Writing Fiction Cures Memoir Blues

 

 

In fiction, anything goes because you make stuff up and nobody knows if you’re bending the truth-kind of like some major players in US politics. Sorry, couldn’t resist.

I decided to take the Nanowrimo challenge in November and produced well over 60, 000 words in a flurry of writing.  I didn’t do the posting or participate in the website boards.  Putting my work out there wasn’t my goal because I wanted to play my cards close to the vest; the writing itself was my prize. I am working on publishing it possibly as an ebook. Writing a novel was not something I planned to do and to my own surprise I really busted through the setbacks I’d been experiencing.

Here is what I learned in my writing my first novel:

• I can do it! I enjoy writing fiction
• Writing fiction frees up creative juices because you’re not worried about facts
• Writers can use their memoir stories for ideas
• Taking on a month-long challenge works for motivation

I  loosely based my novel on my memoir and found that I was able to explore and write about themes that had plagued me for years. Issues, conflicts, tension, and resolution were tackled much more easily in fiction because I wasn’t tethered to exact details. I was more pleased at the end of the day with my work than I had been for all these years slogging through my (unfinished) memoir. The fiction writing was an amazing antidote for memoir blockage! Smooth moves. 🙂

Because I wanted to have my memoir as factual as possible the need to be completely truthful slowed me down and then stopped me. I got bogged down in details and  worrying about offending people. Perfectionism stinks sometimes.  However, I’m back into the writing of my personal story again with less worry-sort of. Now I’m becoming a complete snob in order to finish both works.

 

Journal prompt: take a day or a few weeks/months and write a story from start to finish. It can be as short as a few pages. Maybe you’ll find that this assignment leads you to do more writing and to challenge yourself. Pick one theme or issue from your own life and incorporate it into your story. Write freely. Be as bold and daring or as dry and technical as you want. Don’t edit your rough draft.

Discussion: what did you discover? Did you enjoy writing a story? What issues did you uncover or discover anew? How did your body react (if at all) to writing fiction?

 

 

Neanderthals

 

It was fun when you were alive

and we would laugh together

about men being Neanderthals.

You should see what is going on now.

Well, of course you see it from your view

on the other side.

You do send signals- when light flickers off a hummingbird’s buzzing green wings

just as I lift my head to glance out the window.

And on my recent solitary sojourn to a place

you would surely have adored,

did you feel the intense vastness of mystic water underneath the orange heat?

I did see your reflection in the dolphin’s soft splash amidst a deepening evening at the canal

and with a quickening, a pang, I thought about uncertainty, the irony of

our private language.

And I only wept once at the thought that both of you had gone

home to the angels.

Even the dogs died that year. I was out of my mind over the cold abruptness of it all.

I winced at what most certainly was the dark secret you hinted at,

but I was too much of a cave girl to understand.

 

Journal prompt: write about losing a friend or relative to death. How do you, as a journal keeper, deal with death and dying? What images come to mind when you think of your loved ones who have crossed over.

This poem is in honor of my BFF (and her husband) who died in 1998.

 

 

 

 

 

Thoughts of Grandfather

Above: Grampa’s 90th birthday 1972. My mother made the dress.

July 17th was my maternal grandfather’s birthday. He was born in 1880 and died in 1977. He was my favorite relative. He was a man of few words and a limited education-he completed the eighth grade to be exact. Then he went to work on the family farm. When the farm was sold, he worked on Henry Ford’s farm. My grandmother, who died before I was born, took in teachers for room and board. She worked as a seamstress.

Grampa L. worked as a laborer his whole life. After he stopped working on farms, he was employed as a custodian at the local high school. One time he got on my case for throwing away pencils. He saved pencils long after the erasers were tough and unusable. Throwing out something useful was simply not done.

For as long as I can remember, Grampa would get up at 5:00 am like clockwork and put on his green janitor uniform, even after he retired. He lived by a strict schedule. His little unassuming house was always neat and clean, every tool in its place. He grew raspberries, corn, sunflowers and rhubarb in his back yard in a small Michigan village. When he let you slip your little hand into his, you felt warm and protected. He was decent. He was kind.

