the writing life, part 2

i used to worry that i would run out of words. if i didn’t use them in a story then they’d be forever lost in the tangle of my mind. i have since realized that it is the complete opposite. when i no longer hold onto my words, when i let them banter about and wander into the unknown that is when the flood-gates open wide and the ocean of my mind rushes forth to spill out onto the page. the momentum of thoughts are pushed along by my hand scribbling over the lines as fast as they can, trying to keep up with the flow of words pouring out of my mind.

the writing life, part 1

i tried to write this morning and came to the conclusion that writing with children, and a cat, and a husband, and life is like trying to drive a car with the sun shining brightly in your eyes, oncoming traffic is completely lost to the glare of the golden light, and you say a little prayer, hold on tightly to the wheel as you attempt to steer yourself straight and stay within the lines. when all hope has been lost, in that moment when you throw your hands up into the air and say, “alright! i give up!” when you begin to sway and swerve and sidle along the edge, when you deviate from the lines that is when the true magic happens.

the lines, after all, are only guidelines, the merest hints of suggestion as to the path that should be taken. when you cross those lines and the edges of your road are nothing but a blur of boundary that is when inspiration takes hold of you, and you are no longer the driver, you are the passenger, seeing the sights as they fly past the window of your mind.

to muse, or not to muse ...

on occasion i have been known to read psychology articles. most of them have been pilfered from old magazines and all them have been known to leave me with a new psychological profile. i am suddenly exhibiting every conceivable nuance hinted at within the most recently read articles: obsessive-compulsive, add and adhd, all run rampantly through my days and every thought becomes analyzed to the n-th degree.
the only time i did not adhere to my base instincts of psychological mimicry was when an article mentioned a disorder in which a person exhibits a compulsion to write. this disorderly behavior has been known to be exhibited only during times of intense stress. the author of this article then went on to state that she herself began to exhibit this behavior, shortly after being diagnosed and medically treated for post-partum depression; another article has made mention that the entire human population, the entire society of humanity, is one giant ball of stress - so my next thought is: what constitutes "intense" stress? and have we become so convoluted in our interpretations, so abstract and banal, that we can no longer appreciate the muses? have we drifted so far away from the realm of creativity that rather than enjoying the thrall of outrageous spontaneity and dynamic conjecture we now prefer to medicate ourselves into mindless oblivion instead of basking in the glow of the muses?

writing = cutting

you tear open your skin and bleed words out onto the paper. the blood drips, forming inkblots and the Rorschach in your mind begins to find meaning within the spots, shades of light and dark at first, and then the grays begin to form shapes, that turn into letters, which turn into words and tumble out of control before your body can remember to clot the wound and it all comes out in a bloody mess across the page. smearing and streaking images that form plots and stories begin to take shape and that's when the blood begins to clot and the story dies beneath your hand before it can reach the fulfillment of a whole body experience.

happy endings

i have never believed in happy endings. fairy tales were absurdities to me, until i began to dig deeper into those tales and soon found that the versions i had been told, the versions which i had grown to hate, were not the original content. for example, in cinderella: after the ball, when the prince is looking for the girl he danced with, one step-sister cuts off her toes and the other one cuts off her heels, in order to fit their feet into the glass slipper. the blood dripping from their stockings causes the prince to realize they are not the one he’s looking for. at the end of the tale, cinderella’s step-sisters are blinded by crows pecking out their eyes.

not exactly the happy ending you remember, is it?

recently i realized the irony of my disbelief in happy endings is that my life is one happy ending after another … i was born with a tumor on my tailbone. the surgeon told my mother that i might never be able to walk. not only was i walking by the time i was 10 months old, but i loved to dance and was in countless ballet recitals … in 2^nd grade i began having numerous bladder infections. the same surgeon that removed the tumor found two cysts on either side of my bladder. he removed the cysts and implanted little tubes to re-connect my bladder to my kidneys. my body didn’t reject the implants, but i had nerve damage from the surgery and now needed to use a catheter many times during the day. i hated the idea of having to do this every day, especially since i needed to use it at school, and would need to be excused from class and go to the nurses office. in 6^th grade a classmate saw me walking from class to the nurse’s office with a bag of my supplies and he told everyone that i had to wear diapers. to this day i’m still not sure if i was able to convince them otherwise. it would take years for me to accept that i had to do this for the rest of my life, and years more for me to be comfortable enough with it that i could tell people about it, and years more than that for my body to correct the damage that had been done. it was only after i became pregnant and carried my children to full term, that my body re-built the muscles it needed, or did something close to miraculous and healed the trauma of that long ago surgery … pregnancy was another miracle in and of itself. due to my health issues i was told there was a chance i wouldn’t be able to have children. i was told this at a very young age, possibly at age 8 when i had bladder surgery. obviously at that time i had other thoughts going through my mind and the notion of never having my own children was not a concern. during my high school years there were many girls who knew they wanted to have children, there were even a few who already had names chosen for them, but i never really saw the point in it. perhaps this was because i wasn’t sure my body could have children, but i think most of my reasoning was because i was more interested in going to college and finding a place to be away from my family, rather than making one of my own.

my world is just chock full of ironic happy endings like this!

