I'm in the run for the annual NaNoWriMo http://www.nanowrimo.org/ this year. Last year, I found out about it too late, but a great writer friend of mine reminded me! The idea is to write an entire novel in one month...no editing, just writing. This is a great way to get past the "what do I write about" stuff and so far I've already got over 5,000 words (50,000 words needed). My goal is to have 10,000 words by the end of the weekend.
Because of this and other writing goals, I probably won't post much, but I'll let you know when I ass the finish line.
Saturday, November 05, 2005
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
The Spirits in the Sounds
I remember being warned by well meaning, devout people that spirits lived in some forms of music. I remember being told that certain songs, when played backwards, gave homage to spirits that are evil.
I think they are wrong. I think that all music has some spiritual connection and that, on certain fall days - or any days -- a song, a soundtrack can touch me in ways that nothing else can.
I was out today on deliveries, while the trees snapped with color and the smell of fall was everywhere. I am listening to the "Elizabethtown" soundtrack and the sense of journey was so present in those moments that I yearned for the road to take me wherever it may.
There is a sense during Fall - the season of transition that calls out to me for change and renewal. And yet, deeper still, is the call of something that is unchanging, for something that never changes. Those two tensions evident in the changing of the leaves and the pursuit of traditions and holidays, make this a time of year that is perfect for reflection.
I am taking a few days off this week after a hectic schedule. Today, I luxuriated in an afternoon nap and felt not the least bit guilty. I read for hours, listened to music and then reluctantly, did a few things that had to be done, like those deliveries. And yet, even in that sense, I was enjoying the drive, enjoying the thoughts and promises of new things to come.
I see the changes in my children as they play basketball and finish homework. They are real people now, with lives that don't always include me. I find that fact both refreshing and terrifying, that someone whose once existence depended upon me is now happily eating Cheetos with friends, playing video games, not even considering me in the least. Such is the life of a parent when Cheetos is a higher priority than mom or dad.
And yet I find great satisfaction in this, too. Like a sense of "hey, we did it. we raised somewhat normal, adaptive human beings -- all from a few things found around the house." There is a sense that we're at a wonderful crossroads that will yield both new things and new directions.
I think they are wrong. I think that all music has some spiritual connection and that, on certain fall days - or any days -- a song, a soundtrack can touch me in ways that nothing else can.
I was out today on deliveries, while the trees snapped with color and the smell of fall was everywhere. I am listening to the "Elizabethtown" soundtrack and the sense of journey was so present in those moments that I yearned for the road to take me wherever it may.
There is a sense during Fall - the season of transition that calls out to me for change and renewal. And yet, deeper still, is the call of something that is unchanging, for something that never changes. Those two tensions evident in the changing of the leaves and the pursuit of traditions and holidays, make this a time of year that is perfect for reflection.
I am taking a few days off this week after a hectic schedule. Today, I luxuriated in an afternoon nap and felt not the least bit guilty. I read for hours, listened to music and then reluctantly, did a few things that had to be done, like those deliveries. And yet, even in that sense, I was enjoying the drive, enjoying the thoughts and promises of new things to come.
I see the changes in my children as they play basketball and finish homework. They are real people now, with lives that don't always include me. I find that fact both refreshing and terrifying, that someone whose once existence depended upon me is now happily eating Cheetos with friends, playing video games, not even considering me in the least. Such is the life of a parent when Cheetos is a higher priority than mom or dad.
And yet I find great satisfaction in this, too. Like a sense of "hey, we did it. we raised somewhat normal, adaptive human beings -- all from a few things found around the house." There is a sense that we're at a wonderful crossroads that will yield both new things and new directions.
Monday, October 24, 2005
What I'm reading
http://www.rillaaskew.com/works.htm
I picked up "Fire in Beulah" by Rita Askew at a weekend conference. I was drawn to the book because of Rita, who I heard speak at a writers conference at University of Tulsa. The book is about the Tulsa Race Riots and although the story is fiction, the historical aspect is not. As I'm reading the book I see the streets and parts of Tulsa that are all too familar for me which allows the book to resonant with me in a special way. I'm excited to have briefly met Rita (she signed my book for me).
But what makes this encounter truly special is that I shared the book with my 15 year old daughter who has been studying the Race Riots in school. It was very special to be able to give my daughter the view that this really did happen and there are people who researched it etc. It gave my daughter a sense of reality that perhaps is missed from textbook lectures.
I could say more about the conference, but I'm still mulling it all over. I'll try to write more on it later. It was a fabulous experience for me, but that sounds so trite, doesn't it?
I picked up "Fire in Beulah" by Rita Askew at a weekend conference. I was drawn to the book because of Rita, who I heard speak at a writers conference at University of Tulsa. The book is about the Tulsa Race Riots and although the story is fiction, the historical aspect is not. As I'm reading the book I see the streets and parts of Tulsa that are all too familar for me which allows the book to resonant with me in a special way. I'm excited to have briefly met Rita (she signed my book for me).
But what makes this encounter truly special is that I shared the book with my 15 year old daughter who has been studying the Race Riots in school. It was very special to be able to give my daughter the view that this really did happen and there are people who researched it etc. It gave my daughter a sense of reality that perhaps is missed from textbook lectures.
I could say more about the conference, but I'm still mulling it all over. I'll try to write more on it later. It was a fabulous experience for me, but that sounds so trite, doesn't it?
Friday, October 21, 2005
Fall weekend happenings
I just returned from shopping in my small Okie town. We are now officially on the map since we have an Old Navy, Pier 1, Target and a plethora of other fine shopping establishments in our small town. 20 years ago, this town was a corn field. Now Starbucks has taken up permanent residence so civilization is here to stay.
I'm elated, though, at more than having twenty stores within a five mile radius of my home. Something amazing has happened, I am now a full 2 sizes smaller than I was this time last year. It was not necessarily intentional but a fair amount of energy has gone into wondering how I, someone who has never had a weight problem, had ballooned up to a double digit size. Once last year, I walked past a mirror and shrieked. I thought I had seen my mother through a window, but it was just me in the mirror. That's when I knew something had to change.
My mother is a beautiful woman, but who grows up saying, "I want to look JUST LIKE my mom??" Not me. I still see myself as a skinny, smart, dweeby kid. The last two adjectives still fit, the first one...not so much.
I started thinking what could have caused this weight loss (since I'm always looking for a way to make a buck, who knows?) but I couldn't come up with much. I have traded in my boxing gloves for walking shoes and instead of kickboxing twice a week on lunch hours, I walk every morning at least one mile. This is not a nature walk but a survival skill....I detest everything there is about mornings, so having an objective upon awakening is a good thing. After stumbling around in a coma, starting the tea or coffee brewing, I hit my residential street in somewhat of a foul mood. By the time I return from walking, though, I'm a civil human being and somewhat able to face the world (more or less).
The other thing, is a strict schedule that I've imposed upon myself. Like an athlete that is stretching towards the next level, I have been attempting to stretch outside of my comfort zone in my own business, which means sticking to a more rigorous schedule. I've been working with a business coach and when asked to adhere to the schedule I originally though, "no problem." I'd been doing this work for 13 years and felt like I was working. But we are all masters of deception and I am the Queen of Self Deception and found that I was THINKING about working far more than I was actually working (a common problem in Self Employment Land) This weekend marks a halfway mark through this exerices (120 days) and I am rewarding myself by taking a few days off, attending a writer's conference and most of all, spending time with my kids on fall break.