                                     

Grampa could make you obey just with a glance, and you knew he would take care of you while in his presence. I miss him and feel him on the other side. Even though my grandfather on my father’s side was a prominent and well-known physician, I favored my earthy grandfather who said “you ain’t” and “well, I guess it’s “prid’near quittin’ time.”

You could always tell when Grampa was in town. His red Mustang would be parked by the curb near the post office or  in the lot at the grocery store. He drove it until he no longer had a license, probably in his mid-80’s because I remember him driving to Cleveland alone in his 80’s. It was depressing when he couldn’t drive anymore. The Mustang went to one of my cousins.

 I remember Grampa taking me with him on errands in the village.  I’d cringe as he drove too slowly in second gear. His beloved cherry red car lurched and sputtered as he neared the end of the street. He paid no attention to the lurching. We’d get there, everything was in a half mile radius. He’d turn his head as far as he could, about 15 degrees, at the corner. I hunkered down politely until the turn was made.

Each time we visited, he’d make sure to mention my sister and me at the check out counter. He’d announce to the clerk, “These are my granddaughters. They’re visiting from Ohio.” His pride made me feel good. His words let me know I was loved in a way that is unique, unconditional; the affection is not contingent on  rank, employment, money or marital status.

What was said in private was another matter entirely.

Grampa’s handwriting was perfect and slow, like his other movements. He never failed to write me little notes in which he would include a stick of Wrigley’s licorice or Juicy Fruit gum.

He liked to read Westerns and when we were little girls, he would hide the books that had bad words in them. The words were mild compared to today’s ever-present in-your-face, irritating, unavoidable vulgarity. One time I snuck and anxiously prowled through the  book until I found the offensive word. It was “pecker.”

Can you believe it? Gone are the days of good and proper verbiage. Gone.

God bless you, Grampa. I can’t wait to see you again on the other side.

Journal prompt: write about your grandparents. Did you know your grandparents? Who is (or was) your favorite? What words and feelings would you use to describe them?

 

© 2016 Susan E. Rowland

Women, Weight, and Writing, an Interview with Amye Archer

 

Before we get started with the interview with our featured author, I want to take some time to add my condolences and prayers for everyone who is grieving from the recent tragedies in Orlando, Milwaukee, Baton Rouge, and Dallas.

                                              *****************

Almost every woman I know is self-critical about body image. It’s rampant, beginning in childhood or teen years. Happiness is shattered by the realization that all your self-worth is wrapped up into a concept society deems important. You are a clothing size. And if you don’t fit the bill, you are “nothing.” You become someone who is overlooked, ridiculed, and shamed. You have to be someone who is “easy on the eyes.” Being overweight is the new group to hate. It’s a painful membership to a club nobody enjoys.

                                                      *****************

I’ve been reading women’s memoirs on body issues and relationships.  Fat Girl, Skinny really hit home for me because Archer has the uncanny ability to tease the funny bone while talking about sensitive issues. A few emotions are prevalent in writing about life and eating disorders. There is anger, grief, frustration and fear. We eat for comfort. We eat for love but the satisfaction doesn’t last.

The goal is to deal with our thoughts as habits. Then we can cherish and love our physical bodies. And, we don’t do this fight alone.

It’s interesting that Archer talks about overweight women as a “marginalized group.” Writing a memoir about your body is like walking out on a diving board naked. There comes a time when you jump in the water, naysayers be damned.

          “I am down almost thirty pounds now, and for the first time I can remember, I am actually inviting a man to touch my body.” AA

For Archer, joining Weight Watchers offered her the support, the challenge  to get fit, and the joy of belonging. She began to reach her goals.

“I have been humiliated most of my adult life. I have worked so hard at being accepted, so sweet and nice, always over compensating for the lack of aesthetic on the outside.”  AA

Below is my interview with writer, Amye Archer, Fat Girl, Skinny. You can find her here.

 

 

SR: What made you want to write a memoir?

