Thursday, December 21, 2017

Ode To A Husband

I could bemoan how I went from a seemingly fixable issue to a surprise, unfixable, chronic one. Or how I thought so many times that I just didn't want to live life anymore this way, being trapped inside my body.

But what I really want to talk about is marriage...and my husband. The guy who jumped into this mess with me and who somehow hasn't felt the need to climb out.

This is a guy who listens to me cry, who rubs my back when I'm in pain, who gives me hugs when I need them most.

A guy who has reassured me probably a thousand times that the doctors will get me better. That I'll come out the other side. That I'm not dying and that I'll have a good life after all.

A marriage is something so many people don't know how to do. When you marry someone, you promise to stand by their side even when the standing isn't fun. Sometimes the earth beneath you turns to muck, and you're holding hands and sinking down together.

A real husband is a man who stands by his wife. Who looks at her with love even as she stares blankly into the mirror, wondering what happened to her former self. Who still loves her on the days she feels the worst and doesn't have much to give. Who never turns away, even when she isn't so lovable all of the time.

A husband - a man - doesn't bail when things get hard. He shoulders himself, puts on his armor, and turns to face things head on.

My husband is the best man in the world. I couldn't do this without him and I can't ever find the words to explain how he keeps me afloat. But sometimes, I still try.

This is one of those times.

I love you, my husband. Thank you for loving me.

Wednesday, December 13, 2017

Writing Is...Me, Medicine, Mattering

For the past couple of years I've been living in survival mode, which means I've done whatever I've had to do to make money. And that translated to giving up my copywriting work and mostly focusing on website administration and project management, with the occasional repetitive writing project thrown in.

I've been miserable Monday through Friday for a long time (2 1/2 years?). But then my entire life has been miserable since August 2015 so it didn't really stand out all that much. At least not until recently.

As I've started to pull out of the worst of my health lows, I've started to see the unhappiness more clearly and also find motivation to make changes to my work life. And with the hopes that the medical bills start decreasing next year and that somehow everything will be ok if I walk away, that's what I've recently taken a leap of faith to do.

As soon as I made that decision, random people started popping up out of nowhere - almost as if they were summoned. One of those was an ad agency I used to write for a couple of years ago before I got sick. They suddenly had a new project for me after years of copywriting and content drought.

I've also done a successful trial project for a second ad agency that works with nonprofits, I'm in the freelance pool for a third ad agency in Austin that focuses on IT, and I'm in talks to do ongoing work for a digestive health physician group in 2018.

Thank you, universe.

I sat down yesterday morning to write some copy for one of those agencies. It was only a few hours of work but it was like sipping an antidote. It brightened my world. It gave me meaning. It made me happy and I felt useful.

Now this didn't make my day perfect but it sure made it better than some of the days I've had recently. It also acted as a catalyst, because then I went and wrote another article on LinkedIn, which I published yesterday afternoon.

I'm back to the drudgery today but I am keenly aware that the timeline is finite. I've got less than two months left working with this client and then I'm free to be me again. Free to be a writer again. Free to be happier in my days and to have my talents utilized.

I am extraordinarily grateful that enough people have expressed interest in my work that I can continue to make my living as a writer. To be a working writer in any fashion is sort of like acting or singing professionally - so many want to do it, but very few can.

For many years I believed that my writing was not really writing at all. When I spent week after week drafting 1000 page manuals for computer software, I didn't think it counted. When I moved on to marketing communications and wrote white papers and website copy, I classified it as business. When I designed training manuals and created onboarding programs with written materials, I considered it just another job to do.

But it's all writing. The fact is, I'm a writer and I have been since I was 23 years old. Since that first job out of college redoing a PeopleSoft manual, which has sprouted into a long career that I hope will culminate in some books (under this pen name) and a lot more copywriting success (under my real one).

Writing is medicine for me, sometimes. It is my only talent aside from being an animal whisperer and an empath, and when I get to use my skills I think I feel like I matter in the world. I need more days of feeling like I matter, and I think they are coming soon.

Friday, December 8, 2017

Sitting In My Closet

I find that my closet is the default place I go to when I'm upset. I would say that I don't know why, because it's sort of an odd place to go, but I do know why.

Years ago when I was going through a painful divorce, I had a young child in the house with me who I didn't want to expose to adult problems. So I used to go lay on the floor in the master closet and cry, because it was the most removed place in the house and I felt like it was insulated by the most walls. It seemed the best chance for him not to hear me.

Almost 12 years later, when I'm having an "I just want to die" sort of day or moment, you'll find me in the closet. I wish I'd picked a different location to latch onto, because it's not the most comfortable place in the world. The floor is carpeted but it's hard. Sometimes it's cold. Sometimes it's hot. Usually I'm surrounded by shoes and dirty laundry, which is no big deal except when you live with a man who works out. But still I go in there because I've trained myself that this the place where I can land when I'm falling through life.

Yesterday I went to my closet so that I could write, which I've never done before. When I write I need to feel like nobody will interrupt me. I need to be able to detach from my body, in a way, so that the stuff that's being channeled through me can actually get onto the screen before it evaporates. And when someone is in the room with you, which my husband is a lot now that he works from home too, it's just hard. Not all the time, but sometimes.

So my thought yesterday was that I'd go shut myself in the closet, which is in the bathroom. Because generally when a person goes into a bathroom they expect that nobody else is going to try to barge in. I mean it's kind of an unwritten rule, right? And so I sat on the floor with my laptop and tapped out an 1800 word essay, which was rather good I think but that culminated in the ultimate backache.

I guess sometimes we just have to do what we have to do, and that was what I had to do yesterday. I feel like that essay was a lot less craptastic than the one I wrote last week, and I'm satisfied about that. But I still have more to do. Lots more to do.

Hopefully next time I can find a spot that is a little more kind to my back and butt.

Tuesday, December 5, 2017

Craptastic. But Maybe Not.

I wrote an essay a couple of days ago because I wanted to get something written. Because I wanted to make some progress. Because I wanted to feel like I was still moving forward on some life purpose despite the tornado that has been my life for the last week.

And when I was done writing that essay, I labeled it "craptastic" in my brain. And on social media, so you know, it's official.

I've written before about how you should just write and try to withhold judgment until later. I've been doing pretty well with taking my own advice, although maybe I'm still judging if I'm giving my writing a "craptastic" label but then also agreeing with myself that I will read it at a later date (and decide what it actually is then).

I opened a file about two weeks ago for a fiction book I'd started working on in 2016. This was after I'd emerged from my two major surgeries and made up my mind to no longer waste my life. I'd gotten an outline down on paper, and a character list, and a setting, and various possible scenes. And then I started creating this new world in my Word document over the course of maybe two weeks.

And then I quit. I remember this vividly.

I was cradled in my love seat, trying to create a story but watching my fingers grind to a halt. And I remember sort of throwing my arms up in frustration and self-loathing.

"This sucks! I can't do this! I can't think of anything to write about, ever! Why am I even trying?!"

I closed the file and slammed the laptop shut, cried to my husband about how I can't ever seem to write, and I decided then and there that I would never write fiction. Never, not ever. The end. Forever and ever amen.

And that was that, for literally a year and a half.

A couple of weeks ago I got this weird itch to take a look and maybe see what was left. So I opened the file and started reading, mostly to see where I'd left off and maybe figure out if I might be able to make it go again. And I wasn't very far along when I sort of got lost in the world I had created. Like I was reading someone else's book.