I like the metaphor of the corporate athlete a lot and have been inspired for some time by the book "The power of full Engagement" by Tony Schwarz. A lot of what is shared in that book has been somewhat revolutionary for me. I am learning the power of nurturing what fills me (especially since I'm a hard core introvert in a line of work that is people-rich -- and not always people-friendly). Writing, yoga, walking, taking time is as important or more so for those of us who may push hard for big goals. I think it's far too easy to forget that and feel that we just must redouble efforts and push harder. That, I have found, is a sure fire map to Burnout, USA and I'd prefer not to visit there much.
So, the realization that I'm enjoying a splendid fall weekend with the things and people that I love -- and have dropped two dress sizes -- is definately a time to celebrate.
Pass the chocolate cake.
I'm elated, though, at more than having twenty stores within a five mile radius of my home. Something amazing has happened, I am now a full 2 sizes smaller than I was this time last year. It was not necessarily intentional but a fair amount of energy has gone into wondering how I, someone who has never had a weight problem, had ballooned up to a double digit size. Once last year, I walked past a mirror and shrieked. I thought I had seen my mother through a window, but it was just me in the mirror. That's when I knew something had to change.
My mother is a beautiful woman, but who grows up saying, "I want to look JUST LIKE my mom??" Not me. I still see myself as a skinny, smart, dweeby kid. The last two adjectives still fit, the first one...not so much.
I started thinking what could have caused this weight loss (since I'm always looking for a way to make a buck, who knows?) but I couldn't come up with much. I have traded in my boxing gloves for walking shoes and instead of kickboxing twice a week on lunch hours, I walk every morning at least one mile. This is not a nature walk but a survival skill....I detest everything there is about mornings, so having an objective upon awakening is a good thing. After stumbling around in a coma, starting the tea or coffee brewing, I hit my residential street in somewhat of a foul mood. By the time I return from walking, though, I'm a civil human being and somewhat able to face the world (more or less).
The other thing, is a strict schedule that I've imposed upon myself. Like an athlete that is stretching towards the next level, I have been attempting to stretch outside of my comfort zone in my own business, which means sticking to a more rigorous schedule. I've been working with a business coach and when asked to adhere to the schedule I originally though, "no problem." I'd been doing this work for 13 years and felt like I was working. But we are all masters of deception and I am the Queen of Self Deception and found that I was THINKING about working far more than I was actually working (a common problem in Self Employment Land) This weekend marks a halfway mark through this exerices (120 days) and I am rewarding myself by taking a few days off, attending a writer's conference and most of all, spending time with my kids on fall break.
I like the metaphor of the corporate athlete a lot and have been inspired for some time by the book "The power of full Engagement" by Tony Schwarz. A lot of what is shared in that book has been somewhat revolutionary for me. I am learning the power of nurturing what fills me (especially since I'm a hard core introvert in a line of work that is people-rich -- and not always people-friendly). Writing, yoga, walking, taking time is as important or more so for those of us who may push hard for big goals. I think it's far too easy to forget that and feel that we just must redouble efforts and push harder. That, I have found, is a sure fire map to Burnout, USA and I'd prefer not to visit there much.
So, the realization that I'm enjoying a splendid fall weekend with the things and people that I love -- and have dropped two dress sizes -- is definately a time to celebrate.
Pass the chocolate cake.
Thursday, October 20, 2005
Elizabethtown
http://www.elizabethtown.com/home.html
"Elizabethtown" hits so many points that it almost feels like two movies, hinged together.
The movie transports me back to the ruckus in my great grandmother's kitchen with goofy cousins and old men and the yearning to be a part of this chaos, this family and know that you are not and that you may never be.
The movie transports me to times when success was all that mattered and failure was non-negotiable.
The movie transports me to times when the long journey ahead offered no company, no calm, nothing but grief and the "deep melancholy of what all this means". (quote from film).
To say I liked this movie is to say I like chocolate -- which is true but not fully. I LOVED this movie..I loved the simplicity of it, the music and the way it dealt with the themes of death, failure and renewal in straightfoward ways.
What I loved most is that it resists temptation to spiral down into maudalin themes of "home folk" and the such. It doesn't offer a lot of answers because, I believe, the answers lie in the journey which we each take and with which we each see differently. "We all have different versions of him" was one of the many great one-liners that permeate the film.
I can't wait to get the soundtrack and relive it.
"Elizabethtown" hits so many points that it almost feels like two movies, hinged together.
The movie transports me back to the ruckus in my great grandmother's kitchen with goofy cousins and old men and the yearning to be a part of this chaos, this family and know that you are not and that you may never be.
The movie transports me to times when success was all that mattered and failure was non-negotiable.
The movie transports me to times when the long journey ahead offered no company, no calm, nothing but grief and the "deep melancholy of what all this means". (quote from film).
To say I liked this movie is to say I like chocolate -- which is true but not fully. I LOVED this movie..I loved the simplicity of it, the music and the way it dealt with the themes of death, failure and renewal in straightfoward ways.
What I loved most is that it resists temptation to spiral down into maudalin themes of "home folk" and the such. It doesn't offer a lot of answers because, I believe, the answers lie in the journey which we each take and with which we each see differently. "We all have different versions of him" was one of the many great one-liners that permeate the film.
I can't wait to get the soundtrack and relive it.
Sunday, October 16, 2005
What does a Marching band have to say about leadership..?
After a long day of traveling, teaching I drove to Arlington, TX to see my son and his High School Marching Band ("The Pride of Owasso"!) compete in the Regional Finals. Somewhere between when I graduated from High School and my kids entering High School, marching bands have transformed themselves from two-bit half-time shows into first class entertainment and high art. The pudgy baton twirler has been given up for the acrobatic flag corp, marching has been morphed into athleticism and John Phillip Sousa has been discard and movie scores have been added. I never imagined I'd hear "Fly Like an Eagle" on a football field. I cannot imagine what that means for those of us who rocked out to Foreigner, Tim Nugent and Meatloaf. When one's youthful music becomes fodder for the high school marching band, I think it means only one thing -- you be old.It was the perfect transition from focused teaching to coming home to a new week. My mind was treated to visuals that are unmatched. And it got me thinking..
What happens on the marching field between the confusion of transition to the neat form lines and that of a perfect one-two step? What happens between the movements from bold brass to soft flutes? What happens between the note and the silence?
What does this art form teach me about my world? So many things. For one, art is so needful in a rough and tumble world. It soothes, it jolts, it focuses, it comforts. It makes life rich and soulful. The more techy we become, the more I believe art wraps us in meaning and in truth.
Next, it teaches me that life is one of contrasts and textures. Brass played long and hard is simply tedious. Add the cadence of percussion, the visual of a waving flag, the form becomes a message, a phrase lived, a story rich with meaning.
It also teaches me that life is richer simply because of these contrasts. The line on the field may dissolve into confusion, then resolve itself into neat formations that could not be formed if the disruption of the band had not thrown itself into chaos. Confusion before clarity.
And it teaches me that silence is not to be feared. It is the pause, the moment before harmony, the moment before movement.