 AA: I’m afraid that my writing a memoir was more necessity than choice. I have a difficult time writing from an imaginary perspective. My own voice is my own, and even when I try to write fiction, the character is often exactly me. So, yes, there was a point where I felt that this story needed to be told, but I also never felt there was any other way to tell it than from my own voice.

SR: Do you journal or write your thoughts during the day or did you just sit down and decide to write a book?

 AA: I do not journal, but it’s important to know that my writing is happening in my head at all times. If you knew me in real life, you would know me to be a little clumsy, forever preoccupied, and often forgetful. And that is simple because I am always writing, and that writing takes up a lot of my mental space.

I’m also not a big fan of disciplined writing, or of “forcing it.” I sit and write when the muse is with me.

“I spent years feeling responsible for someone else.” -AA

SR: As a co-dependent in recovery, the above sentence screamed out at me and made me realize how much addiction to approval in any form can be  about relationships and childhood wounds.

 AA: I think it’s important to realize that there is a strong correlation between obesity and codependency. For me, as I grew more and more unhappy with my relationship, I found comfort in food. Sometimes it works in reverse. But there is oftentimes a connection clearly, because when we let ourselves get to morbid obesity-which I was at 275-we are clearly not taking care of ourselves, but are often great at taking care of others.

 It was a hard lesson, the idea that we must care for ourselves above all others. We live in a society to which the concept of self-love and self-care can be demonized, especially when you’re a mother. But it’s important and necessary for survival.

SR: How did your relationship with your sister factor into your writing? IE, family issues about truth and relationships are intense when writing memoir. What would you say to memoir writers who are excavating old wounds?

AA: I don’t advocate writing off family members, but the old adage is true: if they truly love you, they’ll come around.

I’m very fortunate in that I have artists in my immediate family, so the whole “laying it out there for the sake of the art” is an acceptable practice in my family. However, I understand that is not always the case, especially for those writing abuse/survivor memoir.

 My best advice is that you stay true to the message of your story. Never forget that there are people in your exact situation who can be reached through your storytelling. It takes tremendous courage to write a memoir of any kind, but it’s also a great responsibility. Be true, be honest, don’t hide or shrink from the truth and you’ll do fine.

SR: Thank you, Amye! You give everyone who struggles with body image  a feeling of hope. I love that you give us answers.  

“This is my own life taking shape around me.” -Amye Archer

                                                           *******

Right now, I am happy by being down about 12 pounds and am leaving sugar OUT of the house.

As a writer and artist, my goal is to be a healthy role model for my grandchild who has cystic fibrosis. I think about how we didn’t have so much junk food when I was a child.  Food was real food, even though we ate meat, we didn’t have access to so much processed food. For me, trauma and anxiety influenced my lonely food addiction. Now it’s a battle for health. It’s been my lifelong struggle to accept myself for who I am and not what I look like. The challenge of life’s journey for many is around learning to love the self. In turn, we become of service to others. It seems that the key to happiness has to do with how we view ourselves. I feel that gratitude is an essential factor in healing.

Dear readers, I hope you continue journaling, writing, doing art, playing music or whatever form of creative expression inspires you. The door to the path of healing is always open.

                                                       

 “Hang on. You will become one of us. We will accept you.” -Weight Watchers advisor to Amye Archer.

If you are moved to contribute any comments or questions, please feel free.

Journal prompt: write about weight and body image. Have you ever struggled with over-eating or addiction in any form? Use pictures and collage in your journal.

 

Quotes are from Fat Girl, Skinny. Art is mine.

 

Copyright ©2016 by Susan E. Rowland

“I” is for Intense: Four More Book Reviews

Here we go with more book reviews. These are intense reads and not intended for those easily offended by real life.

 

After Perfect, a Daughter’s Memoir, Christina McDowell, 2015.

Think some people have it all? Well, having it all can change. And you never know what is going on behind closed doors. McDowell is the middle child of three daughters growing up in affluence, enjoying luxurious vacations, flying in Daddy’s private plane and receiving gobs of affection. But family life comes crashing down. Christina’s father, Tom Prousalis is indicted for fraud and sent to prison after a plea deal. The worst part of Christina’s story is the continuing betrayal by her father who uses his own daughter for financial gain and ruins her credit. Christina moves to California and after financial tumbles and problems, goes from Beverly Hills to scrappy neighborhoods and low paying jobs. Even after her father is out of prison, he continues to lie to his daughter. She ends up with a hundred thousand dollar debt added to her résumé.

