I just returned from the grocery store where a middle aged woman and her look-alike mother were running around the different departments screaming at each other. SCREAMING. And then the children ( I really couldn't determine who produced them, but they were definitely kin) would scream in unison about shredded lettuce and frozen entrees and bananas.
Oh my pelvis it was insane.
It has a been awhile since I checked in to the blog, which can tell you how productive my days writing have been. (sigh).
Last week was consumed with worries of a specific loved one who is being attacked by an illness. I can't really say more and in truth, I don't want to, because I have talked about it incessantly for weeks.I hope he gets better. I have done what I can.
Add to that about eight other things that Hubs and I have been juggling (very well I might add) and it becomes obvious I just haven't had the emotional energy to pursue my novel. I'm back though.
I hope to continue my reading and editing of a popular novel and to put some words down that have been brewing in my head of late. Our friends have been providing me with an endless supply of material and I am reading a somewhat crappy memoir that reminds me how words can be combined in an awesome and breath taking way that I live for.
I'll check back in soon.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Write emotion. The Right emotion.
They say that you need to dare to write raw things and in the spirit of that, I will share what I wrote this morning.
Someday, this story will go in my memoir and it will begin: "The day my father self-medicated by pouring chemicals on his head was the same day a sixty foot statue of Jesus caught on fire and burned to the ground 30 miles from his house."
but for today, all I have is this:
The hardest part might be the fact that my dad poured chemicals on his head in an attempt to get rid of bugs that may or may not be ailing him.
The hardest part might be that no one has or can stop him from such detrimental behavior.
The hardest part could very well be that he has stopped taking his medication—a sort of mental health maintenance drug that keeps his emotions stable—and no one can say anything because he is a mental health professional. He thinks he knows better. He should know better.
The hardest part might be that he is so terribly alone in this. Or it might be that I am allowing him to be alone in this because I can’t possibly think of a way to help.
But the hardest part is probably that I didn’t get the phone call. That my phone had slid between the seat of my car and the console and I didn’t exert the energy to find it before bed so that when the call came at midnight I might have actually answered…
Or
It could very well be—and I think this is it—that while he called me I was dreaming of his house caving in, of all of the dust covered newspapers and coffee stained dishes and hair covered couches just collapsing into the earth.
From what once was a home—ashes and dust. That’s the hardest part.
Someday, this story will go in my memoir and it will begin: "The day my father self-medicated by pouring chemicals on his head was the same day a sixty foot statue of Jesus caught on fire and burned to the ground 30 miles from his house."
but for today, all I have is this:
The hardest part might be the fact that my dad poured chemicals on his head in an attempt to get rid of bugs that may or may not be ailing him.
The hardest part might be that no one has or can stop him from such detrimental behavior.
The hardest part could very well be that he has stopped taking his medication—a sort of mental health maintenance drug that keeps his emotions stable—and no one can say anything because he is a mental health professional. He thinks he knows better. He should know better.
The hardest part might be that he is so terribly alone in this. Or it might be that I am allowing him to be alone in this because I can’t possibly think of a way to help.
But the hardest part is probably that I didn’t get the phone call. That my phone had slid between the seat of my car and the console and I didn’t exert the energy to find it before bed so that when the call came at midnight I might have actually answered…
Or
It could very well be—and I think this is it—that while he called me I was dreaming of his house caving in, of all of the dust covered newspapers and coffee stained dishes and hair covered couches just collapsing into the earth.
From what once was a home—ashes and dust. That’s the hardest part.
Monday, June 14, 2010
A picture tells a Thousand Words
I am currently reading Cleaving by Julie Powell. As movies usually do, Julia and Julie ruined me slightly for her writing.
Powell has an amazing voice—it is authentic, enveloping and sincerely funny. I fly through the pages with ease and excitement and am overall very satisfied.
Last night I had some friends over for dinner and we somehow landed on the subject of Powell, so I grabbed her book and happened to land on the back flap where I found her picture.
She stared back at me, her fist under her chin, her glasses out of style and her hair just… there. I felt so betrayed. I was looking at a stranger.
