Congratulations to a fellow writer

I made a few friends at the Big Sur writing conference and I found out tonight that one of them got an agent with the Andrea Brown Literary team.  I’m so excited for her and her first young adult novel!  At the time of the conference I got to read the first five chapters and I was impressed with her writing.  She was one of several there who motivated me to do better with my own writing.  Keeping in touch via Facebook and email was a great way to check in with each other.

I know the path to publication is a long one, but it’s invaluable to see a writer at the start of their journey.  My own journey is still in the making, but it’s more like I’m at a rest stop than on the road.  I intentionally stayed away from the NaBloPoMo gig this year – I wasn’t going to commit to anything beyond work, Jennifer’s visit, and my masters program that starts on November 24th (delayed two weeks).  Creative writing isn’t a priority, but I still remember the blog and still get out a few times a week and post here, blathering or no – I do write daily, but not in any format or of any content that would be shared for the masses.

I’m glad for my writing friends who are writing, getting agents, and moving through publication.  I’m at the point of comfort and confidence with myself that I can appreciate their path without being jealous.  I could get used to this aging and maturity thing.  I could be mistaking it all for a sense of zen and the two glasses of wine, too.

In Search of Sanctuary

This blogger has not been very attentive.  I’m very sorry.  I have attempted this post a dozen times, editing, deleting, then re-writing – three hours and counting.  I turned off I-Tunes and Pandora, but left Rhapsody streaming an assortment of favorites.  Fair warning – this ride has no seat belts and random WILL happen… you have been warned.  Anything at this point, including the kitchen sink, to keep me writing.

“It’s not over tonight
Just give me one more chance to make it right” – Maroon 5

I might feign a coy post about writing and not writing.  Maybe I could appeal to the animal lovers and recount Midas’ first foray to the ocean – he ran parallel to the beach but looked mighty suspicious of the incoming waves.  When we arrived it was windy and foggy and I felt seriously underdressed with a long sleeve shirt.  After an hour of playing along the beach and hiking the local bluffs, the sun burned off the fog and I enjoyed the sunlight.  I drank then gave the remainder of my bottled water to Midas, pouring small amounts and letting him lap it from my hand.  He curled up on the beach towel with me and kept an eye out for the seagulls that I encouraged him to think were ducks.  I wiped the drying sand from my feet and remembered stories of dreams and endless deserts and worlds innumerable and I felt tired.

“If all were there when we first took the pill,
Then maybe, then maybe, then maybe, then maybe…
Miracles will happen as we speak.” – Seal

I thought a lot about the space I nourish or neglect in myself for writing.  I thought about this blog-space which is/was my writing sanctuary, but I’ve let myself be distracted:  work, family, relationships, health, home.  When I lay on the beach, sand and salt on my skin, memories of other times and places that shared healing overlay the sun and blue sky.  For all my love of fiction and writing, the focus here at Sanctuary has been deeply, intensely personal, but I worry that I’ve plumbed the depths enough that I’m empty.  What if I had bleached out my sense of self, bone-white, like the shells that washed up near us?  What if I have shared too much or arrived at a point where I don’t feel like sharing further?  What if I need more structure and self-moderated doses before I dip my toes again?  Could I be a bigger whiny bastard?  (Please note that sand and sandals are NOT a good idea.)  Would that self-doubt could be silenced with a seashell up to the ear – comfort in the subtle roar of illusory oceans.

“As street lamps pour orange coloured shapes through your window,
a broken soul stares from a pair of watering eyes,
uncertain emotions force an uncertain smile…
I’ve got you under my skin where the rain can’t get in,
but if the sweat pours out, just shout I’ll try to swim and pull you out.” – The The

Postscript:  I’ve had epiphanies at the ocean’s edge before – some life changing, some affirming.  My intention that day with Midas was to hike and play ball along the beach, not to sit in the sun in a self-induced cloud of sunscreen wearing one of TLC’s Pussy Caps and a half-smile.  In the end, that’s what reeled me back in and brought me the most comfort – “I will not die with the words still inside me.”  (Thank you, thank you, thank you, Tom.)  If I have a religion, those words are the closest to what I’d practice, and I’m not dead yet.

“In the distance on the shifting sea, a thousand coloured sails
Is this the moment you made? Is this the way that you planned?” – Icehouse

Talk Thursday: My Place

My Place on the Internet(s)

Start with a name,
one of my names,
and a place on the internets¹
I claim with an electric spike
for myself and you.

Throw down the words and images,
the gauntlets and white gloves,
the deliberations and indecisions
of how far I go or how far I haven’t.

Cast the ways, we’re castaways.
We’re travellers on the same road.
Heed the sign posts and mutterings
of maddened prophets.
Grab a magic marker
and make your own signs.
Label me².  Draw a line
from neck to navel and lower.
Label yourself and instruct
or detract a truth.
Frame the moment of each other
and hang us on a wall.