And I kept telling myself, wow this is fantastic writing. It couldn't be mine. How is this mine? Really? This is mine? No.

I thumbed through my notes, which I also hadn't looked at in a year and a half, and was able to add about 500 words to that draft before sort of petering out again. At which point I started getting sucked back into the negativity with thoughts like: How can I possibly write anything else that good? How can I repeat what I did in those first 4000 words? How can I stretch this level of writing into a book? I can't. I just can't.

And then I walked away.

I've thought about that manuscript a lot since then, because I realized that it's the polar opposite of what I'd decided it was in 2016. And therefore I have arrived at the thesis for this blog: craptastic is maybe not craptastic. Maybe it's really not that bad. Maybe it's quite good. Maybe it's excellent, in fact.

I believe I am doing myself a disservice if I don't write at all because I always think it's terrible. Because there are times when I come back around and find that I was all wrong about myself. So I'm glad I wrote that craptastic essay the other day and I hope I can write another one soon. And then another, and another. And before I know it maybe I'll have a book worth reading.

Maybe. In 2018. That's my goal.

Monday, November 20, 2017

When Words Escape

I'm writing a blog post today because I'm having another one of those days that is totally obscured by fog. It's an experience that is pretty new to me.

This happened for the first time when I took a pretty hefty migraine medicine a few years ago that seriously interfered with my neurons. I sat down to write and was completely unable to grasp at the words floating around in my brain. It was the strangest, most unnerving feeling. I was relieved when my thinking returned to normal a few days after stopping the medication.

These days it seems to happen again when I'm going through some bad days, usually when my doctor changes my supplements around. Case in point: in the last three days I just haven't been able to find the right word when I'm speaking or writing! I feel like I've aged forty years in just a few hours, probably due to some supplement changes late Thursday into Friday.

I take comfort for now in knowing that it's probably temporary, and that in a few days my full vocabulary will come back as I start to adjust. But I also feel a little unsteady when I think that as I get older, the temporariness may turn into permanence. That I may lose the ability to grasp for those words entirely, or for a long delay of time.

As a writer, obviously being able to find the right word is hugely important.

I remind myself that there are people like Toni Morrison (86) and Stephen King (70) who are still writing well into the winters of their lives. And I tell myself that even if I struggle as I get older, the words will eventually appear long enough for me to grab them. At least I sure hope so, because despite lots of attempts over the past decade, I feel like I haven't even started yet. I'm just about to start, really.

And I have more urgency now because I've been sobered by a lot of cancer surrounding me lately. Both with people I'm close to and with those who I know but am not particularly intimate with. And I've also recently passed a two year milestone for my own illness journey that may or may not have an eventual resolution.

The reality is that I'm running out of time.

And while I can say, oh that's silly, I still have plenty of time...none of us knows how much time we have left. We hope it's longer than just tomorrow, or just next year, or just ten years from now. And even if it is, so many times I hear people say they woke up to find time had just evaporated, and here they are nearing the end of the road.

And I guess now that I think about it, maybe it's better to write and leave holes for words than to not write at all. At least I produced one thing today. We'll see what the next few hours holds.

Tuesday, November 14, 2017

I Woke Up Like Gene Kelly

I woke up like Gene Kelly today. And not looking like him, of course, but rather feeling like the emotions he conveyed in his iconic scene in Singin' In The Rain. It was a nice feeling, especially after I'd had a pretty shitty morning the day before.

I'd been late getting started and I was in a bad "it's Monday again" mood. I'd also been up sick most of the night, was mad at my cat, and had attempted to ignite my motivation by dragging myself by my shirt collar into my office. I subsequently plopped down and shot venom at my Monday morning To Do list, which I'd long ago decided was indeed a list of mindless crap (to me, I'm sure someone somewhere loves updating websites all day long).

But my day took a different turn partway through, and that's why I woke up feeling like Gene Kelly. Because I'd decided around lunchtime that I was finished with that damn To Do list. I was finished wasting my days on something that I hated, something that made it impossible for me to enjoy the things I didn't hate, and something that made me think I may as well keel over from my chronic illnesses and call it a life.

I talked to my husband, put a plan in place for a graceful exit over the next two and a half months, and then I sat back, crossed my hands behind my head, and basked in what felt like my first deep inhale in years.

Now this freedom does not come free. There are financial issues to tend to, there is an element of risk, there is the unknown, and there is a lot of fear. But I find that when you get completely fed up with something the fear just kind of drowns itself in a puddle. All you can see is the ugliness of where you've been stuck and the promise of cutting the chains and running off into the sunlight. And this is what makes you decide to finally change.

I just drove up to the grocery store after having being stood up for a conference call, and I bought some stuff to make tomato soup tonight. This is the first time I've felt like trying a new recipe in I don't know how long. It's like I found my old self again.

And last night? Well last night I wrote an essay for my book that now puts me at 30 essays, 157 pages and almost 46k words. I'm finally moving on my creative work again and it feels like this is my old self coming back too.

It's amazing what a difference a decision can make. My life is no different today than it was yesterday, except that I finally chose to stop being stuck and to put an end date for said stuckness. To shift back into something that has meaning for me and to get off this hamster wheel that I keep talking about.

The best part about this story is that I just had a really great interview today with, of all places, a medical group of gastroenterologists. How perfect is that?

Serendipity? Synchronicity? I sort of think it's both.

Sunday, November 12, 2017

This Blog is a Crutch

I just finished reading this really phenomenal book called All The Light We Cannot See. It won the Pulitzer and I can see why, because it was amazingly poetic in its language. The story was deep and rich, the characters felt alive. I was sad to put it down. And that's the best kind of book to read I think.

Now I'm pretty sure I will never achieve something like that unless I take some sort of surprise turn later in life. The stuff that wins awards is the stuff created out of thin air, and I don't have a fiction story in my head to flesh out and turn into award-winning prose.

But the author did inspire me to continue pushing forward in my own work. Because to toil for 10 years on something (that's how long it took him to write it) and have the finished product affect people in that way...well how rewarding is that? How meaningful can you get?

I just wrapped up another birthday on Friday and therefore I can announce I'm now 37 years old. It was a challenging day in some ways because our plans got messed up, but at the end of it all, things turned out just fine. I got to be with my favorite person, I fed the ducks at the pond, and I ate some really delicious cake.

But the day after was better, because I woke up with renewed vigor and determination (although I finally got some sleep and didn't wake up feeling like death, so I'm sure that helped). And I've been rubbing my hands together ever since, trying to plan and scheme my way into finally achieving the things I want to achieve. To finally applying myself, and using my writing talent in ways that mean more to me than what I've been doing so far. Which I'm not sure is much of anything of importance.

I could be being a bit hard on myself, I suppose.

I realize now that I use this blog as sort of a crutch many days. It's a way for me to write when I want to write, in a public sort of way, without the pressure of having it be anything worth reading. A baby step, really. Because when I write here it can just be a post. And it can just be average at that. And maybe nobody will even read it.

And that means all the internal pressure to succeed instead of fail sort of gets washed away, allowing me to write here without fear most of the time. Now while I think it's good that I have a place to go to keep my skills alive, I think it's bad that I turn to it when I could be turning to other things that have more risk. Like the two books I'm working on. Or the three other abandoned manuscript drafts saved to my hard drive.

They say that realizing something is half the battle, right? I think that being able to verbalize I'm afraid is a really important first step. I also think that as the years pass by I become less afraid, because I have less time. And when you start running out of time you start running out of fear. Fear about doing things, anyway, because the fear of not having done them starts to grow over everything like a rogue English ivy.