Regional Finals, Arlington, TX
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Justice
My hope in televised programming has been restored -- "The Simple Life" has been cancelled. I don't have to see Paris Hilton turning her nose up at washing dishes or taking out the trash. What a relief.
More room for the good stuff...more room for "Law and Order" reruns.
More room for the good stuff...more room for "Law and Order" reruns.
Sunday, October 09, 2005
Fall Clean Up
It began with a simple wish -- I just wanted more room in my closet. After several trips to Goodwill, where I left who knows how many boxes of clothes, shoes and other such truck and days of cleaning and vacuuming and cleaning some more, my house is now unreocognizable.
Can a simple wish change a life? I've reorganized my personal closet and getting it ready for painting. I've cleaned out bookshelves, transformed my dining room into a room that I'd actually enjoy eating in. I'm tuckered out and ready for a good dinner and a nap.
It's strange to think that I can go through my life in a semi-coma state, not really noticing where things accumulate, that I can't find my shoes, that I seem to be missing something. Maybe it's me missing from my harried, scattered life.
A few days with a vacuum cleaner in tow, I've taken out bags of garbage, bundled up old books (I'll go through those later and figure out what I really want....and I've sworn off Amazon for a bit...I've got a great library just a ways down the road and a new library card -- any book I want is within a day or two away and its FREE!).
The seeds for this were laid a few weeks ago when I started making space for things meaningful in my life and for getting rid of things that are just worn out and past their time. During this military operation (my husband and kids ducked out and would return from time to time to see if the coup were still in operation)...I found some real treasures...photos of my kids that I had forgotten, things made by my grandmother that I'll never throw away, books that I had missed.
My office and home are once again a refuge, peaceful and clean. What's more, very little of it was purchased new..mostly it was digs from around the house, moved around, cleaned up made useful once again.
My mind is still whirring away on ideas for new color in the bedroom and ways in which I'll use the new space cleared out with all this cleaning madness. But for now it is just a refreshing feeling. Wood that is clean, floors that are sparkling and a closet that I can truly walk into and find things. I don't want to press the metaphor but it is almost a spiritual feeling -- a sense of a newness that is ordered, neat and purposeful.
Can a simple wish change a life? I've reorganized my personal closet and getting it ready for painting. I've cleaned out bookshelves, transformed my dining room into a room that I'd actually enjoy eating in. I'm tuckered out and ready for a good dinner and a nap.
It's strange to think that I can go through my life in a semi-coma state, not really noticing where things accumulate, that I can't find my shoes, that I seem to be missing something. Maybe it's me missing from my harried, scattered life.
A few days with a vacuum cleaner in tow, I've taken out bags of garbage, bundled up old books (I'll go through those later and figure out what I really want....and I've sworn off Amazon for a bit...I've got a great library just a ways down the road and a new library card -- any book I want is within a day or two away and its FREE!).
The seeds for this were laid a few weeks ago when I started making space for things meaningful in my life and for getting rid of things that are just worn out and past their time. During this military operation (my husband and kids ducked out and would return from time to time to see if the coup were still in operation)...I found some real treasures...photos of my kids that I had forgotten, things made by my grandmother that I'll never throw away, books that I had missed.
My office and home are once again a refuge, peaceful and clean. What's more, very little of it was purchased new..mostly it was digs from around the house, moved around, cleaned up made useful once again.
My mind is still whirring away on ideas for new color in the bedroom and ways in which I'll use the new space cleared out with all this cleaning madness. But for now it is just a refreshing feeling. Wood that is clean, floors that are sparkling and a closet that I can truly walk into and find things. I don't want to press the metaphor but it is almost a spiritual feeling -- a sense of a newness that is ordered, neat and purposeful.
Thursday, October 06, 2005
Soul Food
www.route-66-diner.com
I didn't intend to take the whole day off. It was just a lunch with Dan but there's no way I can return to work now. Not after those cinnamon rolls. Not after the lunch I just packed away.
The Route 66 Diner is located, not surprisingly, in Tulsa's Route 66 district. Fresh bread is made everyday and eating it is a spiritual experience. This is the kind of bread that should be served in churches, although the yeast thing would drive some of my holier-than-thou friends nuts. (note -- did you know that the whole thing with yeast in the bible is the idea that sin causes us to go outside our boundaries, like dough rising, hence the whole unleavened thing. After today's bread, I say, what kind of a God wouldn't eat bread like this???) I remember when I was a kid, eating my grandmother's baking and I would find myself humming, the food was that good. As I sat today in the cool autumn air, finishing off a slice (more like a a slab) of that great bread I felt like that kid again, coming in after playing outside, eating something that was both soulful and sinful.
After the lunch I couldn't focus, couldn't concentrate. I indulged other appetites. I stopped by the library and checked out two new authors. I stopped by my favorite florist and found candles and I am content this afternoon, in the lingering scent of fig/olive and the remains of a cinnamon roll to simply loll through the afternoon.
I didn't intend to take the whole day off. It was just a lunch with Dan but there's no way I can return to work now. Not after those cinnamon rolls. Not after the lunch I just packed away.
The Route 66 Diner is located, not surprisingly, in Tulsa's Route 66 district. Fresh bread is made everyday and eating it is a spiritual experience. This is the kind of bread that should be served in churches, although the yeast thing would drive some of my holier-than-thou friends nuts. (note -- did you know that the whole thing with yeast in the bible is the idea that sin causes us to go outside our boundaries, like dough rising, hence the whole unleavened thing. After today's bread, I say, what kind of a God wouldn't eat bread like this???) I remember when I was a kid, eating my grandmother's baking and I would find myself humming, the food was that good. As I sat today in the cool autumn air, finishing off a slice (more like a a slab) of that great bread I felt like that kid again, coming in after playing outside, eating something that was both soulful and sinful.
After the lunch I couldn't focus, couldn't concentrate. I indulged other appetites. I stopped by the library and checked out two new authors. I stopped by my favorite florist and found candles and I am content this afternoon, in the lingering scent of fig/olive and the remains of a cinnamon roll to simply loll through the afternoon.
Monday, October 03, 2005
Girl at Cafe
I'm sitting here at a local restaurant stop and I have given myself a 30 minute window to write for 30 minutes. I people watch and I see this lady sitting near me and I want to write about her...she is reading a very large book, it looks like a bible and my mind goes to work on all the assumptions that I have about someone that would read their bible in a coffee shop over their lunch hour. They are not good assumptions, I'm afraid and I am embarressed by my own cynicism. I feel guilty so I ask her, "what are you reading". Maybe she knows what I'm thinking? So I try to be nice, to assuage my guilt in some tangible way. She smiles up at me and says, "The book of Matthew" and I cringe. I am torn between two very distinct possibilities -- either I play dumb, like someone who has never read the bible for myself or I try to disarm her with intellectual questions. I find I am a bit put off by her saying, "the book of matthew" in such a matter of fact way. What if I was someone who just landed on earth and didn't know what a bible was? What is the book of Matthew? Why would one read it..? Who is Matthew? Why did he write a book..??? My questions start and I am again, feeling very sad that I am so cynical of someone who clearly is having a great time. I'm getting all worked up for truly no real reason.
