I am a Writer

Writing is no small feat.  It takes discipline, a willingness to be rejected, and a tough exterior that can withstand comments from family and friends that writing is not a REAL job.  Giving yourself the title of writer is a ballsy move when everyone around you giggles or looks askance at the very idea.  Sitting alone in a room, closed off from the world for hours each day invites the imagination to take flight, but the soul to wither once in a while.  Writing is scary as hell, delightful as the laughter of a child, and simply amazing.  So if it’s all these things and more… why do I write? 

 

Sinclair Lewis said, “It’s impossible to discourage real writers—they don’t give a damn what you say.”  He got it right for the most part.  I began writing as a child in bed with the covers pulled up just enough that I felt like a secret agent uncovering something no one else knew.  In the bed across from mine, my older sister slept like a baby.  I wrote on one of those yellow tablets with bluish-green lines left over from the year before.  Often using a nub of pencil I sat with the tablet perched on top of my knees writing frantically.  Back then, I wrote about how cool it would be to be in high school, date, and go out like my older siblings.  What I wouldn’t give to find one of those stories that I wrote among a bunch of old papers. 

 

In third grade, the students of Mrs. Throne’s class were asked to write about an adventure.  Thus began several years of dreaming of becoming an archeologist.  My essay took place in the desert of an exotic land.  I rode a two-humped camel sitting between the humps.  Dear Mrs. Throne became my most favorite teacher because she liked my story, told me it was funny, and gave me an A.  I kept that story for years, but after several moves, it’s come up missing along with a box of childhood memories and treasures. 

 

Shortly after getting married at a tender age, my mother gave me a journal.  I found it not so long ago and read it.  It took me back to the angst of being 20, trying to be happily married, and figure out life With the birth of a daughter, it was time to put childish toys away, and I stopped writing anything more than grocery lists, cute remembrances of little ones in baby books, and once in awhile, letters to family and friends flung far and wide across the country.

 

It took the death of my mother to shake me out of a fog that engulfed me for years.  Suddenly, I couldn’t wait for the children to get on the bus and go.  Like a maniac, I waited until they were on the bus and then I set the tea kettle on the stove, grabbed paper and pen and wrote at the dining table, looking up to peer out the bay window that overlooked the expanse of front yard.  I didn’t stop to eat, I didn’t stop to pee, I just wrote.  Only Gwennie, our boxer, brought me out of my imaginary place with a cold nose nudging my leg. I got out the old typewriter and began typing until the ink on the ribbon dried.  During this time, I wrote in secret, designing worlds that I wanted to visit populated with people I wanted to be.  When I heard a car driving up the lane, I’d toss the papers and pens into a drawer.  I didn’t have to be secretive, but I found excitement in keeping my writing life hidden. 

 

My mother’s death was also the catalyst for life changes.  After the finality of a divorce, I needed to reinvent myself.  I wanted to write.  I took myself to the place of my dreams, Cape Cod, and set about writing.  I journaled, I worked on novels, and I licked old wounds that needed to heal.  I didn’t have the know-how or the worldly sophistication to point myself in a direction that would make me the writer I wanted to be.  I didn’t understand the need for networking and getting to know people who can help lower the ladder.  So I took retail jobs, but continued to write.  I went to Cape Cod Community College in Barnstable pursuing an English/Creative Writing degree.  Two years there with a goal of two years at Mount Holyoke would surely get me to the writing place I yearned for.  One year at 4 C’s was all I could afford. 

 

A circle needs to come around to the point of its beginning and I did just that.  I moved back to Ohio and once again found myself in a position of needing to reinvent myself.  This time I became a bull-headed terrier refusing to let go.  I stumbled upon a site that claimed to publish anyone’s writing.  I jumped in and started writing.  When I received money for writing, no matter how meager, I was ecstatic.  Finally, finally someone besides third grade teachers and creative writing profs believed in me. 

Writing is a coy lover.  One moment inspiration hits, followed by frenetic activity and the next it recedes into a dim room of emptiness.  I’ve read numerous times that writing is not a chosen vocation…it is an obsession, a part of who the writer is, and I join ranks in this belief.  I cannot turn my back on writing.  I cannot just walk away.  Writing beckons, no demands that I follow.  I found great delight and wearisome tears in the journey so far, but  I can’t wait to see what lies around the next corner because I am a writer.

 

Back Again

Writing has taken a back seat in the last month.  In fact, I’ve not even bothered to post a blog.  Uncertain of where my mind lingered, I decided to take a break.  The angst over an ill loved one, the return of a loved one, life in a cold spring, and certain uncertainties kept my hands idle, but my mind spinning.  Easter whirled in and out with the bustle of cleaning, cooking, and a house full for dinner.  Instead of drawing from the angst of life, I chose to shutdown.  Rather than gather my delights and celebrate them, I tucked them away for safekeeping. So here I am today, more than half way through the month of daffodils, musky earth smells and the song of robins finding my way back. 

 

“It’s not the world’s fault you want to be an artist…now get back to work.”