Glimpse never and always.
Feel familiar and otherworldly.
Unexpectedly expect.
Stubbornly relent.
Right?  Write.
Learn the pace of procrastination
up to the lightning steps of connection.

¹ A Bushism that I can’t stop using.

² Thanks to Seizui for the labels post and discussion.

Late Sunday evening

The die is cast – resume and application are in and now the waiting begins.

We had a fantastic weekend of domestic bliss and I haven’t felt this good in ages. So good that I wrote 600 words of a forthcoming post. Maybe it’s the daffodils and tulips popping up. Maybe it’s because JulieAnn sent me copy of her new book and it inspired me to GET.OFF.MY.ASS. and write. Maybe it’s because I’ve been thinking about writing for months and it didn’t translate into action until now – almost 12:30 am.

At work, my internets experience is officially and radically impaired. Lots of folks are being written up for non-work related abuses of technology: personal email, Google, YouTube, chatting, BLOGS, etc. Yep – I’m cutting myself off from all that is internets related. Don’t take it personally, dear readers, but I’ll be catchin’ up on the blog action from home.

A Year of Writing

A year ago today I started posting a series. My plan was to take a fantasy story I’d done in college (circa nineteen ninety f’n three) and rework it into something fictional and modern. So far, the series has twelve installments, and yes, there’s more on the way. But first, a moment of naked honesty (except for the pants – but I’m au naturale in spirit).

Not many of my writing intentions or idealizations came to pass in any way, shape, or form. I did not write weekly installments. I thought the series would have no more than ten sections. I thought it (writing the series) would be easy. Sometimes I would write and rewrite entire chapters and shred them into serrated bits of what.the.fuck. Sometimes I was envious of other bloggers and writers who I admired for their consistency, their dedication, their Art, their fabulosity. At the height of my extremes, I learned how to wonder if I really liked writing at all. I wondered if a life-long dream was something I kept unfulfilled, kind of like that carrot on a stick just beyond reach, but once I grabbed the carrot would I still be interested? Yes, and no. I had to be willing to actively NOT write to find what, if anything, not writing meant to me. And I found out.

The realization struck me during a conversation with JulieAnn. She took my self-arguments and self-criticalities out of the equation and showed me a simple truth: I am one who writes and I have my own voice, rhythm and way of writing. I am a writer. She got me to get it.

I wrote these words to a friend today, and they remind me of where I came from, a place that I won’t be calling home any more: “Though I may not be self-disciplined to the point that I write every day, I have the desire to write, I have the desire to create, and those desires are part and parcel of my being. I had been self-critical to the point of immobilization, that if I didn’t have a set schedule or a specific number of words each day that I must be a horrible failure, a sham trying to fake my way by blitzing out the occasional observation or reflection.”

I’m living my dream of writing. I’m not arguing with myself or tearing myself down about how often or how much I post/write. That dangling (or erect) carrot is not about writing, but about writing specific dreams into reality. This feeling is new enough that I’m not fully confident that I won’t crash into a radically different perspective, but it’s been a few weeks of calm, comfort and creativity. Speaking of which, I’ve hauled around a draft of the thirteenth installment for weeks and weeks (to Utah and back, in fact). Expect a post before Halloween.

Non-Writing

I have a few reasons for not writing. None of them particularly good reasons, but I can write them down and work through them.

It’s not from lack of inspiration. Not writing is about paralyzation. It’s being afraid I have nothing worthwhile or creative to say. Not writing is watching myself plan, formulate, but not expend the energy to pull up the keyboard and let the words flow. (I read this today on Poetry Thursday, and it hit hard that self-judgment can “prevent someone from sharing her work with others or even creating it at all.” Liz goes on to share a “going within” exercise, but I didn’t do it. I printed the page, but then I folded it away: out of sight, out of mind. The other part about not writing (and finishing) Seasons? Part of me doesn’t want the story to end.

So. Reasons. Other than my incredible partner Scott and our house, my life feels unhinged. Unglued. Free fall. The last few days and hours have been a blur and I’m on total autopilot. Some job options didn’t pan out, but others opened up. My mom probably had a small stroke on Sunday, and she’s going in for surgery tomorrow or Friday. I made contact with folks on my birth father’s side and found out where my birth father is living. I leave next week for a Wyoming trip to visit my birth mother and sister. Ten minutes ago I blew my top at the furniture store rep who gave me attitude – they’ve been saying the sofa is “on its way!” since mid-April. What-the-fuck-ever! I could have picked it up from L.A. by now by myself! The big scheme of things? Who knows. Right now, I am Zen’s polar opposite and I’m at the point that I’m bothering myself, and I extend that bothersomeness with lame-ass blog posts.

I reserve the right to delete this later, when I’m not feeling quite so idiotic and dramatic. You know. Like normal.