She then says, "reading the bible helps me stay calm"? Oh yeah? I am tempted to say, just to be crass "I feel the same way when I take a Tylenol PM late at night?" Should I say, "what do you need to be calm about?" or do I just let it go? So many questions, so little time.
I find it is times like this that my sad bias towards those that would read their bibles in broad daylight astounds even me. I wonder, "was I ever that smug?" Did I ever have a time in my life when I had so many answers? Probably. And that's exactly what is bothering me, I think.
I am bothered by my lack of answers on faith and the cosmos. I am bothered by my lack of faith in so many things. I am most of all bothered that I can create this whole scenario about a poor girl who just is trying to find some peace at her lunch break. Symbols are powerful things and there are few things more symbolic to a recovering fundamentalist than a big bible. I have this theory, the bigger the bible, the smaller the mind.
None of this is fair, I realize. I am reacting to 40 years plus of brain wiring that has suddenly, at age 40, come unwired, blown a fuse, or whatever the technical, electrical terms would be here.
40 years of bible toting, bible banging, bible-throw-it-down-your-throat-until you puke. I have become innoculated, unable to read it myself for the sheer emotion that seeing a bible brings to me. I have become, comfortably numb in this post-faith state that I find myself in these days.
I want a God that is so big that he/she/it cannot be understood and that I can spend the rest of my life ponidering the many things about it/him/her. I don't want pat answers. I'm tired of cliches. Don't give me a 3-point sermon or 7 steps to anything. I want to think, to ponder, to reflect. Most of all I don't want to spend time with those that live in bi-color -- black or white-while I dabble in the deepest recesses of gray.
She then says, "reading the bible helps me stay calm"? Oh yeah? I am tempted to say, just to be crass "I feel the same way when I take a Tylenol PM late at night?" Should I say, "what do you need to be calm about?" or do I just let it go? So many questions, so little time.
I find it is times like this that my sad bias towards those that would read their bibles in broad daylight astounds even me. I wonder, "was I ever that smug?" Did I ever have a time in my life when I had so many answers? Probably. And that's exactly what is bothering me, I think.
I am bothered by my lack of answers on faith and the cosmos. I am bothered by my lack of faith in so many things. I am most of all bothered that I can create this whole scenario about a poor girl who just is trying to find some peace at her lunch break. Symbols are powerful things and there are few things more symbolic to a recovering fundamentalist than a big bible. I have this theory, the bigger the bible, the smaller the mind.
None of this is fair, I realize. I am reacting to 40 years plus of brain wiring that has suddenly, at age 40, come unwired, blown a fuse, or whatever the technical, electrical terms would be here.
40 years of bible toting, bible banging, bible-throw-it-down-your-throat-until you puke. I have become innoculated, unable to read it myself for the sheer emotion that seeing a bible brings to me. I have become, comfortably numb in this post-faith state that I find myself in these days.
I want a God that is so big that he/she/it cannot be understood and that I can spend the rest of my life ponidering the many things about it/him/her. I don't want pat answers. I'm tired of cliches. Don't give me a 3-point sermon or 7 steps to anything. I want to think, to ponder, to reflect. Most of all I don't want to spend time with those that live in bi-color -- black or white-while I dabble in the deepest recesses of gray.
Thursday, September 29, 2005
I've been thinking a lot about the hurricane survivors. I've been thinking about how hard it is to start a new life.
I know that my life cannot be in any compared to their lives -- lives of upheaval, suffering and renewal. Yet I cannot help but think about the themes that run through all our lives, the themes of courage and the will to start again.
Mostly what I have are questions. Questions such as:
1 - Why do some people stay?
2 - Why do some people go?
3 - What attitudes keep people/us/me stuck in places that will never be the same again?
4 - What attitudes allow people/us/me to move forward with lives after all has been lost?
5 - Why do some people insist on trying to recreate that which can never be again?
6 - What kind of loss is there in standing and fighting? What is gained?
7 - What kind of losses are there in moving into a life that is new?
I watched the Truman Show over the weekend and I think this movie has a lot to say about recreating one's life. At some point we each have our own limit that we must move on...but how do you do that? What is the cost? What is to be gained? Each of these questions must be answered individually, they cannot be answered en masse.
I read this quote today from "Fearless Creating" and it seems to fit these questions:
"Not many men are prepared to face the challenge of themselves, to assume the full responsibility for thier own existence. Rank concluded that there were three levels or styles of response to this self-challenge;
the first, and most common, was simply to evade it;
the second was to make the effort of self-encounter, only to fall back in confusion and defeat (the person arrested in his creative development this way Rank called the 'artist-manque');
the third, and much the least common, was that of carrying the confrontation through to self-acceptance and "new birth". These three attitudes or approaches correspond to Rank's three types o fhuman character: the "average" or adapted man, content to swim adjustively and irresponsibly with the tide; the "neutortic" type, discontented alike with civilization and hiimself; and the "creative", the twice-born (as represented in the ideal types of Artist and Hero) -- at peace with himself and at one with others."
What is really illuminating to me is that in most christian literature the idea of "twice-born" is not at all a new concept, and yet it rarely has been connected to that of creativity. Go into many churches and what you see is bland uniformism. Creativity creates anxiety it seems in most of these places. And yet creativity, that of imagining and sustaining a new life is the most creative of all endeavors, yes?
I know that my life cannot be in any compared to their lives -- lives of upheaval, suffering and renewal. Yet I cannot help but think about the themes that run through all our lives, the themes of courage and the will to start again.
Mostly what I have are questions. Questions such as:
1 - Why do some people stay?
2 - Why do some people go?
3 - What attitudes keep people/us/me stuck in places that will never be the same again?
4 - What attitudes allow people/us/me to move forward with lives after all has been lost?
5 - Why do some people insist on trying to recreate that which can never be again?
6 - What kind of loss is there in standing and fighting? What is gained?
7 - What kind of losses are there in moving into a life that is new?
I watched the Truman Show over the weekend and I think this movie has a lot to say about recreating one's life. At some point we each have our own limit that we must move on...but how do you do that? What is the cost? What is to be gained? Each of these questions must be answered individually, they cannot be answered en masse.
I read this quote today from "Fearless Creating" and it seems to fit these questions:
"Not many men are prepared to face the challenge of themselves, to assume the full responsibility for thier own existence. Rank concluded that there were three levels or styles of response to this self-challenge;
the first, and most common, was simply to evade it;
the second was to make the effort of self-encounter, only to fall back in confusion and defeat (the person arrested in his creative development this way Rank called the 'artist-manque');
the third, and much the least common, was that of carrying the confrontation through to self-acceptance and "new birth". These three attitudes or approaches correspond to Rank's three types o fhuman character: the "average" or adapted man, content to swim adjustively and irresponsibly with the tide; the "neutortic" type, discontented alike with civilization and hiimself; and the "creative", the twice-born (as represented in the ideal types of Artist and Hero) -- at peace with himself and at one with others."
What is really illuminating to me is that in most christian literature the idea of "twice-born" is not at all a new concept, and yet it rarely has been connected to that of creativity. Go into many churches and what you see is bland uniformism. Creativity creates anxiety it seems in most of these places. And yet creativity, that of imagining and sustaining a new life is the most creative of all endeavors, yes?