16

16 years ago i was 16 years old. the year was 1994. i was a junior in high school and just beginning to realize my world did not need to revolve within the walls of narragansett regional. i did not know where i was going to go, but i knew i wanted to get out of town and go somewhere where no one knew me or my parents. going to the same high school as your parents sounds all comforting and nostalgic, but when you're living through it, it can be hell.
i can't tell you how many times i was told: your father sang in the chorus, why aren't you singing in the chorus? your father acted in the musicals, why aren't you in any of the plays? the one time i tried out for a play was a disaster! i couldn't keep my voice from shaking and my mouth tried it's best to form words that were just a jumble of letters printed on the page. it was within that moment of sheer, utter panic, i realized that years of dance recitals were not preparation for getting up on stage and speaking in public.

what i didn't know in march of 1994 was that i'd find a class that i truly enjoyed. it was a creative writing class and even though the teacher, mrs. koziol, went to high school with my father, she didn't place any of his accomplishments on my shoulders. there were no expectations other than the requirements of the class.

our first assignment was to write about our lives up until this point and the next class we'd read them aloud in class. i was utterly and completely truthful in this assignment and was very reluctant to read anything aloud, especially given my previous experience with auditions. when i expressed my reluctance to her, rather than insisting that i do it or fail the assignment, she let me stay after school and read my work to only her.

after the assignment was finished and i was riding the late bus home, i began to wonder if i shouldn't have been that honest, maybe i should have edited a few events, or just not mentioned others. if i had done that then maybe there wouldn't have been a need for me to stay after school and i could have read it in front of everyone. the days between handing in the assignment and receiving the grade were long and torturous.

i can't remember what the final grade on the assignment was but i do remember that she gave me positive feedback. she liked my honesty and she liked my writing style. it was in this class that i learned to write about my life, without editing of any kind, and it was in this class that i learned that i liked to write. this class was when i realized that a pen and paper where closer to my creative muse than any musical instrument, song, or play could ever be.

16 years later and i'm still writing!

spring morning

within that hour of sunrise, just as the sun begins to reach over the tops of the trees, the forest awakens to greet the day with bird song and squirrels chasing after each other round and around the trunks of the tall red pines, hoping to win over the affection of the other while vying for territory all at the same time. if you walk among the trees within this hour you can almost hear them wake as they hold the silence of the night within them, around them like the melting blanket of snow that covers their surrounding grounds.

the silence of the night becomes held within the trees at the hour of dawn. they hold it within themselves, away from the bright light of day, protected until the sun sets and night awakens again.

the light of day is held within the trees at the hour of dusk. they hold it within themselves, away from the darkness of night, protected until the sun rises and day awakens again.

the duality of night and day, darkness and light held within the trees is also held within me. i am a creature of great darkness and depths able to shine brightly in the morning sun.

listing

i am obsessed with making lists. to do lists, grocery lists, packing lists, books i have read, books i want to read, books my children want to read, movies i want to see, dvds i want to own, dvds my children want to own. i'll stop in the middle of almost anything in order to make a list.
i used to think this fetish was the result of some inherited trait from my mother, like my love of books and bouts of periodic insomnia are from my father (not for the first time i wonder if these two traits are inherited synergistically, that a love of books inherently brings to fruition periodic insomnia and without periodic insomnia one cannot appreciate the value of a good book), but i also wonder if it's the concreteness of the list itself. the ability to see at a glance, this is what i've accomplished, see what i have done this week? of course, there is the reverse of that as well, which becomes more and more obvious as the tasks that are accomplished get crossed off the ones that do not are held in bold relief among the slashes and zig zags of one's accomplishments, but whenever i get to that point the paper is usually full and then there's a need to write a new list on a fresh piece of paper with bold new goals along with the old.
i have never been without a list of things to do, nor have i been far from paper and pen. in this digital age am i the only one that does not have a palm pilot/iphone/blackberry attached to their bodies? i'm not sure i'd get the same sense of satisfaction from a push of a button. it'd be like driving a car, but having the car park for you, which by the way was an option when we purchased the prius - who the hell wants their car to park it for them? i can just imagine the accident reports: i'm sorry officer i don't know what happened. i pushed the auto-park button and the car just crashed. talk about limited liability - yeesh!

i made it!

ok, so i'm here.

it's been a really long time since i've done this, at least four years, but closer to seven, maybe eight. i was blogging when blogging was an odd-ball thing to do and i guess it's sort of like riding a bike, but there are no pedals and the handle bars are sleek little buttons that only my fingers know their way across the wild terrain.

my mind has always held a tendency to wander down dark alleys and then with a flash of recognition it'll turn a 360 and run like hell the other way ... so yeah, it's gonna be a fun ride!

if you're interested here's a link to blogging, old school style: http://balefire.diaryland.com/