                                          –Elizabeth Gilbert paraphrasing Werner Herzog

 

Header Change

I like change.  I like to change the background on my desktop every month.  I’d change furniture around more if I had the floor plan that allowed it.  What I can change is the header on my blog.  I’m trying to build my own Website by using HTML, CSS, etc. I can’t afford the WYSIWYG software like Dreamweaver, so everything has to be free or CHEAP!  I’ve been searching for just right images to use.  I hang out at stockxchng, scrolling through photos and vector images that show some possibility.  

Last weekend while on the stockxchng site I came across the image I now have in the header.  I fell in love with it immediately.  The vibrant red flow of the design caught my eye and set my mind in motion.  My fertile imagination saw the folds of  a satin dress moving to sensual rhythm and pulsing beats.  The hot taste of cinnamon on my tongue as I licked a candy red apple at the fair came to mind as I continued looking at the light and shadows of the photo. 

The creator of the image, Designus, has many more to share with those interested in viewing more of his art.  You may need to set up an account to view Designus’ art, but it’s free and you’re under no obligation to purchase.   

Seeing the image made me smile and I thought… this is what joie de vivre is all about.  What images pop into your mind when you look at the sleek, red header?  Leave a comment and share your thoughts about the gentle wave of red.

 

Of Sun, Roses, and Inspiration

Permission to use Gestation's Child given by Alan Budney. If you love this photo and want to use it in some way, please contact Mr. Budney.

 

One Saturday morning as snow whorled in crazy patterns a quiet, reflective atomsphere permeated through the home I share with my grandson and daughter.  The house became divided into territories of each person’s own making.  The farmhouse table became a place to ponder the past with each turn of the page; a battle of epic proportions between chivalrous champions and malevolent villains played out on the coffee table, while I read the November issue of The Sun.

 

The Sun, a literary magazine, compels readers to dig for inspiration, compassion and a grain of sun-lit truth in its articles.  After reading an issue from cover to cover I ponder my own story ideas and a submission possibility. 

  

I put the magazine down and jumped into a hot shower, one of the best places for inspiration. As I stood in the swirling fog of liquid heat a photograph taken by a friend, Alan Budney, entitled Gestation’s Grandchild came into focus.  It suddenly came to me that Alan unwittingly captured a moment in my life.  The clear pink of the photo reminded me of my ex-husband’s aunt.  She grew a rose along side the house with tender petals and tight buds that bloomed in the truest color of pink I’ve ever seen.

 

My daughter, the only granddaughter on my ex-husband’s side of the family was a cherished creature.  Her birth brought something new, not just to her daddy and me, but also to his entire family.  She was a bundle of pink perfection to my in-laws.  Her every move and breath became a source of wonder to my mother-in-law and her sister, Aunt Helen.  She was Princess Aurora with doting fairy godmothers peering over the edge of the cradle, each one fussing with the whisper-soft blanket, caressing the blonde fuzz that haloed her head, and lightly touching her hand in hopes that a finger might be grasped. 

Aunt Helen, very much like a fairy godmother, small, but loaded with wit announced that she renamed the rose for the pink bundle of life.  The rose, so perfectly clear, so true to the color pink was like the wee one’s complexion…pink perfection. 

 

The pink perfection of an infant grew, maneuvering rites of passage with laughter and sometimes angst.  She continues blossoming with a faint touch of pink still gracing her cheeks.  Dear Aunt Helen faded into herself and passed from this world in November. 

  

Every time I see Alan’s photograph I am reminded of that moment in time when the sun smiled often and a warm breeze softened days.  Within one glorious photo lies life with the potential of a tight bud opening into an elegant blossom that eventually fades dropping petals to a waiting earth.  And so goes the cycle. 

I’ve yet to submit a story to The Sun, but I’m getting closer every day.   

 

*Please take a moment to look at Alan’s photography.  I’m sure you’ll find it hauntingly beautiful and visually sensual, as I do. 

 

You can read more about Alan’s photography here.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Inauguration Musings from the Middle

As I watched the historic moments of a nation unfold before my eyes, I had time to ponder the gravity of what President Barack Obama and the new administration means to me and those nearest and dearest to my heart.  Witnessing the protocol and pomp of high officials seated in just right order made me smile…not because I find it silly, but to realize that within the irreverence of a world where mass media and the ubiquitous Web elicit everything from the obscene to the sublime, etiquette steeped in history ruled the day.  Every step of President Obama’s journey to the White House, carefully choreographed, saw only a slight glitch brought on by Chief Justice John Roberts’ faux pas of the Presidential Oath.  The repeating of the oath is a formality, as by law, the President came into power as of noon January 20^th 2009. 

 

Listening to those words repeated with hesitation and a silent offer from President Obama to Chief Justice Roberts to take a moment brought a brief shadow that disappeared as abruptly as it came.  Like a baseball player shrugging off the first strike, the events continued with grace.  Tears trickled as the first African-American president of the United States finished the oath and flashed a winning smile. 