So this week I'm going to sit down and write. It's a new year for me, a new start. I'm still afraid, but maybe a little less so. Maybe I can push through that fear and do something, at least for a little while.

And if/when I can't? Well, I'll just keep coming here. Because it doesn't hurt anyone and it keeps my mind and fingers practicing, so that when the day (or days) come that I'm finally not afraid anymore, I'm ready to take off from the gates.

Thursday, November 9, 2017

Discontentment is Motivation

I was sitting on my couch feeling a little sorry for my husband and myself. We were supposed to be having an adventure in Florida, celebrating my birthday with Mickey Mouse and the ocean, and instead we are trapped at home while he ices his injured knee. It's not been a good day overall, but I did notice a writing itch building a few hours ago.

I ignored it for a long time. I've been ignoring it for days really. I always feel like I have a million reasons why I can't write (being tired, feeling depressed, tending to my husband, not knowing what to say, needing to do paying work) but honestly it always boils down to fear. And I've not figured out the secret to overcoming it yet.

I don't know what the tipping point was today, but after dinner I decided to write about what was bugging me currently - how life doesn't ever go as planned. It was another essay for my book and it ended up being almost 1500 words, which was a pretty good contribution for one day even if it turns out to be all crap.

I think that discontentment can be a supreme life motivator, with the caveat that it has to be at a certain level. You have to feel knocked down, trapped, nowhere to go - but also still energized somehow. Otherwise you just get depressed and stew in inertia, spinning in circles like that hamster wheel I talked about.

I really wish this happened more often but it seems like the mix just usually isn't right. I'm not able to put the negative energy aside in pursuit of a higher goal. And that's where the inertia gets in the way. I kick the discontentment aside for...depression, black holes, mindless social media scrolling, general time wasters.

I'm encouraged that I wrote something finally today, since I've been feeling it coming for a few weeks (I wrote about it not too long ago). I guess that for me, when I'm being blocked by fear, discontentment is sometimes enough to overcome those emotions and actually move toward action. So maybe that's the secret. Or maybe I'm just a scared, unmotivated wannabe writer who can't get anything done. ;)

Tuesday, November 7, 2017

Settling Into Metaphors (of Life)

Sometimes I think about metaphors to describe how my life feels. Hamster wheel comes to mind. Groundhog day. Broken record.

It sounds a little depressing when I read it, but sometimes it's just reality and you have to embrace it. Because fighting it and wishing for what was, or what could be, is even worse. So instead you own that reality until you can come up with a better strategy.

I saw my longtime counselor yesterday. And I'm not ashamed to say that I go to counseling, because I think it's never shameful to say that you help yourself. And during this particular session I bemoaned my hamster-like existence. My feelings of being stuck, of wasting my life, of not living my purpose or of even finding one, because I'm stuck in my current reality.

And after congratulating me for being improved enough health wise to even care about a life purpose, she reminded me that right now, what I need to focus on is getting well. The end. Nothing more. So I'm trying to do that today.

I got up after another rough night and I approached my day from a different mindset. And that meant that today I wasn't stuck, or wasting my life, or miserable. Today I was doing what I needed to do to pay for the things I need to pay for to get well. That's all.

And when I looked at it like that, some of the gray lifted. Some of the despair dried up. And that's probably what's allowing me to sit here and write something this evening. Which is what I always seem to want to do, but can never seem to achieve.

I know that my writing doesn't happen when I'm depressed, unless I'm just vomiting my emotions into the world (I've tried not to do that since I left my twenties behind). But non-depression doesn't happen when I'm sick chronically. I've sure tried. How do you wake up with a positive mindset when you've been in pain and are fatigued? Again? (hamster wheel)

So my task lately has been to navigate what I have in front of me without feeling like I'm losing something in the rearview mirror. Or missing out on something. Or taking a wrong turn. I mean, I still write sometimes don't I? I'm doing it right now.

I tell myself that one of these days I'll be able to get the things done that I want to do. I hesitate to say that, because it's not usually effective to fall into the "if only" trap. The "if only I had this, then I would feel this" thing. Because life doesn't really work that way most of the time.

Except maybe it does when you're in a situation like I'm in. Maybe I can say, with confidence, if I had my health then I would have more happiness. I would write more. I would do more. I would achieve more.

Yeah. Maybe.

But for now I'm not going to think about that, because I have getting well to tend to. For now I'll settle into my metaphors and just keep trying to find the light. And jet off to the beach for my birthday, to breathe in some peace.

Edit: Trip cancelled at the last minute. I guess I'm still on the hamster wheel.

Thursday, November 2, 2017

I Like to Mull a While

When I start pulling out of my funk, that is when I start making my way back to my computer to put something on the screen, I've noticed I go through a process. And really it's a two part process:

  1. Brain
  2. Fingers

I know that sounds a little silly. So what I actually mean is that my brain always flatlines while I'm on a writing hiatus in the sense that I don't think about writing. I don't care about it. I don't spend any time paying attention to ideas or trying to harness them. But then somewhere along the way things start lighting up again, and I find that my brain revs up and mulls on things long before anything happens with my fingers.

I am not one of those people who just sits down to write because I need to write every day. I don't. And anyway, I write for my day job and always have. So I'm often doing some bit of writing anyway - even if I'm not thinking about it. But what I do find is that sometimes I do need to write. I do need to sit down. I do feel a pull to get it done now, before whatever I have to say is lost forever - although the important thing to notice is that there are always days or weeks of quiet mulling, without any action, before I get to that point.

I think there's a bit of synchronicity in this process. Have you ever paid attention to synchronicity?

Today I was driving to a meeting and I flipped on NPR. Now I haven't flipped on NPR much in the past few months because I'm just tired of the political drivel, and worn down from hearing about the depressed state of the world. But I tuned in today.

And today there was a Pulitzer Prize-winning author being interviewed about her latest book and her writing process. And it added fuel to my insides. It reminded me of what I hope to do. What I wish to do. And it was another increase in the churning that's actually been going on quietly for the last week or so (I went and jotted an idea in my notebook, randomly, maybe three nights ago).

I hope this means that I'm going to sit down to write again soon. So many people would say, "Well just sit down and write. Why don't you just do it?" But I have learned through experience that I can't control whatever this is that makes me write at all. And therefore my writing is probably always going to come in spurts and then fade out again.

It will come when I am calm enough, healthy enough, and in a good enough place to channel the messages out of my unconscious. I'm just not in that place most of the time.

And I think this is ok. People tell me it's not ok but I've decided it's ok. And this makes life a lot more peaceful because I don't have to feel like a constant failure. Or like a hopeless procrastinator. Or like a never-been (as opposed to a has-been).

Who makes the rules anyway?

Thursday, October 26, 2017

Depression And The Plight Of Writers

Hemingway killed himself. So did Sylvia Plath. And Virginia Woolf.

The saying goes that misery leads to masterpieces. And I suppose so, sometimes. I like Ernest Hemingway. And Virginia Woolf. Although I could do without Ms. Plath. Sorry Sylvia.

It would be nice to romanticize the things I go through and say that they spur my creativity into a flurry, from which bursts forth something brilliant to share with the world. But the truth is that depression and hard times often turn my mental faucet off completely. Which is pretty evident if I look at this blog, as I haven't written anything in over a month during my latest hiatus.