But! This is a story of triumph. She perseveres and emerges to tell the tale.

Loved McDowell’s story-telling ability and it was a 5 star page-turner for me. I was mad and frustrated by her dad’s shenanigans throughout the story. Another takeaway from After Perfect was how cheap some Hollywood stars can be-I.E they DON’T tip well. If you want to know what is going on in the lives of the rich and famous, work for them!

Two or Three Things I Know for Sure, Dorothy Allison, 1995.

      “…if we are not beautiful to each other, we cannot know beauty in any form.”- Dorothy Allison.

If you read Bastard Out of South Carolina, you’re familiar with Allison’s impeccable writing. Two or Three Things is a small book, 94 pages of text. It’s tough to read because people just shouldn’t do bad things to children. White, poor, Southern, and country is about as glamorous as a junkyard mutt. Allison writes, “ My uncles went to jail like other boys go to high school.” There is no heartwarming charm in incest and violence, nor is there comfort in the brutal realization that one is gay, lustful, loving and aggressive. Allison realizes she is not like the others and is attracted to women, long before the term “gay” became chic or even easy to say.

I am captivated by Allison’s writing skills. No minced words, nothing overdone, fantastic dialogue and timing-it’s all right there. Yet, she manages to teach and give the reader moments of tenderness. How do children ever get through trauma? Over and over I ask myself the question. Most great writers and artists have struggles.

Reading One or Two Things is helping me with my writing –when instructors tell you to be concise, Allison’s style is a perfect example. Cheers!

 

 Education of a Felon, Edward Bunker, 2011

Bunker is a testimony to talent born out of delinquency and time spent in prison. This is the searing truism of writing what you know.

His is a life on the streets except for a time when he is housed by an aunt, and later, by the wealthy, frustrated Louise Wallis, wife of mogul producer, Hal Wallis. He wants to do right but lack of a stable family home, or some genetic hot-bloodedness makes him a chronic runaway by age ten. “I was a habitual wanderer by then.” Then he starts getting into trouble.

Bunker’s story is straight up Southern California-Hollywood history, bedecked with palm trees, glamour, fancy cars, wannabes, liquor, drugs, and prostitutes. Bunker is a man’s man. He writes descriptively and with edge-of-your-seat skill. His nuances are incredible.

His early childhood is the pits. He listens to loud fights between his parents and soon they are divorced.  He lives in a run of foster homes and military school where he is rebellious and is beaten up often-a theme that follows Bunker’s life like a shadow. It’s sad. It’s overwhelming. It’s brutal.

The reader finds herself wanting him to succeed, to be loved and cherished. It happens, but not until years in prison line his face and memories of San Quentin fracture part of his spirit.  There is a happy ending. Bunker is released in 1975 and emerges as an iconic writer.  He marries and has a son. Absolutely loved it. What a talent.

Bunker passed away in 2005. His book No Beast So Fierce is based on his life.

                                                     

It Was Me All Along, a memoir, Andie Mitchell, 2015.

I love her from the first page. I feel all her anxieties because I was a nervous child. Any emotional eater will relate to Mitchell’s life story. “Being different,” “struggling to fit in” and other phrases are almost cliché among memoir writers. If food is love then those of us who crave love will never be at peace. Unless we fight for positive change, or die trying, one of life’s greatest pleasures can be a cruel joke.

Creative types, artists, and musicians are often cast from the mold that implies an almost desperate sense of “otherness.” Empaths such as Mitchell feel everything. She writes, “In an ideal world, a child learns eating as an intuitive practice.” Mitchell is a child who cannot stop craving food. Her mother works constantly and Mitchell hates her absences. Her father is a highly creative individual who loses his job and is reduced to screaming fits of anger and depression. Mitchell, like most children, is the absorbent observer of adult behavior. She placates herself by eating food and then has to suffer from rejections. “No fatties.” Life is mean. People are consistently obsessed with image and size.