This wasn’t the bouncy red-head from the movie (Amy Adams).
Before you freak out on me I will say that I am not Amy Adams either. None of us are, after all, because we are real. We lead real lives, eat real food and don’t get enough sleep. I couldn’t really hope to open the cover and find a movie star because Powell’s talent comes from some place less material.
But I guess I still really wanted her to be…. Pretty? Appealing? Nice on the eyes?
I am thinking now of Jennifer Weiner. How freaking gorgeous and jubilant is she? She writes too. And she writes well. And she is overweight but she shines.
I just needed Julie Powell to shine a little more.
Now when I read of her sexcapades (yes, there is butchery and sex), I will picture this dopey picture of a dull woman when her writing tells me she is so much more than that.
I wish Julie Powell had a better picture. For her sake and my own.
Powell has an amazing voice—it is authentic, enveloping and sincerely funny. I fly through the pages with ease and excitement and am overall very satisfied.
Last night I had some friends over for dinner and we somehow landed on the subject of Powell, so I grabbed her book and happened to land on the back flap where I found her picture.
She stared back at me, her fist under her chin, her glasses out of style and her hair just… there. I felt so betrayed. I was looking at a stranger.
This wasn’t the bouncy red-head from the movie (Amy Adams).
Before you freak out on me I will say that I am not Amy Adams either. None of us are, after all, because we are real. We lead real lives, eat real food and don’t get enough sleep. I couldn’t really hope to open the cover and find a movie star because Powell’s talent comes from some place less material.
But I guess I still really wanted her to be…. Pretty? Appealing? Nice on the eyes?
I am thinking now of Jennifer Weiner. How freaking gorgeous and jubilant is she? She writes too. And she writes well. And she is overweight but she shines.
I just needed Julie Powell to shine a little more.
Now when I read of her sexcapades (yes, there is butchery and sex), I will picture this dopey picture of a dull woman when her writing tells me she is so much more than that.
I wish Julie Powell had a better picture. For her sake and my own.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Wright is so Right
The thing always happens that you really believe in; and the belief in a thing makes it happen.
-Frank Loyd Wright
3,257 words.
Over 15,000 characters.
Can you believe it? I barely can. Over three thousand words strung together to tell the story I have needed to tell.
I came to a realization recently that this novel doesn’t have to be just for sales. It can be hilarious and fun and rich and deep all at the same time.
Tonight I will go to the library and get Secrets of the Ya Ya Sisterhood to look at how she introduces characters in her novel. I am also second guessing my point of view usage. Right now I am using third person omniscient with limited insight to my two main characters. I’ll be interested to see what other novels employ.
I’m not excited to rewrite all 3,000 words in another point of view, but I’ll do what I need to because I believe in this thing hard enough to make it happen.
-Frank Loyd Wright
3,257 words.
Over 15,000 characters.
Can you believe it? I barely can. Over three thousand words strung together to tell the story I have needed to tell.
I came to a realization recently that this novel doesn’t have to be just for sales. It can be hilarious and fun and rich and deep all at the same time.
Tonight I will go to the library and get Secrets of the Ya Ya Sisterhood to look at how she introduces characters in her novel. I am also second guessing my point of view usage. Right now I am using third person omniscient with limited insight to my two main characters. I’ll be interested to see what other novels employ.
I’m not excited to rewrite all 3,000 words in another point of view, but I’ll do what I need to because I believe in this thing hard enough to make it happen.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Waking and Writing
Happiness does not consist in pastimes and amusements but in virtuous activities.—Aristotle
As a graduate student in a comp/rhet program, I have studied Aristotle enough to know that he is thick with theory and thin on application.
Despite his nearsightedness, I am thankful for his words today as it is the first day of the first week of freedom from classes. Do you follow? Dude, I have three months off from schooling.
Which means I get to be a student of the world.
I woke but did not get to my words right away. Instead, I took the dog for a walk and thought about my words.
True to Aristotles chiding, I did find comfort and happiness in these virtuous activities. There is solace in thinking, walking and breathing deeply.