I've been going through a lot of stuff lately both health wise and with friends, and also with my job, and I've had some really low moments. There have been occasions (just a few) where I've thought about my writing and why I'm not doing it. And I've decided that I'm just too depressed to do it right now.

Depressed. I admit it. It's hard to even write that word and it's so taboo. But I admit it. I've been depressed for over two years, which has coincided with both physical ailments and a severe lack of fulfillment in my daily work. How can I write when I feel like that?

This morning everything slid further south when I had a rather sudden change in my employment status. This was followed by a lot of crying and a bit of yelling at my poor husband (I'm sorry, babe, for making you a punching bag lately), and I fell into another deep hole for a while. A black one, with slimy walls and a musty smell. I slid all the way down to the bottom and crumbled into a heap. Which was distressing, because I'd only just emerged a few hours prior, determined to have a better day.

And yet here I am. Somehow I climbed back up the slime and I'm writing something. Maybe because I'm not sure what else to do.

I wonder what it is that truly makes me, or anyone, write? Some people can do it all the time. Some people sputter around like me and spit out fifty pages in two weeks, and then nothing for five months. And I guess that's ok as long as the overall progress is forward. Maybe.

I was messaging with my minister earlier this afternoon, and he's not really my minister in the traditional sense because I am currently not a member of a church. But when I was in my twenties he was my preacher every Sunday, he baptized me when I decided I wanted to do so (as a Protestant, not a Catholic), and he was there when my first marriage subsequently fell apart. His son-in-law had been friends with my ex-husband in high school so it sort of worked out well for me, because I really needed some support.

I remember ending up at his house because I had nowhere else to go, and he and his wife took me under their wings and at least put ice on the sting temporarily. I've always felt like he was a sort of father figure even though we don't talk often.

He told me today that I was wasting my talent on technical writing. That I was gifted at expressing my feelings with words. And I tell you, it was something I needed to hear. Because I don't have parents around me to pull me up by my bootstraps when I can't do it myself. To instill that confidence and direction in me that parents often do. And I do have a wonderful husband, but it's just different. Having that older person, with all of their life experience, is just an invaluable resource that I think everyone needs.

So as I try to figure out what the hell I'm going to do, I've decided to take that advice to heart. Because sometimes you look for signs when things are going horribly awry. And that, to me, was a big flashing neon one. Saying hey, you can do this. You can do something. You don't have to settle for mediocre, so don't. Keep pushing.

And I guess that's what I'll continue to do. How, I don't really know yet. But I suppose as long as I'm still alive there is something more to do. I just have to find it.

Wednesday, September 20, 2017

I Took a Vacation

I'm not sure if this is a writing post, per se, but it's my first leap back into my personal work since I got back from vacation. I spent a glorious (mostly - it was post-hurricane) week at sea on a Carnival cruise ship and visited some lovely ports with clear water and powdery sand. Although they were hot as hell, I must say, and therefore I need to cruise in the winter.

I did a lot of things on this trip like salsa dancing with my main squeeze, looking at the Milky Way, competing in a Cotton Eyed Joe dance off, and enjoying good dinner company with some people who are now our friends. But mostly I got a nice mental break from all the buzzing.

Do you know what I mean?

It seems like there is this constant buzzing with all the technology around us, and not a good sort of buzzing like a bumble bee that pollinates the tomatoes I'm going to eat next month. A buzzing like my brain is on speed and I can't get away. Or like I'm on a stationary bike in the world's longest spin class, and I'm going to eventually spin myself completely off and fly right into a grave.

I think it's important that we all step away from time to time. It's amazing how much you can get done when you step away from a screen, and it's amazing how calm life feels too. When that buzzing stops. When your brain is no longer being shocked by the constant onslaught of information that keeps it turning and flipping when all it wants to do is rest.

I am trying once again to keep this sort of "vacation" going, the one from media and screens. I've tried before and I've failed, but I want to try again. Life is just so much more pleasant that way and I feel like I can accomplish things that I wouldn't otherwise be able to do. Because who can accomplish anything when you allow your brain to be sucked through your eyeballs and into your smartphone?

I know that's a little bit of a hyperbole. Or maybe a really odd metaphor. But that's sort of how I feel after getting away from it for long enough to actually detox. You know, like a druggie. And now I don't even want to take one hit because I'm afraid I'll get sucked back into the vortex. So I'm really being cautious. And I'm spending a lot of time on Instagram.

I think that's about all I had to say today and yeah, that's not really a writing post. It's a life post. And that's ok too, because I like to write about life. And because I never include pictures, I'm going to include one now. The view was lovely. Jamaica mon!


Saturday, August 19, 2017

Baby Steps Are OK

I was reading a book by Thich Nhat Hanh the other day and one of the quotes that really stood out to me was this one:

"Each day you only need to take a few solid steps in the direction of your goal. Each morning, you rededicate yourself to your path in order to not go astray. Before going to sleep at night, take a few minutes to review the day. 'Did I live in the direction of my ideals today?' If you see that you took two or three steps in that direction, that is good enough. If you didn't, say to yourself, 'I'll do better tomorrow.' Don't compare yourself with others."

They say things always come to you exactly when you need them, and I know that this was something I really needed to read. Because I often find excuses for why I can't write. Or, instead, I don't write at all because I know I can't accomplish very much on that particular day. More often I think I just procrastinate. And if I keep doing that day after day and year after year, I'm going to wake up in the winter of my life and realize I've accomplished nothing.

My manuscript is now at 111 pages and nearly 33,000 words, and I've written several thousand of those in the last 24 hours thanks to this particular quote. I've decided that it's important to check in with myself every day, just as it says to do, and I've also decided that it's also important to allow baby steps to be ok.

There are many days where I don't write at all, and rather than allowing a day to pass without writing anything, I've tried to just write a line or two. Or an idea. Because then I feel like I'm still working toward a goal even on the days when I don't have much to give. And this is the accountability part of the quote. The part where you keep yourself on track, and you forgive yourself when you fall a bit short and don't even make that minimal effort.

Following this practice has also reminded me how much I love to write when I actually do it. Looking back now, I can't believe that I stopped writing for two years. I can't believe I even thought that perhaps I wasn't supposed to be a writer at all, and perhaps I don't even like it. I do like it. I just got off track.

So thank you, Thich Nhat Hanh, for showing me the way again.

Incidentally, if you want to read the book, it's called No Mud, No Lotus: The Art of Transforming Suffering. It's a gem of a little read.

Thursday, August 10, 2017

I'm Getting Published

So I got a little distracted over the past week or two by health woes (and health wins) and just work in general. Sometimes it's so hard to focus on the things I want to do when I have to focus so hard on the things I need to do, like pay bills, try to keep my writing business going, cook and clean, caretake my elderly cat, etc.

But today I got pulled back in a creative direction when I learned that one of my poems was accepted for publication in an upcoming literary anthology.

Say what?

Yep, I'm getting published.

This is the first win for me, although admittedly I haven't tried very much so far. I've submitted some work to the New Yorker twice, and I also submitted my poetry to one other literary journal, but otherwise I haven't done anything with my writing aside from slogging my way through trying to fix it, or letting it sit dark in a drawer, or sending it into oblivion in cloud storage.

This particular poem (you can read it here) I had only submitted to one other place - the other literary journal I mentioned above - and it was accepted after just those two attempts. I'd say that's not at all normal. Although perhaps this publication didn't have very high standards.

But isn't that the thing we always tell ourselves? That really, whoever liked our work must have not known what they were doing anyway. Or, likely they didn't have enough "good" work to choose from. It's all part of the story we tell ourselves to ward off future peril when we feel like we couldn't possibly be good enough to succeed in what we're trying to do.