Mitchell has an uncanny ability to let the reader in on her life and shares how she fought to become a balanced person while working in film production. I don’t want to be a spoiler…it has a happy ending.

I laughed and cried through It Was Me All Along. Great job, Andie!

Those of you who have never had food issues or weight problems, well…to put it politely…. go to hell. Seriously though, I hope you never have to suffer. This book is timely since Oprah Winfrey announced she is doing the Weight Watchers thing. Is it all about the money or are we doomed to forever be spotlighted by our skin, race, gender, and body size?

Journal prompt: Read a memoir. Write a review. Talk about why you chose this particular memoir and how you relate to the writer. If you aren’t interested in memoir or autobiography, write about what interests you.

The Help and My Story-Musings on the Coming New Year

Some new year musings. It’s long one.

I enjoy the approach of the new year but I don’t make resolutions. Instead I focus on “wannas,” not to be mistaken for “wannabe.” I don’t wannabe anyone other than myself. My take on most of what others’ opinions might be, at least right now in my life, is-who cares? I know who I am, I know what I do and what I don’t do.

And of course I care, but at a certain age alignment with universal values becomes more important than what the neighbors think of your lawn or lack of it. And I’m sure when it comes to trying to sell my own work I’ll have to tone it down…somewhat. When in Rome….

What brought all this about?

It is the topic of self-respect and the quest for becoming a better person…and my personal goal until I take my last breath. Jesse and I haven’t watched the popular movies about “The Help” and all that. I am the “Help” and have always been the “Help” even though I come from a background where we were more than comfortable. When I was working in a bookstore some dude came in, took a look at me and said “Is this the new help?” I kid you not. One of my former bosses used to introduce me as “This is Sue, she works for me.” Yes. I did. And that is how you are supposed to act when you work for them. You play the role, you know the role, and you sure as heck learn a lot about people.  I’ve never been the doctor, lawyer,  or chief group; I’ve always been in the support system category. Sometimes I get a little twinge of something, maybe it is envy, but in my heart of hearts I don’t envy anyone. I worked for 30 plus years for low wages-not that it means anything. Maybe I wasn’t smart enough to land higher paying jobs. I’ll reveal more in my book.  I did what I could, when I could. I found a niche and I stayed. What anyone else does is up to them. I would advise young folks to go for the highest paying career you can get, without going into debt. And travel the world. How else can we learn about others? You are no less or no more than another person on this earth. Ever. Nobody is “above” you. They might have a more prestigious title, have more money, more influence, more power, better looks…but they are not above you. They go out just as they came in, same as you.

I guess you would say I’ve always been a free spirit with a strong alliance for justice. Now let’s move on.

My point is I don’t need to go live in a Zen Center to find myself and to pare back on luxuries to create an atmosphere of humility or humbleness. I did that for many years, while washing CLOTH diapers in a ‘shit bucket” with gloves on, the old way. We didn’t have plastic diapers.The shit bucket was always used for diapers, nothing else. People don’t know how to clean nowadays. People don’t deal with shit. Mothers and fathers just clean their babies (hopefully) then they roll it up and throw it in the garbage so that it all ends up in a crap-laden land fill.

Back to my tough lifestyle story–so, once the diapers were rinsed, I water poured the gray water onto a separate compost pile that was carefully kept away from the regular garden compost. You had to heap topsoil or dirt onto the pile the cover it with hay and a bit of lime,  for decomposition. You leave that alone for at least six months. Enticing isn’t it?

Then I would transfer the damp rinsed diapers in a plastic bag. When we would go to town once a week, I would throw them in the regular washing machine ( luxury!) at the laundromat.

I did that with two children because we lived way out in the country, back up in the mountains where we didn’t have electricity and indoor plumbing. I hauled water and chopped wood. I worked at the log jams and did stream clearance, the women working right along with the men. I cut firewood with a chain saw to earn extra money. I was strong, never worried about “weight.” We didn’t have luxuries and I never really missed them at the time. What I missed was having a life without arguing, without verbal abuse, without condemnation. If you are in an abusive relationship, get out. As quickly as you can, just get out.