I am still very excited about my memoir project and am still brainstorming ways to get people to tell me their stories.
I am also getting rather excited about an idea for a novel that is coming together slowly in my mind. It is like piecing a quilt—I gather these great little shiny ideas and they start to fold against one another. It’s magic. It’s sublime.
As a graduate student in a comp/rhet program, I have studied Aristotle enough to know that he is thick with theory and thin on application.
Despite his nearsightedness, I am thankful for his words today as it is the first day of the first week of freedom from classes. Do you follow? Dude, I have three months off from schooling.
Which means I get to be a student of the world.
I woke but did not get to my words right away. Instead, I took the dog for a walk and thought about my words.
True to Aristotles chiding, I did find comfort and happiness in these virtuous activities. There is solace in thinking, walking and breathing deeply.
I am still very excited about my memoir project and am still brainstorming ways to get people to tell me their stories.
I am also getting rather excited about an idea for a novel that is coming together slowly in my mind. It is like piecing a quilt—I gather these great little shiny ideas and they start to fold against one another. It’s magic. It’s sublime.
Friday, June 4, 2010
The Grin of a Cheshire Cat
There is no use trying, said Alice: One can't believe impossible things. I dare say you haven't had much practice said the Queen. When I was your age, I always did it for half an hour a day. Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.--Lewis Carroll
I woke this morning at 5:30 after pressing the snooze once. I woke and I knew what I had to do.
The words came easily. And then, as I walked the dog around the block it came to me: the impossible thing.
In fact, it came to me exactly as all impossible things do: as a fairy tale.
In the fairy tale I was a successful, published author of a book which celebrated the life of everyday Americans. I began every piece with the scene in which I asked them to "tell me your story". Most of the people were strangers, but I did a piece on my mother.
The quote inspired me to realize that it isn't an impossible thing. It is my dream-- and I have to pursue it.
I am still contemplating how I will get my "stories"-- an ad on craigslist? Creep around a local bar? I am bound to get some people who need to talk more than I can listen. How will I handle that?
And I am adding this project to my current memoir project of 1k words a day. It will be busy, but it will be fabulous.
It's good to dream impossible things. It's even better when they come true.
I woke this morning at 5:30 after pressing the snooze once. I woke and I knew what I had to do.
The words came easily. And then, as I walked the dog around the block it came to me: the impossible thing.
In fact, it came to me exactly as all impossible things do: as a fairy tale.
In the fairy tale I was a successful, published author of a book which celebrated the life of everyday Americans. I began every piece with the scene in which I asked them to "tell me your story". Most of the people were strangers, but I did a piece on my mother.
The quote inspired me to realize that it isn't an impossible thing. It is my dream-- and I have to pursue it.
I am still contemplating how I will get my "stories"-- an ad on craigslist? Creep around a local bar? I am bound to get some people who need to talk more than I can listen. How will I handle that?
And I am adding this project to my current memoir project of 1k words a day. It will be busy, but it will be fabulous.
It's good to dream impossible things. It's even better when they come true.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Dance! Dance!
"Whether you think you can or whether you think you can't, you're right."
--Henry Ford
On that note, I will announce that I am a writer. I have a job as a secretary that pays the bills.
I woke this morning and wrote and today the spirit moved me as I picked out my clothes.
I am rocking a gypsy look with khakis, a black shirt and great head scarf with dangly gold earrings.
You see,when you decide you are something, and work hard to become it, you suddenly just are.
What do you want to be?
How will you get there?
--Henry Ford
On that note, I will announce that I am a writer. I have a job as a secretary that pays the bills.
I woke this morning and wrote and today the spirit moved me as I picked out my clothes.
I am rocking a gypsy look with khakis, a black shirt and great head scarf with dangly gold earrings.
You see,when you decide you are something, and work hard to become it, you suddenly just are.
What do you want to be?
How will you get there?
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Henry on a Wednesday
Good Morning, World!