I've been pretty successful in straying from that line of thinking today, mostly because I'm really excited to see my name in print somewhere. But as the excitement has worn off this afternoon, the doubt has crept back in. Which I think is not unexpected, although my job is to divert it elsewhere. Because I seriously don't have time anymore to live my life in self-doubt.

Now that I have this win, maybe I'll get back to my work. I have a lot that I want to write about but I just struggle to find the energy and focus after dealing with everything else. But I know I'll get there. Every time I stop setting aside time to write (or otherwise don't accomplish much with my personal work), I tell myself that I'm just taking a break. And breaks are ok. As long as it's not a permanent disconnect and I do, eventually, come back to it.

I'll be back soon.

Sunday, July 23, 2017

Write Once, Read Once, Move On (For Now)

It's been a doozy of a few days, or perhaps a week. But I've been working diligently on my book of essays. Or, on my random essays (the actual organization of said essays is TBD). I figure I will pull them into some semblance of a book later.

And the rule I'm living by right now is to write it once, then go back and read (and lightly edit) it once, and then move on. I think this is a good strategy for me. It allows me to push through that first dump of thoughts unhindered. Which needs to happen if anything good is to come out, because I'm really good at stopping to judge everything that I create.

This system also gives me boundaries: I know I will be allowed to read and edit it once I'm done dumping. And then when I do go back and read it, I don't have to pick it totally apart right now (and probably shouldn't, honestly). I will have plenty of time later to get it right.

Everyone has to find a system that works for them. Some people write nonstop for hundreds of pages before looking at what came out. Other people edit every sentence as they go, which probably isn't the most effective way to write (I used to do this, and I surely didn't get far). And still others make a detailed outline before sitting down to do anything. They simply need that structure to organize their thoughts and move them along.

Whatever your system is, once you find it, stick to it. Own it. It doesn't have to be like anyone else's, but feel free to borrow and try what other people say works for them.

I've been encouraged by the number of ideas that have been percolating in my head lately. I wake up in the early morning hours because of other things, and sometimes jot things down in a notebook in the dark. I think it means I have found my subject matter.

It's about damn time.

So that's it for now, I suppose. I'm having a resting weekend, mostly. Trying to get my body ready to chug along for the new week. But I am making an effort to sit down and write as often as I can when the mood strikes. And it struck. So here I am, and there you go.

Tuesday, July 18, 2017

Today I Didn't Write Crap

Yesterday I sat down to wallow my way through a personal experience I'd had (writing absolute rubbish over the course of an afternoon's hour). And I'm glad I did it, because what I ended up vomiting onto the blog yesterday gave me the confidence to try again today.

I was driving home from the grocery store this morning listening to NPR, which I do often, and the guest was pitching capitalism as the great American way. Or, more specifically, pitching outsourcing as the great American way.

Now this guy was adamant that everyone benefits from this arrangement - Americans get more money, people overseas get jobs, overall quality of retail products is better, etc. etc. etc. Personally, I understood how he was constructing his argument...but I sure would beg to differ.

And that got me thinking about why I beg to differ. We all have opinions about things, but most of us forget how we formed those opinions in the first place. And honestly I think it's kind of important to examine these things, both for our own growth and for the advancement of the human race. But that's a story for another day.

I realized that my perspective was based on something I've become fairly passionate about. I definitely did have reasons for feeling the way I did, and they were good reasons (from where I sit), and they were also reasons that maybe others should consider. So I sat down after putting my chicken in the fridge and let the thoughts flow out as they wanted.

The essay I wrote today was called "Five Dollars Can Change The World," and I really do like the title I came up with for this piece. If you want to know what it's about, you'll have to stay tuned because it's a secret (I giggle coyly). But I feel like it's one of the best essays I've written in this book of essays I'm working on, which is now approaching 50 pages and 15,000 words.

We all need wins in our lives. Sometimes the loses outweigh the wins to the extent that we get lost in a dark hole and struggle to climb out. That's how I've been feeling a lot lately, in so many ways, and I know it's coming out in my blog.

But I've learned over the last couple of years to take the small wins where I can find them. And sometimes the win is spending 45 minutes crafting an essay you really like. Sometimes it's cooking a lovely dinner that makes your family happy. Sometimes it's reading a good book, or watching your favorite tv show, or going out to a festival in the fall.

Today I didn't write crap. That's my win for the day.

Monday, July 17, 2017

Today I Wrote Crap

I wrote crap today - a big wad of crap that I should probably throw into the nearest dumpster. And I was feeling pretty bad about it so I decided to come over here and mull over the experience instead. Because apparently I can't write things if I'm not feeling them. And I'm surely feeling this right now.

I'd had a pretty unproductive day because my health was acting up, I was frustrated by my writing business, and I'm still waiting on the green light to start the ghostwriting project that was supposed to breathe meaning back into my days. I kept wanting to sit down to write some essays, but I had to finish other paid work first. Because I picked up another $200 worth of medical supplies this afternoon and those things don't pay for themselves.

By the time I finally got to a place where I could focus on my own writing, I was frustrated and beaten down by the day and by my life. I wasn't feeling it. I wasn't feeling anything, except that I wanted to do something that would make me feel productive and like I'd accomplished something today. So I did what the books always tell you to do...I sat down and forced myself to write.

And forced, it was.

I sputtered for a good hour, piling 1500 words upon themselves that didn't seem to mean much or resonate in any way. It didn't help that halfway through my efforts, I suddenly saw a construction worker outside my window. I say this as someone who lives on the fourth floor of a building. Looking out and seeing a random dude suddenly rising up from nowhere is startling. Talk about a distraction!

It also didn't help that for the entirety of his flotation, he was yelling all the way down to the street below, presumably to his colleagues. And it was in Spanish. Which is ok, I used to be fluent in Spanish so it doesn't sound (to me) like random sounds clashing against each other. But it was annoying nonetheless.

And then...then!...he went to paint my balcony. Right where my tomatoes live (the ones I EAT) and also where my pretty folding table makes its home (the one I eat ON). So I got up, ran, poked my head out the door - only to find he was already done and floating along. Following the beat of his Spanish shouting to the street below.

So I should have known then that nothing was going to work. The flow of whatever I might have been trying to create had been interrupted so many times that it just went dry. But I tried, and tried, and tried to turn what I was working on into something readable before I threw up my hands and decided it was crap. I shut it down. And then I went to mope on the sofa.

When you're going through hard times and really want to do something (like, you know, have the energy to cook a meal), you get really discouraged by the smallest things. My doctor said I had adrenal fatigue and I know this contributes. Like, she made me spit into a tube over the course of a day, measured out all my brain chemicals, said she was surprised I was even functioning, and sent me on the health journey I've been on for almost two years. I know things are still bad because I got so frustrated by one episode of crap today.

But now I can feel better because this post has come out rather easily, so I know it's not crap. At least I can believe it's not crap - I honestly don't care what anyone else thinks anymore. I used to. Even a year ago, I cared. But I don't now. Wisdom? Or stupidity?

I will say that part of what pulled me out of my funk was seeing a hummingbird on my patio. I've always felt like something special was happening in the universe when one of those shows up in the middle of the city. Maybe it's silly, but it makes me happy to believe it might be true. Just when I was wallowing at my lowest point, perusing my food journal to see what could have possibly caused my health issues this time, there it was. Buzzing along, sucking nectar from all the flowers I'm trying hard to keep alive in the hot July sun. And I did smile. Hummingbirds are my favorite.