I got out and later on I met a good man.

I just remember a few paragraphs in Louis Armstrong’s autobiography. I think he was talking about this grandmother who took in washing for a living. In fact, most of her customers were ladies of the night. He shared her sunny outlook on life and the fact that she NEVER envied anyone, nor did she disparage her lot in life. She was the ultimate “Pollyanna” before the genre of positive thinking ever got started.
Norman Vincent Peale was one of the first known Anglo positive thinkers. But you KNOW Anglo people did not originate all this oozy gooey feel good stuff. Not to say everything boils down to race, but lack of awareness is truly a great “sin.” It is white privilege not to be aware, now, it is a class privilege not to be aware. Most people are hard-working and optimistic, but they are fed up. And it is not about political correctness. PC matters, Black Lives Matter, Native American lives matter, and protocol matters. Respect matters.  That is why I am voting Bernie Sanders. Until Clinton addresses GMO foods (think cancer and tumors) fracking (think pollution, toxic drinking water, and skin ulcers), and class disparity, I am not supporting her. I wanted to believe that a woman could be in the White House. But something just isn’t right at this point.

It’s going to be depressing not having Obama in the White House. I don’t know about you, but Jesse and I cried when we was elected both times. We sat on the couch in the living room….and nobody called. Finally I called my soul sister, Velma Sue, because she always understands me. Jesse and I were shocked. WHERE were all our friends? NOBODY called.  We wept for the historical breakthrough, for the victory, for the battle and all the lives that had been lost, and are being lost by injustice. But, I’m getting off track.

As we know mainstream American culture and ideology has its ROOTS from ‘other’ ethnicities and populations-originating with Native American, African, Caribbean Islanders, Asian, Alaskan, Hawaiian, Hispanic, European, Portuguese and so on. We might have a tough time melting in the melting pot of the US, but we are certainly all going to melt if we don’t change our dependence on fossil fuels, and our insistence on fouling, destroying, and decimating our lovely home-the Earth.

Here are two things I’ve been mulling over for the New Year:

1) I wanna change some things & of course I want to change myself. Since Christmas I did a bunch of leg lifts and counter push ups. Here’s how you do Sue’s push ups. Stand at any counter in the house, straighten your arms, lean in, bending elbows and then push back. IE, It is a standing push up. Do at least 10 pushes. I am on a mission to love my body more. Am out for a walk daily and I’m doing more minutes on the treadmill. One day at a time, as the saying goes.

2) I wanna use LESS plastic. Even when we are conscious about healthy eating we still end up bringing in plastic to the house. I still use bubble wrap in my book business because it is light and doesn’t make the shipping weight increase. Somehow, slowly I am going to decrease the use of plastic in my life. Cheers!

Journal prompt: did you make any New Year’s resolutions? What do you want to do this year? Or do you feel resolutions are a bunch of hooey?

 

Soul Scenery

Every day the images return

to strengthen a faltering resolve.

Maybe it was the scent of woods or faint hint of ocean droplets

over the ridges,

beyond pines and redwoods…

nothing is the same.

As I grasp for some semblance of hope,

any kind of resolution, for a song, a feeling,

I pick up your memory, falling into your arms

and begin again.

You were the only one who understood.

 

Discussion: For me, nature is the same as having a steadfast friend. I am never bored with landscapes. Each tree, each sunset, every bend in a country road or building in a neighborhood becomes part of life. I feel landscape is a part of my soul.

Journal prompt: Write a poem to your favorite landscape. Does it make you excited and wanting to dance? Peaceful, stormy, angry, powerful? What emotions would you attach to your favorite  landscapes? Add photos, drawings, or collage to your journal entry.

Pink Snake Moan

It has been a long while since I wrote on my blog, but my excuse is I AM writing.  It’s just crappy rough draft stuff and it is taking forever.

