artist and how perfectly they collaborated  since they were soul mates. A young Russell Brand look-alike tried to raise his voice against corporate America and the system, and ended up so inarticulate that he was humiliated by his own words. The court was extremely kind to him in return.

Time to put one sick little girl to bed. She has perked up considerably since this morning so I'm hopeful tomorrow will be a good day.

From the Landlocked Republic of Longmont

I was reading an article written by a man who had been on psychotropic medications for a number of years. Maybe more. He went to a new doctor and, together, they decided to take a different approach to his problem. Instead of a daily regime of drugs to curb his highs and lows, he is now treating his illness as something that is episodic instead of being a chronic condition. This is an interesting concept. I hope it goes well for him, and that he'll share how the next five years work out.

I've always seen life as a series of stages. I'm not sure young people can see life this way, but it seems pretty obvious to me, at 60, that the progression to old age has a lot in common with climbing one of those long, steep set of stairs to the top of a Mayan ruin. It's easy to become tired, get hurt, or want to stop and sit down, but the view from the top turns out to be worth the climb.

I'm busy. Slammed. Just when I think I need a pitcher of Sangria, I get a jury summons. Shit. Now I'll have to go straight to gin. I know I still have some female hormones floating around because the first thing I thought was, "What the hell will I wear?" Of course, upon further consideration, the correct answer is: last year's Halloween costume. I just don't have time to perform my civic duty right now.

I'm going to carry on. I suggest you do the same.

Finally Friday in Train Town

Friday has finally crawled into place. There is abundant sunshine, the lawn is green and lush in our front yard, leaves are brightening up all the shrubs and trees, and water is running off of the porch roof as the last of the snow sublimates. All the potential for a lovely day is outside my window.

I took my granddaughter to the kiddie-gulag this morning. The school-age children were lining up to board the van that transports them to their respective elementary schools. The driver told the first little boy, about eight years old, to step back from the door so I could leave. The child was staring intently at my face as I opened the door. That's when I saw him making an obscene gesture with his middle finger in my direction. (strategically hidden from the driver) I smiled at him and didn't react, but I was shocked by his apparent anger. Driving home, I kept thinking about what his life must be like to make him so hostile at such a young age.

Granddaughter only has a month left at this daycare before moving to an excellent facility her mother found. We knew after a few days that this preschool wasn't going to work out, but I believe her classroom is safe and that kind people work there, so she has continued to attend for three mornings a week. She gets to play with other children, and hasn't complained about anything except the food. Even a kiddie-gulag, when safe,  is better than staying with a grandma who gets burned-out with the five day a week schedule.

We live in Train Town.

May Comes in Like a Polar Bear

Another spring snowstorm came and dumped on us yesterday, but the sky is blue and the snow is already disappearing. This was a good storm since the roads and sidewalks stayed clear. This wasn't the case down in Denver where there was black ice on the roads and lots of accidents. Is this the last snow until next fall? Let's hope so.

Today is a granny-nanny babysitting day. We have tasks to perform and errands to run. The little fireball is watching Dinosaur Train on the telly, so I'm typing as fast as I can.

I woke up and the first thing I read was about the cannibalism in our colonies during the winter of 1609 and 1610. It's hard to imagine being that desperate. Maybe, under desperate circumstances, we can tap into our feral core to find a way to survive. Our more civilized veneer shakes its head in dismay.

I'm reading one friend's self-published book and plan to review it on Amazon when I'm finished. A friend of a friend in Napa has just published a new book of short stories, so that's now on my list of books to read. I read one of her short stories a while ago and felt that she was still finding her way in her writing. After reading the excerpt of her new book, I'd have to say she's now a well-grounded writer.

I keep seeing people making great strides with their novels and short story collections, so I have to wonder at the inertia in my own writing group. Including my own. We all want to write so what's holding us back? Fear of failure? Poor time management? (me) What?

Time to get busy with those tasks and errands.

Yesterday

This morning with clear streets and sidewalks.

I love snow-covered trees.