Bubble, Bubble, Toil and Trouble

January is not a fun month, work-wise, because of end-of-year-processing, which means quarterlies and W2’s. It would be be fun if the people who I support (tangent alert: should my job title be changed to “Data Jockstrap for Floppy and Hard-Drives”?) could actually balance and reconcile, but then life would be too easy and I’d have less of which to complain and gripe and moan. Let me put it this way: when an “accountant” can’t find 100K, 50K or even 5K, I’m worried since I can find it, and I’m not a numbers guy – I’m a freakin’ English major!

So what’s with the bubble, bubbles, outside of the toil and troubles? Writing. I’ve moved out of “thinking about it” stages into re-reading and getting back up to speed… and outlining. Yes, that elusive muse that hit me hard last fall has showed up again to wreck more writing havoc. I feel bad for not continuing and finishing the story-line, but I am happy that I’m at a place where I can “pick up the ball” again.

The “Season of Truth” story is in parts (I), (II), (III), and (IV). Initially, I intended and even promised a very adult story with lots of gratuitous and explicit sex. I allowed the story to tell itself, but the graphic sex never quite happened. Now, I’m at a place where I’m evaluating my reasons for wanting to shock… and I’m not finding anything. For those who’ve followed or been even mildly interested in the story-line: speak to me. Anything. Give me a due date I can work with! I’d love your feedback.

Winter is Here

I know it’s winter because I want to eat, sleep a lot, and be a lazy butt at home. Parts of me wait for spring, sunlight and warmth. I’ve noticed that I haven’t written anything in over a month (blog posts don’t count – I’m talking about fiction or poetry).

Emotionally, I feel like I slow down. I am reflective, looking back over the year. January will be the one-year mark for this blog, which at first was a way to bust out and say “ta dah! I’m here!” Now, blogging is more a hybrid of online journal, external representations of my internal processes, bitches and moans, and/or creative writing endeavors. As usual in life, change is my constant.

Physically, I’m craving hot food: soups, pasta, potatos and steak. With the sinus infection gone, I’m back at the gym four times a week. So far, I’ve maintained my weight (actually, I lost a few with that damn sinus infection), and I’m committed to not gaining any more during the holidays. I feel sluggish, like I’m conserving energy.

Intellectually, I’ve felt stuck about writing. There is a stack of books that I haven’t picked up in weeks. I’ve put off looking at winter quarter, but I have to do something by the 20th or wait until Spring semester. If I procrastinate long enough I can stay a student of a masters program forever. That goal of an MA by 40 is looking ridiculous.

Spiritually: I told Scott I was willing to go to his church with him on a Sunday, and that it would be nice to go to Mark and Rommel’s church and see their priest that they rave about. Some things don’t make sense to me whatsoever, but I’ll willing to suspend judgement (about beliefs) and look at the people who choose to participate in any system. It is the people that bring belief systems together, whether they’re celebrating and dancing within the flame of Truth, drinking water or wine from a Holy Sippy Cup, or sharing bread from the Loaf of Universal Law. Tangent alert: I still think of Eight Hour Lunch’s comment about G.O.D. (Global Orgasm Day) and how everyone having sex and climaxing at the same time would create a wave of universal joy and peace on earth – but I had the crazy question of what happens to the earth’s rotation if everyone’s thrusting at the same time? (This is a good example of why my questions made it impossible to follow Mormonism, something that never had any answers for me.)

“The lamp is burning low upon my tabletop.
The snow is softly falling.
The air stills in the silence of my room.
I hear your voice softly calling.”
-Sarah McLachlan’s “Song for a Winter’s Night”

Story Brewing

There’s a Halloween story brewing. Not brewing like 5 gallons of honey pale or a lager, but brewing as in I’ve been thinking about rewriting a piece I did almost ten years ago. The story was written for a college Fiction Writing class. At the time, I pushed the envelope as hard as I could considering it was a small private college and the class was mostly Mormon. (Go slap yourself REALLY hard if you think I attended or would EVER attend BYU.) The story was based on a possible town with a possible little ritual revolving around Halloween. There were suggestions of homoeroticism, but nothing blatant. It’s tame, based on today’s standards. In the end, I copped out and added gratuitous heterosexual groping and coupling – not because it added anything to the story, but because it caused everyone’s eyes in class to pop out a little bit, but not too far. It’s the first time I wrote about fucking without saying the word, if I recall correctly.

So I’m re-writing. Re-working. More homoeroticism, more real-town based, less gratuitous groping (moans, pants, coupling), less moral grandstanding. Okay, the original didn’t have any moral grandstanding in the first place, but if it did, there’d be even less in the reworked version.

Oh hell, I’m not done yet. I’m giving myself a project while Scott and I are in Chicacgo for a family reunion over the weekend. It may end up in sections. It may end up sucking (no pun intended, either). Patience.

I can feel it coming on

Not that springy sproingy feeling. Not a cold. Not my allergies.

I feel another story in the works. The subject is “Illustration” for this week’s Anamnesis (cf link on the right – I’m being a lazy (and stubborn) bastard and don’t want to write a hyperlink, though I could have done it three times by now).

I’ll refrain from posting here until I’m done with it, just to help self-motivate.

Adieu for now.