Wednesday, September 28, 2005
Memoirs of a Writing Group Newbie
I arrived late, relieved to see there were fewer present than the week before. My newly put together "writing backpack" that has my journal, my laptop and all things writing. Kind of a writing costume, I guess, for this new part of the journey.
I tried to not show how intimidated I am, how strange it felt to be with others that just want to write and do it well. I thought of my essay, tucked into my bag, wondered when -- of if -- I'd get it out.
After writing exercises, which I finished early, a sure sign that I have no idea what I'm doing, I drew curly-ques in my margins, just so I'd look busy.
Then, time came for reading original work. In a moment of adrenaline rush, I volunteer, mostly just to get it over with.
I heard my voice and heard my words, which is wierd since most of writing is done in the interiors of the crevices of ones head. I felt sweaty, kind of sick, ready to go.
I finished and fidgeted a bit, having more quesiness in my stomach than I ever remembered. But I had done it.
Time for comments from the group. I looked at my feet, breathing heavy.
I remembered a few of their comments - mostly all kind and reassuring. But the real triumph is having the courage to create something and then share it. And have it received.
I tried to not show how intimidated I am, how strange it felt to be with others that just want to write and do it well. I thought of my essay, tucked into my bag, wondered when -- of if -- I'd get it out.
After writing exercises, which I finished early, a sure sign that I have no idea what I'm doing, I drew curly-ques in my margins, just so I'd look busy.
Then, time came for reading original work. In a moment of adrenaline rush, I volunteer, mostly just to get it over with.
I heard my voice and heard my words, which is wierd since most of writing is done in the interiors of the crevices of ones head. I felt sweaty, kind of sick, ready to go.
I finished and fidgeted a bit, having more quesiness in my stomach than I ever remembered. But I had done it.
Time for comments from the group. I looked at my feet, breathing heavy.
I remembered a few of their comments - mostly all kind and reassuring. But the real triumph is having the courage to create something and then share it. And have it received.
Thursday, September 22, 2005
The Fickle Gardner
I stooped this morning with the late summer sun beating my back. In spite of my jug of tea, my mouth was dry, thirsty. I cursed the bermuda with its long zipper-like tendrils growing literally over my everygreen shrubs, hiding them, concealing them, draping them in its green arms.
At spring break, I was out here toting hoes and garden tools ready to embark on this new journey. My plans were clear, my faith secure, my heart open to the beauty that would soon be mine. As I went about my work, I marveled at the spring miracles and each new leaf, each new bud was a thing to be celebrated.
Now, after weeks of sapping 100 degree heat, I look at my garden from the cool of my porch and say, "Maybe tomorrow I'll go into the garden."
It's not that I don't love my garden. It's just that it hasn't quite realized my original expectations for it. The weeds,particularly the bermuda grass, continue to plague me. Each day I have weeded only to see more weeds the next day. Did I miss some warning in a garden magazine: NOTE: Weeding bermuda actually creates more bermuda. Forget your high-minded ecology. Just spray the stuff and be done with it.
There exist big gaping holes in my garden border where I thought there would be color. I understand now where I should have planted a shrub and should not have. The pavers that I worked so hard to level now appear as if a small earthquake has shaken them from their original space. Moles have feasted on the grubs and have made my clean-lined path look like something from a Dr. Seuss book, all lopsided and topsy-turvy.
I lamented the holes from some unknown pest that has devoured my sweet potatoe plants. I languished at the sight of my pond, scummy and green. The bright left over blooms of my roses aren't as alluring as I picked off the spent blooms and brushed them under the plants.
Whereas before I jubilantly looked forward to each new day, the heat and the weeds and the bugs have taken their toll on my passion, made me cautious, stand offish. I don't drop by as much to see the objects of my affection. I don't bring it new friends or water it like I should.
Like a fickle lover, I dodge my responsibility, play coy.
I'm like the bride who, after the honeymoon, is upset to discover that her new husband would really rather watch ESPN than "The Notebook". What really did I expect? That my garden would have no weeds? That my roses wouldn't wilt from the Oklahoma heat? That my pond wouldn't need cleaning out after months of standing in the piercing sun?
Yesterday a friend gave me a copy of one of my favorite gardening magazines. I sadly took it and laid it on my table, next to my unwritten novel and the books I've been meaning to read. I leafed through it but had to put it down, the pain was too great. It was like reading a Harlequin after just filing for divorce.
Four years ago I began in earnest to create this illusion drawn from the pages of glossy photos that seduced me mind, body and soul. In the throes of such passion, I did not stop and think about watering requirements, drainage needs, sunlight hours. My heart was set on some eden-like moments, where I would walk through my lovely garden and point out the objects of my affection, like a boy at the prom with his beautiful date. It was all about appearances and ego.
Now, four years later and in the throes of a late summer heatwave, my daylillies need dividing, my grasses are a mess and my roses need deadheading. I wonder through this garden of mine like a lover betrayed. I'm jealous of its lackluster blooms. I'm weary from its incessant needs. How could it need this much work? Where is the beauty that I thought would be mine? Where is the joy that I first knew?
I have on my desk a photo of my garden from four years ago. In it, the water birch is tiny, hardly able to be seen. There is no pond and no pergola. No roses, no shrubs. Only a small
dark ribbon of fresh earth where my dreams warmed in the pale spring sun. The rose arbor stood tall, erect but bare. It is on days such as this that I pull out this photo, remembering those early days. Like a old woman remembering her wedding day, I know the rush of new love is now long gone, like the wind in the dustbowl. It was not meant to last and perhaps this is the most difficult of all the cosmic laws of love. That slightly crazy-love is like the cast on a broken arm, holding two pieces together until the right growth can bind them together never breaking in that same place, never letting go.
At spring break, I was out here toting hoes and garden tools ready to embark on this new journey. My plans were clear, my faith secure, my heart open to the beauty that would soon be mine. As I went about my work, I marveled at the spring miracles and each new leaf, each new bud was a thing to be celebrated.
Now, after weeks of sapping 100 degree heat, I look at my garden from the cool of my porch and say, "Maybe tomorrow I'll go into the garden."
It's not that I don't love my garden. It's just that it hasn't quite realized my original expectations for it. The weeds,particularly the bermuda grass, continue to plague me. Each day I have weeded only to see more weeds the next day. Did I miss some warning in a garden magazine: NOTE: Weeding bermuda actually creates more bermuda. Forget your high-minded ecology. Just spray the stuff and be done with it.
There exist big gaping holes in my garden border where I thought there would be color. I understand now where I should have planted a shrub and should not have. The pavers that I worked so hard to level now appear as if a small earthquake has shaken them from their original space. Moles have feasted on the grubs and have made my clean-lined path look like something from a Dr. Seuss book, all lopsided and topsy-turvy.
I lamented the holes from some unknown pest that has devoured my sweet potatoe plants. I languished at the sight of my pond, scummy and green. The bright left over blooms of my roses aren't as alluring as I picked off the spent blooms and brushed them under the plants.
Whereas before I jubilantly looked forward to each new day, the heat and the weeds and the bugs have taken their toll on my passion, made me cautious, stand offish. I don't drop by as much to see the objects of my affection. I don't bring it new friends or water it like I should.
Like a fickle lover, I dodge my responsibility, play coy.