Sometimes you just need that thing to snap you out of it. And if you write crap, ok. At least you wrote. I've got to learn to be more ok with failing if I'm ever going to succeed. But I think the universe is teaching me that lesson right now, because I sure am failing a lot.

Sunday, July 16, 2017

Finding Meaning In Small Habits. Writing Is What Does The Writing.

Today I'm sitting down to write while struggling with massive fatigue, nausea, chills, hot flashes, stomach upset, the works. My life is fun some days, although I still try to approach everything with a grateful heart.

I'm proud that I've been keeping it up. I haven't written many blog posts because I've been writing essays, and poetry, and (wait for it)...creating memes on my new Instagram account.

I have to say, this meme thing has been unexpectedly fun and meaningful for my spirit. It gives me the opportunity to be creative in short little bursts, and to send something out into the world immediately with the sort of instant gratification most of us want these days. And I know it's a little silly on the surface, but I think we need to find meaning wherever it pops up. For me, it popped up in a groovy little typeface app that lets me design stuff for Instagram.

In case you were wondering what I'm doing exactly, I'll give a one sentence summary: I'm mixing colors and pictures and fonts with quotes and exposition and thoughts to create something that feels meaningful to share. And I think that's pretty cool. You can follow me over here if you want to take a look.

Aside from that, I've banged out several essays and a few poems over the last week. And I've also secured a ghostwriting gig for a book, which I'm really excited about. And I've started to notice some patterns that I probably realized before but simply didn't make actual note of. That being that I find I write best, or am driven to write the most, during the transitions between day and night. It's like my spirit wakes up at these times and I can sit down at my keyboard, or pull out my little black poetry notebook, and spit words out without getting in my own way. Without my inner critic or runaway emotions taking over and shutting down the party.

I'm getting better at that, though. I'm reading a really excellent writing book right now that I've had on my bookshelf for about two years called Writing Down the Bones. One of the things the author says is that when you are writing, the writing is doing the writing. It's not your mind doing the writing. Your fingers are just documenting whatever is streaming through from wherever things like that come from.

And it makes sense to me, because when I get in a groove I'm not really thinking about much of anything consciously. The words are coming out too fast for me to think about them, which is why I generally prefer typing over using a pen - I can actually kinda sorta keep up with my thoughts. When I get behind, my thinking brain starts kicking in and the magic (and the flow) stops. My only exception is poetry, which I always seem to write by hand. Almost as if I need to pause and consider the words as they come out, although I have to herd my thinking brain along and out of the way sometimes.

So that's what I've been up to lately, aside from plunging back into the depths of chronic illness after what was a really excellent eight to nine days of feeling pretty good. But I had those days, and I know they will come again. At least I have something to hang onto. And I have my writing. And my new Instagram hobby.

Monday, July 10, 2017

Writing Ruminations. Buddhist Philosophy. Growing a Business Sucks.

So it's been a busy week. I decided to write and by golly, I did write. I wrote almost 5000 words of stuff that I'm not quite sure what to do with.

But this time around I'm just writing without a plan. I'm writing what comes to me. I'm writing what I feel like writing. I figure at some point down the line I can pick it apart and see if there are any trends or themes or if something starts to gel. But in the meantime I'm determined to not think too much about it. Because that's like drinking poison or jumping off a bridge.

In fact, I'm here writing now just because I feel like it. Because I'm feeling overwhelmed by my day job and yet underwhelmed at the same time. Growing a business is really hard. Dealing with clients who are rude or who won't respond is really hard. Trying to find people who are willing to pay more than slave wages is exhausting. And wondering if you're ever going to be anything beyond what you currently are (which is not what you originally intended to be) is a constant source of anxiety.

Sometimes I want to give up all of it and seek purpose elsewhere. Giving up sure is the easy choice some days, but giving up never got anybody anywhere. Unless you've tried for so long and failed for so long that maybe it's time to take your talents in a new direction.

I'm actually really proud of some of the positive mental steps I've taken lately to get myself back in the game. To start creating again and to start finding career meaning where it had dried up. And also to start striving for more than what has landed in my lap, because while it did sustain me during my illnesses, ultimately it has not turned out to be very satisfying. And the sad part is I know this, and I've known it for probably 1 1/2 years. I was just too sick to devote any energy to caring.

I don't have a point with this blog post today except to ruminate over my current happenings and to try to find some sort of motivation to keep on with the keepin' on. Currently, I'm enjoying working on my personal writing efforts much more than I'm enjoying the constant failure that is growing a business. Sometimes I need some wins. Honestly, I really need some wins.

But they always say the best things in life don't come easily. So if that's the case, then I shouldn't give up just yet. I'll keep doing what I'm doing and hope that something meaningful comes out of it all at the end. I wouldn't be here if I wasn't supposed to be here, right?

I was reading a Buddhist magazine last night called Lion's Roar, and it's really my first big intro to Buddhist philosophy aside from the plodding I've been doing the last couple of weeks through the Dhammapada. And what I like about the philosophy is that it helps you to be content with wherever you are. No matter how crappy things seem, you can learn to find peace and contentment anyway.

I'm definitely going to put it into practice in my life, in my career, and in my creative efforts, and see what comes of that perspective. Maybe I can learn to be happy with what is, even on days where I feel like a burning wad of trash. Maybe even if I write crap, that's ok. Maybe if I have no new clients, that's ok too. I'll sit over here and smile in contentment, knowing that all is well in the world.

That's the goal anyway.

Wednesday, July 5, 2017

Intent And Effort Are The First Steps To Success

So I've still been writing, although I did take a bit of a break for the holiday (and also to wallow in rock bottomness; it's been a tough couple of months).

But I'm starting to formulate thoughts about what I actually want to write about. How I actually want to write creatively. What will make me happy. What I'm good at, or what I could be good at. 

And I feel like that's a positive movement even though it's still mostly in my head. I still haven't produced anything to show anybody, and I'm still sort of afraid and hiding behind a curtain. Although again, it's only been a couple of weeks since I even cared enough to try.

I posted a question in a writers group yesterday about how to come back when you've been away for over a year. When you haven't written a single word beyond what you have to do for work, because aspirations have to take a back seat to everything else when you're in survival mode.

I didn't get a lot of great suggestions except to just keep writing and to not judge what comes out. Which, if you read this blog, is something I've been trying to do for a long, long time. I do wonder if, after the experiences of the past two years, I'll have a bit of an easier time with it now.

I spit out a poem last night before I fell asleep. And I mean literally right before I fell asleep. I was reaching over to turn the light off, which was to be followed by me immediately smushing my face into my pillow, when I decided I had to write down a phrase that popped into my head.

So I reached over for my little black notebook, wrote down said phrase, and tried to quickly expand it into something more. I read it when I was done (with a shrug) and placed the black notebook in its spot on the night stand. I haven't looked at it since.

I *feel like* I wasn't all that successful in creating much of a poem, but I'm going to do myself a favor and decide if it *actually sucks* later. Because if I keep judging everything that comes through my fingertips I'm never going to get anything accomplished.

Therefore, I say to the internets, tonight my hubby plans to go play basketball and I'm going to take my first stab at writing a personal essay of some sort. I made a list of potential topics yesterday, so I'll pick one and just go with it. Maybe it won't be worth much. Maybe it will be worthy of a trip to the nearest trash can. But the intent is there. The effort is there. And aren't those the first steps to success?