My journals are filled with longhand writing however. It works for me. I would even say it’s better than sex, but as an older woman, I’d be fooling myself to think that anyone is even interested. And yes, I’m pissed off. Not about the sex, about the news. Look at the news. Even when I consciously avoid the news, I’m angry. My favorite Facebook group is “Pissed Off Women Over 50.” If you want to really know what is going on, join that group. It’s like the Daily Show without the jokes about….mmm…never mind.

I’m on a low-budget retreat, you know, what they call a staycation? I’m  in my hiding place binge reading. How can I describe heaven? Just like this, right now. Heaven is binge-reading without shame or apology. No, you can’t come and visit me right now. I’m busy! I made a list of books, made time to read them, cancelled all plans except the treadmill, and plopped down with my book stack. Honey, I am stacked!

I’ll share my list with you later.

Like the illusive pink snake with the pretty eyes (not poisonous) who came to visit a few weeks ago, I’m relishing in my delicious inertia, the archetype of the languid serpent sunning itself on a rock in summer. I’m deep into long private sittings and not sharing my innermost thoughts.

I didn’t update anything. I’m sorry. Right now I don’t care. But I still love you. It’s not you, it’s me.

I decided to see what happens when I don’t do blog entries. The obvious answer is: nothing. Nothing happens. No pressure, no gain, no stress. No feedback, no public effort, no entertainment, no sharing, no drawings, no photos, no painting. No new readers. No interaction. I won’t. Hands folded across my chest in oppositional defiance. I resist. The bridge is out, road closed, gone fishin’. No challenge.  No letdown. No widgets. No sidebar. No updates. No fear. No walking the talk. No talk, period. No hype. No high stakes. No tension. No fight. No struggle. Siesta time. Budget cuts. No entry.

Nobody cares.

No pain, no gain. Oh shut up!

So if I don’t try, I’m safe. Secure. Tormented. The drill sergeant inner critic  bullies me constantly, demanding that I stay with the goal no matter how tortoise-like I’ve become.

But safety is a total farce, an illusion like a run-on sentence, a lonely old political wannabe, a buffoon wearing a hairpiece, a rogue with paid admirers riding down an escalator and boasting about how rich and smart he is. Yes, I’m pissed off! Are you fucking kidding me? You are paying attention to this maniac? He should be in show business, not politics, dummy! Everyone knows how insecure a Gemini can be, and I am a Gemini/Snake. Before you shiver at my tendency to bite, please know I don’t, well, sometimes, but it’s not poisonous. With my Venus in Taurus placement, you’d have to really be an a-hole to get me mad, but since journaling and writing can be hideously pathetic and self-absorbed, that’s my story. Don’t step on me!  I am snakey, reserved, prone to long hibernations of inactivity and solitude. Let me be in my hidey-hole just a little longer. Then I’ll come out and tell you a story.  A true story.

Did you know in Asian astrology those born under the sign of the serpent are good luck?

So, I have been writing. I’ve done a lot of writing. I’m up to age 17 in my memoir, aka ‘memeroid.’ I’ve even skipped forward and written some new pieces. Yet,  resistance is what happens when you’re at the part that you don’t want to admit. You made a few poor choices. But survived. You chose. You deal with it. Or not.

Reading other people’s memoirs is inspiring as well as intimidating.

Limbo is just another name for hiatus.

“Coming soon” is what I’m using for bait during this fishing trip. Please don’t give up on me, I’ll do my best to give you something to bite on….later. I can promise it will be as tasty and flavorful a treat as I can muster.

Meanwhile, lots of love. You haven’t heard from me because “I’m writing.”

Two part journal prompt: 1) what do you like to read?  Do you write reviews? Do you keep books that you love to read and do you ever read them more than once? Write a book review. Don’t mince words or be too polite.

2) As a writer or blogger, do you have times where you simply have nothing to say or become challenged in how to deliver your message? Do you believe in the notion of writer’s block? I claim not to have it or believe in it, and I still don’t believe in it. Write about writing.

For me a writing hiatus is an oppositional thing.

Does any of this make sense?

Writer’s Lament

 

The first waking light of dawn

makes my stomach tingle tightly,

as I force my eyes open, glancing at the clock

which has ceased to hold me in custody

like the prisoner of time I used to be.