I'm like the bride who, after the honeymoon, is upset to discover that her new husband would really rather watch ESPN than "The Notebook". What really did I expect? That my garden would have no weeds? That my roses wouldn't wilt from the Oklahoma heat? That my pond wouldn't need cleaning out after months of standing in the piercing sun?
Yesterday a friend gave me a copy of one of my favorite gardening magazines. I sadly took it and laid it on my table, next to my unwritten novel and the books I've been meaning to read. I leafed through it but had to put it down, the pain was too great. It was like reading a Harlequin after just filing for divorce.
Four years ago I began in earnest to create this illusion drawn from the pages of glossy photos that seduced me mind, body and soul. In the throes of such passion, I did not stop and think about watering requirements, drainage needs, sunlight hours. My heart was set on some eden-like moments, where I would walk through my lovely garden and point out the objects of my affection, like a boy at the prom with his beautiful date. It was all about appearances and ego.
Now, four years later and in the throes of a late summer heatwave, my daylillies need dividing, my grasses are a mess and my roses need deadheading. I wonder through this garden of mine like a lover betrayed. I'm jealous of its lackluster blooms. I'm weary from its incessant needs. How could it need this much work? Where is the beauty that I thought would be mine? Where is the joy that I first knew?
I have on my desk a photo of my garden from four years ago. In it, the water birch is tiny, hardly able to be seen. There is no pond and no pergola. No roses, no shrubs. Only a small
dark ribbon of fresh earth where my dreams warmed in the pale spring sun. The rose arbor stood tall, erect but bare. It is on days such as this that I pull out this photo, remembering those early days. Like a old woman remembering her wedding day, I know the rush of new love is now long gone, like the wind in the dustbowl. It was not meant to last and perhaps this is the most difficult of all the cosmic laws of love. That slightly crazy-love is like the cast on a broken arm, holding two pieces together until the right growth can bind them together never breaking in that same place, never letting go.
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
Thought for today
"If you don't work at your art because you feel like a beginner or because the work frustrates you, I would ask you to stop using those facts as excuses. If you believe that celebrated artists are not beginning for whom each new creative project is a trial, now is the time to reconsider. You will remain a beginner and find the work hard until you die: you need no longer feel sad about that. So will ever other artist: you no longer need envy them their supposed maturity or ease." -- Eric Maisel, from "Fearless Creating"
Monday, September 19, 2005
Blogging at Panera
Since Panera has free wi-fi, I've started hauling my laptop with me on appts and stopping at lunch time to write. I'm motivated to do that today after having some good interviews this weekend with some people that helped me fill in the gaps on some facts that I needed.
I had an opportunity to interivew some Tulsa Co. Sherriffs this weekend while going about some business. It was kind of a fluke, but since one of my novel characters is a narcotics officer I thought it might be good to interview a few, since I don't know any. I never really thought about it before -- I've never thought about what a sheriff does in his or her line of work. I've never thought too much at all about police work. So when I had some time to talk to a few of them on the Tulsa force, I found out a lot about the work of Sheriff's and narcotics officers. I also made that discovery that most writers must make and that is that my own life is so incredibly boring (in a good way, I guess) that I'm drawn to those whose lives are different than mine. I think that must be a quality of a good writer -- finding novelty in others lives that are different than their own.
I always feel like I have to somehow explain to those that I'm interviewing or researching in this process -- that yeah, I'm writing a novel but y'know, I'm not a REAL WRITER, I'm just learning how to write by writing...I don't know why I feel that I have to qualify myself like that, I guess I'm afraid that someone will think that I'm impersonating a great novelists or something, or worse that they believe that I BELIVE that.
What I'm finding is that most people aren't so impressed with the fact that I am writing but are very much impressed that I find them interesting enough to ask questions about what they do, what's an average day like, what do they like best, etc. Come to think of it, if someone asked ME those questions, I'd be kinda impressed too.
So here's my announcement to those that care -- I know I'm not all that in the writing world. I'm learning. I have so much to learn and yet the process is becoming more real to me every time I stay with the structure that I'm imposing on myself.
After cleaning out my office and making room - literally and figureatively -- I've also looked at my daily calendar and moved some "non-essential" (read: BORING) meetings off my calendar and started spending that focused time in writing. This is where the laptop and Panera come in handy...instead of traisping all the way back home, I just turn on the laptop, have lunch and do what I came to do.
Which today is blocking out chapters 4 and 5 of my great American Novel. I'm learning how to find a form that works for me at this point which is to write and when I get stuck somewhere, I start writing down the questions that I need to answer for that scene to take form and flourish. So my notes look pretty garbled but when I do that, it starts creating the characters and their actions.
The best writing advice that I've received so far is to "think like I'm watching a movie". In other words, if my story were a movie where would I start the action, where would the scene take place. This has been so helpful and yet it seems so obvious. THANKS JORDAN!
The advice also has helped me while watching movies to find ways that the writers may be moving their story forward. It has kind of made watching movies and TV shows a little less fun to watch, because now I start finding all this stuff that they (the writers) could do and not do to better the story. Not surprisingly, I find is that the best written stuff allows the viewer to get past the mechanics of the story and become more involved in the story itself.
So, onto chapters 4 and 5.
I had an opportunity to interivew some Tulsa Co. Sherriffs this weekend while going about some business. It was kind of a fluke, but since one of my novel characters is a narcotics officer I thought it might be good to interview a few, since I don't know any. I never really thought about it before -- I've never thought about what a sheriff does in his or her line of work. I've never thought too much at all about police work. So when I had some time to talk to a few of them on the Tulsa force, I found out a lot about the work of Sheriff's and narcotics officers. I also made that discovery that most writers must make and that is that my own life is so incredibly boring (in a good way, I guess) that I'm drawn to those whose lives are different than mine. I think that must be a quality of a good writer -- finding novelty in others lives that are different than their own.
I always feel like I have to somehow explain to those that I'm interviewing or researching in this process -- that yeah, I'm writing a novel but y'know, I'm not a REAL WRITER, I'm just learning how to write by writing...I don't know why I feel that I have to qualify myself like that, I guess I'm afraid that someone will think that I'm impersonating a great novelists or something, or worse that they believe that I BELIVE that.
What I'm finding is that most people aren't so impressed with the fact that I am writing but are very much impressed that I find them interesting enough to ask questions about what they do, what's an average day like, what do they like best, etc. Come to think of it, if someone asked ME those questions, I'd be kinda impressed too.
So here's my announcement to those that care -- I know I'm not all that in the writing world. I'm learning. I have so much to learn and yet the process is becoming more real to me every time I stay with the structure that I'm imposing on myself.
After cleaning out my office and making room - literally and figureatively -- I've also looked at my daily calendar and moved some "non-essential" (read: BORING) meetings off my calendar and started spending that focused time in writing. This is where the laptop and Panera come in handy...instead of traisping all the way back home, I just turn on the laptop, have lunch and do what I came to do.
Which today is blocking out chapters 4 and 5 of my great American Novel. I'm learning how to find a form that works for me at this point which is to write and when I get stuck somewhere, I start writing down the questions that I need to answer for that scene to take form and flourish. So my notes look pretty garbled but when I do that, it starts creating the characters and their actions.
The best writing advice that I've received so far is to "think like I'm watching a movie". In other words, if my story were a movie where would I start the action, where would the scene take place. This has been so helpful and yet it seems so obvious. THANKS JORDAN!