I started my quote project this morning. Last night I took a handful of inspirational quotes that were printed on colorful paper and cut them down into little pieces. I threw them all in this awesome porcelain tin I have that looks like a Chinese takeout box—on the front the word “dreams” is engraved.
Each day I will go to this jar and remove a quote which will guide me through my day as a creative, lively woman.
I planned to wake up this morning at 5:30 am but found the snooze button far too alluring. Despite waking at my normal time, I marched to my jar and got my quote. And guess what? My quote got me thinking, which got me writing and before I knew it I had 500 words!
So the quote did its job well.
I hope to share these quotes here with you, so that they will guide your journey as well. It is also really cool to get a briefing on the men and women behind the quotes.
Here is today’s quote:
“The ability to convert ideas to things is the secret to outward success.”—Henry Ward Beecher
Of all the quotes I found yesterday,this was one of the least tantalizing but closer observation opens my mind:
•Henry Beecher was a preacher. A preacher who was taken to court for sleeping with a married woman (ooooOOOOooo drama :)).
•His sister was Harriet Beecher Stowe, who I swore was African American, but apparently I got my Harriets mixed up?
•He believed Christians could purge the sins of society.
•He carried jewels around in his pockets which he referered to as his “opiates”. (did someone say “sins of society”?)
•He went to Amherst and a seminary school outside of Cincinnati (= dude got around.)
•He believed in Darwin’s theory of evolution (=dude was revolutionary)
•Mark Twain, Lincoln and Walt Whitman were just some of the greats who paid his congregation a visit.
•He held mock auctions where the congregation purchased the freedom of slaves
•And finally and perhaps most fascinating….. his last words were: “here comes the mystery”.
If you apply this quote to slavery, it is easy to see how Beecher attempted to convert the idea of freedom into a tangible thing.
This quote has value for my life. I have an idea of health and weight loss, and I am working to put it in to motion, so that it becomes a “thing”.
The same for my idea of myself as a writer.
What are some ideas you have that you want to come to fruition? Do you want to be a rock super star? A mother? An astronaut?
I started my quote project this morning. Last night I took a handful of inspirational quotes that were printed on colorful paper and cut them down into little pieces. I threw them all in this awesome porcelain tin I have that looks like a Chinese takeout box—on the front the word “dreams” is engraved.
Each day I will go to this jar and remove a quote which will guide me through my day as a creative, lively woman.
I planned to wake up this morning at 5:30 am but found the snooze button far too alluring. Despite waking at my normal time, I marched to my jar and got my quote. And guess what? My quote got me thinking, which got me writing and before I knew it I had 500 words!
So the quote did its job well.
I hope to share these quotes here with you, so that they will guide your journey as well. It is also really cool to get a briefing on the men and women behind the quotes.
Here is today’s quote:
“The ability to convert ideas to things is the secret to outward success.”—Henry Ward Beecher
Of all the quotes I found yesterday,this was one of the least tantalizing but closer observation opens my mind:
•Henry Beecher was a preacher. A preacher who was taken to court for sleeping with a married woman (ooooOOOOooo drama :)).
•His sister was Harriet Beecher Stowe, who I swore was African American, but apparently I got my Harriets mixed up?
•He believed Christians could purge the sins of society.
•He carried jewels around in his pockets which he referered to as his “opiates”. (did someone say “sins of society”?)
•He went to Amherst and a seminary school outside of Cincinnati (= dude got around.)
•He believed in Darwin’s theory of evolution (=dude was revolutionary)
•Mark Twain, Lincoln and Walt Whitman were just some of the greats who paid his congregation a visit.
•He held mock auctions where the congregation purchased the freedom of slaves
•And finally and perhaps most fascinating….. his last words were: “here comes the mystery”.
If you apply this quote to slavery, it is easy to see how Beecher attempted to convert the idea of freedom into a tangible thing.
This quote has value for my life. I have an idea of health and weight loss, and I am working to put it in to motion, so that it becomes a “thing”.
The same for my idea of myself as a writer.
What are some ideas you have that you want to come to fruition? Do you want to be a rock super star? A mother? An astronaut?
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