I try to re-write the sentence in my head– anxious, grasping,

missing again, veering away

from what it was I was trying to say.

 

In the afternoon road- walking,

responsibilities keep me stalking through sentences.

I pace in the back yard, not seeing anything;

Then flop on my back for a stolen moment

the softness of  cushiony earthen mattress on my aching spine,

I’m feeling the phrase emerging from between my ears,

from behind my eyes.

They did the best they could.

 

 

Journal prompt: write about writing. If you write memoir, what somatic issues come about during the process? Describe what your body feels like when writing the truth. Do the words just flow out from the page or the keyboard or do you have certain routines that help get the words out?

 

 

The Scent and Moods of Mother Earth

Seasonal scents-The prompt is about the scent of summer. I’m doing a freer interpretation…this is a rough draft of my memoir in poetry.

Note: I changed tense in the middle of the poem deliberately…bare bones…

The earth is a woman.
When I was young the changing seasons reveled my senses.
Hard cold endless winter made brighter by the sun as she turned
my bedroom window gave way to
eager smells from the sometimes open screen bringing life in again
blooms open and trees turned
fields swelled up to the glorious greens.
My woman friend wears an endearing eau de fresh earth and bark.

The earth is a woman.
I roamed, I roamed.
Time tended the years, deliberately taking leave of the Southern Ohio balmy woods
I flew to Oakland to explore ivy laden hillside streets and alleyways to grand avenues.
Laced curtains billowed in bus filled streets as sociable angels on bikes dwelled with truth seekers and poets.
A student, lover, attendant, and mother, when the baby is a year old we make the northerly trek
to the mountains of my power days. Mountain woman walks with her friend.
My earthy friend is the duskiest most delicate sweetness and she never leaves me
when tears drop on the ground.

The earth is a woman
my companion is forever a sanctuary, her moods can be soft or rough or raging.
The scent is manzanita, water-kissed pine and redwood, deep and sturdy sphagnum oaks
hold me

in a funnel of comfort as I transformed from young woman to middle age.
Then, as gorges deepened in the meadow and trees fell, so did people and the lines
on my face, your odor is still as sweet as baby’s breath with new spring rain.
I cling to your wisdom, your stories, and searching, searching,
The children leave home all grown.
The summers roll on lovely and lavender, full of jasmine and rose.

The earth is a woman.
My man becomes discontent the quarrels erupt as plump, pregnant summers give birth to
wood-smoked fall. We adventure out, unsure, then make a plan
to move to the sparkled and bright-aura desert where my woman friend throws off
the sent of sage a turning couture of fashionable brevity. She offers newness-the
nascent wafting – sand after the monsoon, blossoms nudge rabbits to hop and lizards to dance.
The desert broom, mesquite and palo verde make a wreathe around my head
as creosote and ragweed change my sinus cavities

and his will to live. Heart surgery. Success.

The earth is a woman.
I am evolving faster than she, but still my soul opens in quiet gratitude.
Her  sensuous scent is a daily gift of ceremony, sunrise and sunset
accompanied by gaudy displays of color and drama.
How can you smell so darling and then so foul, as when a big saguaro decays?
Later I laugh only after squelching the memory of the nasty rot
Right in the front yard, the odor so bad, I thought there had been a murder in the neighborhood.
Could it be horse in death? No, a giant had fallen.
I become the aging woman, my earthen friend has shown me a thing or two.

She wins, hands down, but bellows out an uncharacteristic command.
I am she on whom you all stand. I feed you, console, bathe, give you lovely teas and coffees, fruits
and vines with bursting melons, medicines for your bruises.
But yet, you trample me, drill me, extract my blood and juice, attacking me.
Stop hurting me and raping me!

Tell your humans to stop.
If you do not stop I will send more hurricanes, and big earthquakes and I will
deliver a rage more devastating
than your puny, tainted interpretations of a wisdom you call ‘God.’
Vengeance is mine, sayeth the earth.
I’ve had enough now. I might leave you all behind, if you don’t change.
The earth is a woman.