The advice also has helped me while watching movies to find ways that the writers may be moving their story forward. It has kind of made watching movies and TV shows a little less fun to watch, because now I start finding all this stuff that they (the writers) could do and not do to better the story. Not surprisingly, I find is that the best written stuff allows the viewer to get past the mechanics of the story and become more involved in the story itself.
So, onto chapters 4 and 5.
Sunday, September 18, 2005
100 Great Movie Quotes
I spent late last night recovering from a long day at a vendor show. I could blog on this subject for an eternity -- the times I've done shows like this, how to do it, what NOT to do. Yeah, maybe that would be a good topic to discuss.
I arrived home late and was looking for something to help me wind down. Bravo (www.bravotv.com) had the perfect solution - 100 Great Movie quotes
AFI: 100 Years...100 Movie Quotes.
From DeNiro's "You talkin' to me?" to Hepburn's "You do know how to whistle don't you..."
there are a million quotes that we toss around that come directly from the movies. Funny thing, though, of all the quotes the most quotes came from one movie, "Casablanca" which is why it is sometimes called the best written movie of all time (I could disagree on a million points but I'll save that, too, for another blog time).
The thing I found interesting is that so many of the quotes that we "remember" weren't in the movies at all. Or they weren't in the movies as we remember them. Example, "Play it Again, Sam" is actually, "Play it Again, will you Sam?" or something like that. And yet some of the original "quotes" are burned into the American psyche and we remember them a certain way -- a way in which they were never said.
I loved this walk through the movies and enjoyed especially the comments made by some of my favortie actors and actresses. I spend Sundays writing, reading and watching movies - its become a new kind of religious experience for me. Which is interesting, because so many of the best movies deal with themes that often are associated with "religion" - redemption, salvation, evil and good.
I'm off to see "An Unfinished Life" and I'll share my thoughts on this movie later.
I arrived home late and was looking for something to help me wind down. Bravo (www.bravotv.com) had the perfect solution - 100 Great Movie quotes
AFI: 100 Years...100 Movie Quotes.
From DeNiro's "You talkin' to me?" to Hepburn's "You do know how to whistle don't you..."
there are a million quotes that we toss around that come directly from the movies. Funny thing, though, of all the quotes the most quotes came from one movie, "Casablanca" which is why it is sometimes called the best written movie of all time (I could disagree on a million points but I'll save that, too, for another blog time).
The thing I found interesting is that so many of the quotes that we "remember" weren't in the movies at all. Or they weren't in the movies as we remember them. Example, "Play it Again, Sam" is actually, "Play it Again, will you Sam?" or something like that. And yet some of the original "quotes" are burned into the American psyche and we remember them a certain way -- a way in which they were never said.
I loved this walk through the movies and enjoyed especially the comments made by some of my favortie actors and actresses. I spend Sundays writing, reading and watching movies - its become a new kind of religious experience for me. Which is interesting, because so many of the best movies deal with themes that often are associated with "religion" - redemption, salvation, evil and good.
I'm off to see "An Unfinished Life" and I'll share my thoughts on this movie later.
Thursday, September 15, 2005
What passes for normalcy...
Seems we're back to almost normal now. The headlines are less about Katrina and more about Britny. Even some of the lesser riske stars are getting some press.
I sometimes wonder what we really mean when we talk about something that is "lifechanging". It seems that I find a way back into my rut quick and easily even though major things have happened. Seismic shifts have taken place and I too quickly yawn and want to flip the channel.
While there is a sense of resiliency in the fact that we can bounce back, it kind of chills me too, that we can so easily become absorbed in trivialities. As if the "new" has worn off and we are looking for the next big "thing" to submerge ourselves in.
I tried to watch the hearings of Judge Roberts but in all honestly, I just wanted some good mud-slinging. I kept hoping that the "unflappable" Roberts would stand up and say to Senator Kennedy, "Nonya beeswax you Boston Bean". Since he kept his cool and didn't say too much of anything, it quickly became academic and I moved onto other more important things to watch, like the 92689 episode of "Law and Order". I think I sometimes feel more affection for the characters on the show than people I really know.
I sometimes wonder what we really mean when we talk about something that is "lifechanging". It seems that I find a way back into my rut quick and easily even though major things have happened. Seismic shifts have taken place and I too quickly yawn and want to flip the channel.
While there is a sense of resiliency in the fact that we can bounce back, it kind of chills me too, that we can so easily become absorbed in trivialities. As if the "new" has worn off and we are looking for the next big "thing" to submerge ourselves in.
I tried to watch the hearings of Judge Roberts but in all honestly, I just wanted some good mud-slinging. I kept hoping that the "unflappable" Roberts would stand up and say to Senator Kennedy, "Nonya beeswax you Boston Bean". Since he kept his cool and didn't say too much of anything, it quickly became academic and I moved onto other more important things to watch, like the 92689 episode of "Law and Order". I think I sometimes feel more affection for the characters on the show than people I really know.
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
Why I love Jon Stewart
Jon Stewart embodies the very reason that comedy is essential...he can make you laugh when there is so much to think about and ponder about. His antics on his "Daily Show" are a great night cap for me, forcing me to make sure I'm in front of my TV at 10 PM just so I can see who he is making fun of on a particular night. I'd like to meet him sometime but I'd be afraid to -- for fear that I'd end up as the punchline in a fake news segment.
Tonight Lewis Black is making fun of evolution...it seems to be the theme the entire show is hitting on this week. I'll save my comments on what I believe but I have to say, even if I don't agree with the politics, I am always laughing -- which is the genius of the show. You can laugh at yourself and your own politics which keeps one from taking anything too seriously. always a good thing in today's political climate.
The other reason I love the show is because the writing is well done. Which I think is what also makes comedy "comedy". Timing, well thought out lines is writing at its very best. If its funny, it's probably well written. At least that's my opinion.
Tonight Lewis Black is making fun of evolution...it seems to be the theme the entire show is hitting on this week. I'll save my comments on what I believe but I have to say, even if I don't agree with the politics, I am always laughing -- which is the genius of the show. You can laugh at yourself and your own politics which keeps one from taking anything too seriously. always a good thing in today's political climate.
The other reason I love the show is because the writing is well done. Which I think is what also makes comedy "comedy". Timing, well thought out lines is writing at its very best. If its funny, it's probably well written. At least that's my opinion.
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
Redemption
Working through some details of a the "Creativity Book" by Eric Maisel, I am finding some interesting fodder for my current project. OK, I'm going to go ahead and say it, my current creative project -- (aren't all projects somewhat creative? I dunno.) My novel.
There, I said, it. Ta dah.
Why is so hard to say that? I've wanted to be a writer for as long as I remember breathing. And yet, taking that simple step, simply saying that seems huge to me. So let me try it again.
(Breathe).
I'm writing a novel.
There. I said it again. Double ta dah.
Actually, it might be closer to the truth to say that I'm learning to write a novel, something that I've spent a good part of my life wondering how to do. I often would get to the end of a great read and think, "how do they do that? how did they put all those ideas, all those thouhts together and come up with this story?"
As it turns out, that is the great mystery, the thing called "process" to those in the know about writing. Which is why books like Maisel's are so great..they teach you ideas on how to do the creating.
