Hello, 4:30 AM: The Wake and Write Challenge

I woke up at 4:30 today.

Ok, I had some help.



This dude was doing weird things in the night, so when the alarm rang I grew concerned by his absence in the bed and sat up to check it out.

And then, when I tried to go back to sleep he kind of got in my face.

At that point I told myself that I had a decision to make. Every single day is just a series of decisions.

I made the decision to wake up and head to the computer. It was a good one.

We often don't give ourselves the props we should for our decisions.
Like, I decide daily not to get outrageously drunk and take my clothes off and dance in the street. I bet a lot of you make that decision daily too. How awesome of us. I am so proud.

I decided to write today, and I feel better for it. I didn't finish the ending because honestly, sometimes my imagination gets out of control and scares the crap out of me. I knew I needed to hit the sidewalk for some exercise, in the dark, around 5:15ish so I didn't write the ending.

I'm ok with that.

Tomorrow 4:30 will come again and I will make the decision to meet it.

Writing Summer

“Instead of saying today is the day I write my novel, I say, “today is the day I work on the Bloomingdales shoplifting scene or the eccentric dietary habits of Mona the mean boss.”

This advice, from a comedienne mother writer hybrid person, hits home.

Today is the day I’ll write more about Nora, because I like her. And maybe as I do I’ll learn more about myself. Or I’ll laugh; she’s hilarious after all.

I have this feeling lately that I am stuck in a rut. I think it might be—and this might be a little left field—because I have been just that; stuck in a rut of coming home to episode after episode of Lost and little else. I have been attempting to hide from my life and I’m over it. I’m ready to get back in the ring.

We sold the Ipod that was handed down to me for some moolah and I am thinking of buying my own MP3 player. I want to stock it with songs and start walking again.
On Saturday, we are refreshed with new, shiny paychecks which means it is time to grocery shop. I plan on finding my way down to second street market to buy some hearty, healthy bread and some fresh veggies.

And today, amongst the chaotic serenade of love, life, interview (Exclamation!) and sunshine, I will put some words to paper.


Word of the day:
Potlatch: A ceremony at which gifts are bestowed on the guests in a show of wealth that the guests later attempt to surpass.

WHY ARE YOU YELLING???

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.