Saturday, July 1, 2017

We All Must Be Here For a Reason

When I was doubled over in agony again this morning, there were two things I kept turning around in my brain:

1. God, what would I do without my husband?
2. I must still be alive for some reason.

As I laid there, playing witness to my body, I kept thinking about how I'm still here. How, despite what's happening right this second, I'm not dead. I'm going to have another day today. And I'm going to have another day because I'm supposed to have another day.

So rather than get sucked into the despair vortex, I've been chewing on that idea for a while. And here I am, exhausted, frustrated, still not feeling great, but I'm at my computer. Writing something.

I showed up.

I think if you're still here to breathe another day, it means you need to try to figure out how this world is using your life. Or, how you can use your life to contribute to the world. I'm not really sure which way it goes, although it sort of sounds the same either way.

So I'll keep continuing to show up, day after day. Even on the days where I have to spend half of that showing up on my couch, resting. Or in my closet, crying (that's my safe spot, it's a long story).

And besides, isn't pain the thing that makes artists great? Supposedly? If that's the case, man I'm going to be a prodigy.

Friday, June 30, 2017

Figuring Out How To Use Your Gift

I'm trying to write every day now that I've restarted the engine. And some days I don't know exactly what I'm going to write about. But I figure, I've been trying to do this writing thing for like 10 years. Even when I quit for a long while - and swear that I'm not a writer and never will be - something brings me back to it. So I try once again not to give up.

I think it's what you have to do with most things in life - not give up. Although maybe there are appropriate times to give up, or times to give up on elements of the thing you were chasing after. But if you have a skill or a talent, I would say, don't give up until you can figure out how you're supposed to use it. What you end up using your talent for could be very different than what you were originally chasing. Or even, the first 10 things you tried to chase.

Let's suppose you are a really good actor and you want to be in the movies. And you've chased that dream for a long while - 10 or 20 years perhaps. You even moved to LA. You take classes. You audition. You do everything you're supposed to do to achieve your dream.

Is it possible that maybe you're supposed to be a really awesome acting teacher? That you're supposed to use your talent for some other purpose than what you keep chasing after?

This is sort of how I'm viewing my writing lately. I know I'm good at writing because I've gotten feedback to that effect since I was 16 years old. But after a lot of failures, I know I'm not good at certain types of writing (or at the type of writing - fiction novels - I had been chasing after). And this was quite devastating to me for a really long time. It still is, I suppose.

But maybe there's a different way I'm supposed to use this gift I have. And maybe it's not anything glamorous, and maybe it won't affect millions of people. Maybe, though, it will affect a few.

From age 18 to about 35 I kept wanting to be something "important" like a teacher or a scientist or an activist or a nonprofit director. Or, you know, a bestselling writer. And I was chasing that idea of "being great" for so long that I couldn't look at what was available to me, right in front of my face.

It wasn't until a few years ago that I began to see things more clearly, left my corporate job, and struck out on my own because I knew I wasn't going in the right direction anymore. And even then it took me a while to abandon the "importance" ship and just go with whatever the flow might be.

I think life can surprise you if you're just open to what comes. I'm a writing business of four now, and I only wanted to be a business of me (and only to support my "real" pursuits of being something great). This has been a surprise. It is also what allows me to tend to my health issues without being destitute.

So I say, carry on with what you're doing. But don't be afraid to open yourself to the different ways your unique talent might be used by the world. It's probably not the way you wish it was, but it might turn out to be better than you could have imagined.

Thursday, June 29, 2017

Writing Without Restriction

I've been thinking lately of picking up that book manuscript I finished before I got really sick. The one that was "done" enough to actually send to an editor. To be returned with red marks and some feedback for improvement, but not a "this really sucks ass, change course before you embarrass yourself for eternity."

But I can't seem to make myself open the file yet. I'm avoiding. I'm procrastinating. I'm tip-toeing around in fear. (Although to be fair I've only thought about it for a few days, so perhaps I'm being dramatic.)

I think part of the reason I haven't opened it is because I'm gathering the energy I need to tackle the work. And because I'm rewrite rusty.

For those who think writing is easy, ha! I laugh. I chuckle. I weep. It's simultaneously gratifying and absolutely exhausting when you've been doing it for more than 30 minutes. And trying to resolve problems in a 260 page, 65k word manuscript? It's more than daunting.

My counselor reminded me today that sometimes people work on books for years. And if that's the case, then I can slouch down in my chair and sip on my sparkling water. Because it's definitely been years.

Although during that time I've learned some important things about self-confidence, and seeking out your own unique contribution to the world, and being you, and being ok with whatever that is. So perhaps it's been non-writing time well spent. I think I'm just now starting to put it all into practice.

I started with rewriting parts of my business website yesterday, because what I had on my homepage just wasn't working. There was nothing special about it. There was nothing catchy about it. There was nothing particularly unique about it. And I decided to treat it like my personal creative work and see what might come out. I had nothing to lose, really, because I haven't scored any new business with what I've had available.

Up until now I'd tried to emulate other websites, other styles. Other things that seemed to be "successful" but honestly who really knows what's going on behind the scenes. And I just abandoned that need to conform and compete, to fit within a particular mold. I let the restrictions fly away in the wind and I just let myself write.

And I sat back at the end of it all, nodded, and liked it. I think it was the first time I've ever let my own ideas shine through without being contaminated by what already exists.

So maybe what I'm going to do as I move forward with my craft is to stop thinking so hard about what my writing should be and just try to keep writing the way I want to write. Because nobody enjoys reading something they've already read. Nobody seeks out a copy.

The first step with this book of mine is pulling out the manuscript, taking a look, and removing any restrictions in my psyche. Then I can grab a machete and either start all over, or clear out the weeds so something more beautiful can grow. Something that's truly all mine, that doesn't conform to what's considered "traditional" or "good."

Maybe I'll start tomorrow.

(Because this blog post was an absolute bear to write, which doesn't happen too often. I guess it was good preparation, eh?)

Tuesday, June 27, 2017

Don't Interrupt Me

Last night I grabbed my black spiral bound notebook off my nightstand, sat cross-legged on my bed, and pulled out a pen. My intent was to write some poetry because I wanted to be creative - and because I wanted to ride my new writing motivation while it was still spinning.

I opened a blank page and prepped my right hand.

Pen - ready.
Brain - ready.
Room - not bad. I'm a little cold but it's ok.
Intent - a glimmer of something.
Distractions - uhhhh...

I decided to make a go of it in the usual manner, scribbling whatever came into my head. I'm generally given a moment of inspiration, an idea, a flash that spurs me to sit down to write. Or sometimes it's just a feeling or a desire to get something out. And then I just let my brain meander along.

And when this process is working perfectly, what I write down is pretty good without excessive rewriting. Unless...

Interruptions

I've heard writers (usually fiction writers, you know the "real" writers) say that they don't know what they're going to write before they write it. I've always thought it was a bunch of witchcrafty hogwash to be honest. How can you not know what you're going to write about?

But I do this often when I write my poems and blogs. What comes will come while the pen is moving or the hands are typing. In fact, as of this moment I don't know exactly what I'm going to write next.

But the thing is that this magical process can only happen without interruptions. I've heard other writers say this before too - that if they are writing, they must NOT be interrupted for any reason.

I got this last night.

As I sat there trying to spit words through ink, I kept hearing the creak of the living room sofa. The sound it makes when my husband is about to get up and move about the room.