 

President Obama’s Inaugural Speech rang out with grave sincerity as he spoke of the war in Iraq and Afghanistan, the flailing economy, and thoughtful stewardship of the planet we call home.  From my vantage point on my sofa, the pride of thousands standing shoulder to shoulder on the Mall was palpable.  I may not have been part of the energy of the crowd, but the tentacles of joy and faith that we can indeed overcome our current climate reached into my living room, but not without reflection. 

 

Reaching across the lines of race, religion and political differences, President Obama reminded each of us, “We are the keepers of this legacy.”  From his address rang out a call to action and accountability that applies to everyone. 

 

President Obama, ever the polished orator, gave an eloquent speech, but gave me pause.  At this moment in time, I have one brother, one sister-in-law, a nephew, and a niece recently pink-slipped.  Families continue to lose their homes, unemployment soars in the rust belt, and stretching earnings from the first day to the last day of the month presents untold fears and sleepless nights.  How will all the pomp, elegance, eloquence, and energy affect those of us in the middle where we see a rusting economy and decaying middle class life in small towns?   

 

Some call us the “fly-over zone.”  This is the place people look down upon from jets that speed across the middle in a rush to get from one coast to the other.  Since I moved back to Ohio from the east coast, I’ve come to think that this is a forgotten land.  Yes, the middle was high priority during the campaign when all eyes focus on the swing states of Indiana and especially Ohio with its 20 electoral votes, but what will happen in the future? 

 

With little reason to stay in the rural areas of Ohio, a migration to the south, where manufacturing jobs moved, has all ready begun.  The next census in 2010 may see Ohio losing electoral votes.  Feeling nearly invisible now, I wonder what losing political limelight will do to the embattled states that believed the auto industry would be there forever. 

 

Our new president cautions patience…a wise pronouncement, but I question if every person with high hopes and unflagging faith heard that part of the message.  There are no easy solutions, no magic potions to make life better for those struggling with life’s basic needs.  With all my heart, I want to believe that this new era will bring prosperity, not just to an elite 1% who control nearly 34% of the wealth, but to each person who has the ingenuity, ambition, and tenacity to create a life imagined.   

 

So now the speculation begins from the historians, the pundits, at the water coolers and around tables that seat blue collar workers drinking morning coffee.  What is in this for us?  How long will it take?  My ferverent wish is that the energy of the inauguration of President Obama gathers strength and we find that when we all work toward a common goal…we make a difference.

 

Of Spring Yearnings and Marquez

I need a change in venue. I’m going to move the show from the dark shadows into the spring green light of day.  Snow and winter lingers too long in Ohio and I’m in need of a fresh breeze blowing through an open window.  Since I can’t melt the snow on my own I’ll change the interior of my domain to reflect my wishes. 

I read somewhere that when you have a writing project that needs attention, start by writing about nothing in particular and then segue into serious writing.  This is my practice run for the day.  To be honest, I’m a jealous writer who would prefer to write only what I want to write, but very few writers are paid to do that.  Stephen King, Joan Didion, John Updike, Danielle Steel, Nora Roberts, John Grisham…well you get the idea, these people are the elite few who get to write what they want and paid well for it. Just so you know….I’m not a reader of those authors except for Joan Didion, a little John Updike, and Stephen King’s book on writing.  Some of these writers fail to hold my attention, but obviously each one has mass appeal otherwise publishers would not be eager to keep their books on the shelves of bookstores everywhere.

 While I’m rambling I might as well go into thoughts about authors that I do respect and read. To start with, Gabriel Garcia Marquez sits at the top of my list. He holds my attention with details that place me in the scene as an omnicient presence and I like that.  In my humble opinion his first line in the Love in the Time of Cholera outshines Moby Dick and A Tale of Two Cities by a landslide. “It was inevitable: the scent of bitter almonds always reminded him of the fate of unrequited love.” Now that’s a first line that raises questions and tests the senses with a romantic notion that occurs so seldom. Most of the time I have to slog through the first couple chapters of a book to get into it. Finding a book that I can sink my brain into from the first word is a rare treat.

I want to read Ken Follett’s new book, the something of a sequel to Pillars of the Earth, but I’m a bit nervous about it. Pillars of the Earth is a great read and I’m wondering if it’s possible that it can be done in the same vein with as much spirit.  I sure hope so.  No doubt I’ll ramble on about World without End at some point if I love that book as much as I did Pillars. Kurt Vonnegut, Anne Rice, and Calvin Trillen all tend to hold my interest for whatever reason.  They certainly are not writers who pen a book in like fashion.

I’m warmed up now and ready to go.  Instead of jumping in the car, revving the engine and driving to work, I’ll click my way to a word doc. and settle in for a morning of writing about parties.  

 I leave you with one more quote from the incomparable Marquez, “Of the countless other women who loved him, and even those who gave and received pleasure without loving him, she accepted him for what he really was: a man passing though.”   From Love in the Time of Cholera