(Yes, we have a creaky sofa. One day when I'm independently wealthy we will have a non-creaky sofa.)

That river of creativity that normally runs from my brain and through my fingertips kept hitting little dams. Dams in the form of, "is he getting up?" and "is he going to come in here?"

Now I love my husband. I adore him. He's the single greatest blessing I have in this life and without him I probably would have jumped off a bridge. Twice.

But when I kept hearing that creaking noise over and over again, the spell in my body kept breaking. My pen kept stopping. I'd stare at the page without feeling, the flow shut off. I'd try to hit a reset button but I couldn't find one.

Suddenly there was a dam every five seconds.

"Is he coming in here?" "I think he's coming in here." "What's that noise?" "Is he getting up or sitting down?" "Maybe he's going to the kitchen to get some popcorn" And on and on and on.

Eventually he did walk by...on his way to the bathroom to brush his teeth. And at that point I felt like he'd walked into my cloud and disintegrated it. Poof.

The last words I wrote in my notebook last night were, "I'm frustrated because I'm writing crap." And then I went and played with my cat for a while.

Revisiting the Crap

I kept thinking about that "crap" while I was playing with my rescue cat, Jack. Was it really all crap? I went back once and re-read the three poems I'd spit out. Then I put the notebook down and went back to the living room.

About 30 minutes later, when my husband was safely absorbed in iTunes and sports watching, I meandered back. I sat once again, cross-legged, and got out my pen. Then I slashed and burned.

I salvaged what was sprouting life and put a big black line through everything else. Then I re-read what I'd written. Still kind of crap, but maybe not so bad after all.

As a writer I'm tuning into the fact that I can't be interrupted. When I'm working on a tough creative piece for work, or a blog post, or any sort of personal expression, an interruption can derail the entire process and I have to start over.

So tonight I'm going to write while my husband is at a late basketball game. This was the first part of that process. Next? My little black notebook, with a pen in my hand. The river gushing wild and free. Ok, ok, that's a bit of a hyperbole.

Saturday, June 24, 2017

It's a State of Mind

I woke up today to the sound of rain beating down on the window. I was in the living room, having tossed and turned for a better part of the night and eventually given up and moved to the couch.

As I listened with my eyes still closed (or occasionally forming slits to peek out), my brain began turning over words that I thought would describe the rain: the sound that it makes while coming down, the way the beads of water roll down a window pane, the cool splash on my skin during the inferno that is summer in Texas.

And I was also thinking about how the rain mirrored the way I felt on the inside - kind of dreary, melting, dark. Sometimes violently upset, other times quiet in my desperation. And still other times chipper and bouncing, happy to be alive.

I decided that this writing thing, this creating thing, is a state of mind before it's anything else. Yes, I can sit here and write words on paper (or, cough, a computer screen). But anyone can do that. Anyone can take words and form a sentence. After all, I've still been forming sentences over the past year for work, for emails, for social media - even though I haven't really been writing anything.

But something flipped this week such that I've begun contemplating things around me as a source of fodder. Looking at the world - and my own words - from a different perspective, just as I've done in the past during heavily creative periods.

Before I fell off the health cliff I was working through The Artist's Way for the second time (er, attempt - I hadn't made it through the first time) in my adult life. And I think the entire goal is to do the thing I'm talking about here - to change your state of mind before you can do anything else.

Now I'm not positive that this is the answer to everything. In fact, I pretty much never have the answer to everything (although sometimes I think I do ok). But I think it's an idea that I can reach for when I feel my motivation drying up. A place to start when I don't know where to begin - or when I get knocked down for a while and try to crawl my way back.

So that's mostly what I wanted to say today on this sputtering blog o' mine. It's still raining outside although the pounding has slowed to a drizzle. Every once in a while I think I hear rumbles in the distance. I'm going to go make my doctor prescribed medical food shake, sit here and watch it roll down the window pane, and maybe pick up the book I'm currently reading. Using it all as inspiration for whatever comes next.

Thursday, June 22, 2017

Yesterday I Wrote a Poem

Yesterday I wrote a poem. At midnight. Lying horizontally on my living room couch. On my...cell phone (the Notes app is helpful for these sorts of things).

Today I looked at said poem and thought, ok not bad (you can read it here). But I also looked at that poem in combination with my post yesterday about not being able to write while sick, and I've decided that something has happened that's worth noting. Not something significant in the grand scheme of the world or even in my life, but something significant in my journey.

As I've worked to accept my illnesses, my new body, my limitations...it's required all of my energy most of the time. The idea that I have had the energy (or desire) to write anything this week - this blog post, that poem, yesterday's emotional vomit - makes me think that I've taken a step forward.

I had a similar feeling when I started making career goals again a month ago. It was like I'd stepped off of a hamster wheel and started walking down a path again. One that had been cloaked in darkness for a very long time.

I suppose with most things in life you have to start with a first step. Maybe I'll end up back on the hamster wheel for a while or maybe I won't. But it's been a full year since I've written anything and it's nice to create small bits to send out to the universe. Even if they only mean something to me.

Wednesday, June 21, 2017

One Can't Write While Sick

The last two years of my life can be summed up with one word: illness.

The last year of my life can also be summed up rather quickly, but in two words this time: abandoned dreams.

I don't write anymore. Like, at all. (That is until right this second, and I'm not sure why I'm doing so except that I'm lonely and frustrated and unfulfilled.)

And it all sounds so very silly because I'm enormously blessed and fortunate. I have a loving husband, I have food to eat and a pretty decent roof over my head. I am no longer stricken by poverty or insane amounts of drama. My old man kitty is still somehow kicking.

But even with all of those things, I have a body that won't heal. A body that prevents me from living life at least 50% of the time, and that has me resigned to existing. To surviving. To sleeping or laying on the couch waiting for the next wave of energy that will allow me to start living once again.

I wonder if I will ever write again, beyond what I have to do in my day job to survive. I gave up on writing books, and on writing poetry, and on maintaining a blog. I gave up on most things if I think about it, even though I've written some good stuff along the way.

Writing takes a lot of energy and one simply cannot write while sick. Or, maybe I just cannot write while sick. I haven't even thought of returning to writing because most of the time I can't think of anything except the following:

  • Bills
  • Making money to pay bills
  • Taking care of people who depend on me for their income
  • Maintaining my work commitments
  • Keeping myself going physically/emotionally/career-wise
  • Picking up the next batch of treatments from my functional medicine doctor
  • Wondering if I'll ever have enough financial security to sustain me

So as I sit here and type this up, and remember why I used to write, I struggle to grasp the "thing" that used to draw me to writing to begin with. It's almost like it's vanished into the air and merged with the ether.

I need to work on my metaphors.

So I guess whether I will or will not write again largely depends on if I can ever get over the illnesses that are plaguing my body. And right now I'm just not sure.

And even so, even if I do get over it all and suddenly emerge healthy and triumphant, what the hell can I do with my writing? I've already proven to myself that I cannot write fiction. I've decided that I also don't have much to say in a non-fiction sense, and that writing is such a challenging endeavor that I just don't even want to try most of the time.

For now I'll stick to reading books. So that means I'm going to go cobble some sort of dinner together and pick up the novel I'm working on, which is full of cliches and a less than stellar writing style (my mistake, going straight from Thomas Hardy to a modern pop fiction writer), although that so far is telling a good story.

I don't think I had a point to this post today, except maybe some catharsis. Or some hope for a revelation about what I'm supposed to do next. So far no luck.