One of the exercises asked, "what word would best describe your current creative project? find it and post it on your whiteboard and use it for inspiration". Words do create energy (hence the recent debate in the media -- refugees vs. evacuees) so posting a word on a whiteboard seems innocent enough until you start playing with words and shuffling them through. Words like "create" have a different essence to them than words like "abandonment". Words create energy.
The first word in describing my current "project" that I stumbled upon is the word "redemption". Which leads me to a lot of questions, questions that are good to ask. Like what is redemption, really? Is it the same as forgiveness? And what, really, is forgiveness? Is it selective remembering? Or not remembering? Or is it forgetting?
Having been raised in a fundamentalist religious environement, I am poorly prepared to address such questions. Ask me where a bible verse is found or who was the fattest king in Israel or what is the name of the place where Jacob wrestled with God -- I can go on all day. But ask me to talk about the sutff that really matters -- the stuff like forgiveness, redemption and all that such truck, and I'm as blind as they come.
Which is why this theme seems so important to me. Hey, by the time you've reach 40 plus, you're probably in need of a little redemption and a whole lot of forgiveness. And if you're not in need, then you probably need to give it a little, which brings up a whole 'nuther ball of wax...if you can't receive it, you probably can't give and on and on we go.
Whether my novel ever sees the light of day or not, these are the kinds of questions that I find fascinating and that I hope to write more about.
There, I said, it. Ta dah.
Why is so hard to say that? I've wanted to be a writer for as long as I remember breathing. And yet, taking that simple step, simply saying that seems huge to me. So let me try it again.
(Breathe).
I'm writing a novel.
There. I said it again. Double ta dah.
Actually, it might be closer to the truth to say that I'm learning to write a novel, something that I've spent a good part of my life wondering how to do. I often would get to the end of a great read and think, "how do they do that? how did they put all those ideas, all those thouhts together and come up with this story?"
As it turns out, that is the great mystery, the thing called "process" to those in the know about writing. Which is why books like Maisel's are so great..they teach you ideas on how to do the creating.
One of the exercises asked, "what word would best describe your current creative project? find it and post it on your whiteboard and use it for inspiration". Words do create energy (hence the recent debate in the media -- refugees vs. evacuees) so posting a word on a whiteboard seems innocent enough until you start playing with words and shuffling them through. Words like "create" have a different essence to them than words like "abandonment". Words create energy.
The first word in describing my current "project" that I stumbled upon is the word "redemption". Which leads me to a lot of questions, questions that are good to ask. Like what is redemption, really? Is it the same as forgiveness? And what, really, is forgiveness? Is it selective remembering? Or not remembering? Or is it forgetting?
Having been raised in a fundamentalist religious environement, I am poorly prepared to address such questions. Ask me where a bible verse is found or who was the fattest king in Israel or what is the name of the place where Jacob wrestled with God -- I can go on all day. But ask me to talk about the sutff that really matters -- the stuff like forgiveness, redemption and all that such truck, and I'm as blind as they come.
Which is why this theme seems so important to me. Hey, by the time you've reach 40 plus, you're probably in need of a little redemption and a whole lot of forgiveness. And if you're not in need, then you probably need to give it a little, which brings up a whole 'nuther ball of wax...if you can't receive it, you probably can't give and on and on we go.
Whether my novel ever sees the light of day or not, these are the kinds of questions that I find fascinating and that I hope to write more about.
Monday, September 12, 2005
Blame it all on "Law and Order"
It's Monday afternoon. There's a pile of papers in my in-box. And there's a smaller pile in my "out box". And there's an entire checklist on my datebook, that may well stay "unchecked".
For the obsessive compulsive executive, that's as close to a suicide statement as any...leaving unchecked things on a checklist...what?
Sometimes, it just seems that no matter how hard you want to work, the things that distract you are the simplest...a not-too-hot-for-a-change Monday afternoon, a book that's half-read and my personal favorite, spending hours on the "Law and Order" web site. What is it about that show that has me so hooked?
I still have a long way to go before this day is over but something about 4 PM pulls out in me the worst...I get bull-headed (more so than usual, thanks) and outright possessive of my hour and a half that I can sit here and do next-to-nothing and call it "working".
It doesn't matter how much I try to plan my day, 4 PM signals in me the end of the "first half" of the day and the start of the "second half" -- the half that I must feed my family, get afternoon rituals (kids to work, practice, etc) and oh yea, finish out whatever wasn't accomplished during the first half of my day...which today is, not surprisingly from this blog entry, close to nothing.
I am amazingly creative at avoiding work. I can make lists with the best of them. I can plan all sorts of activities in the act of organization. In reality I am creating nothing except a way to stall, a way to plod, a way to self-sabotage on things that truly, truly need my attention.
A seminar to plan that is less than amonth a way.
A class tonight that I'm in no way prepared for.
Appointments tomorrow that I can't even begin to imagine how I'll get it done.
What it boils down to is simply this - procrastination is fear incarnate. Fear of ______ you fill it in -- but whatever it is -- fear of moving forward, fear of checking things off a list, fear of getting something done and finding that it wasn't that hard, and oh, after all, there's 20 more just like that to do...
Fear, pure and simple, is at the base of all the distractions, sidebars, excursions and second lattes.
As much as I don't want to admit it, I'm simply afraid of not knowing where the next lead is going to come from, the next idea, the next inspiration. I find the more that I plod around on cop drama web sites, the more I can hide behind insipid "information" about who is getting married, who is vacationing in the Carribbean and who is planning to be the next guest star.
Diversions as they go, are simply meant to keep us from tackling the big work that is calling to us from those in-boxes, work that when faced probably can tell us a lot more about ourselves than most psychiatry appointments, work that can keep us focused and balanced and all those things that we say - I say -- I want for my life.
Then again, an hour to simply veg may help the synapsis in my brain start firing in all the right ways so that I can be perfectly brilliant at tonight's class, more than prepared for tomorrow's appts and maybe even excited about the new inspiration that starts to creep out at me from around the edges of my work-fried brain.
For the obsessive compulsive executive, that's as close to a suicide statement as any...leaving unchecked things on a checklist...what?
Sometimes, it just seems that no matter how hard you want to work, the things that distract you are the simplest...a not-too-hot-for-a-change Monday afternoon, a book that's half-read and my personal favorite, spending hours on the "Law and Order" web site. What is it about that show that has me so hooked?
I still have a long way to go before this day is over but something about 4 PM pulls out in me the worst...I get bull-headed (more so than usual, thanks) and outright possessive of my hour and a half that I can sit here and do next-to-nothing and call it "working".
It doesn't matter how much I try to plan my day, 4 PM signals in me the end of the "first half" of the day and the start of the "second half" -- the half that I must feed my family, get afternoon rituals (kids to work, practice, etc) and oh yea, finish out whatever wasn't accomplished during the first half of my day...which today is, not surprisingly from this blog entry, close to nothing.
I am amazingly creative at avoiding work. I can make lists with the best of them. I can plan all sorts of activities in the act of organization. In reality I am creating nothing except a way to stall, a way to plod, a way to self-sabotage on things that truly, truly need my attention.
A seminar to plan that is less than amonth a way.
A class tonight that I'm in no way prepared for.
Appointments tomorrow that I can't even begin to imagine how I'll get it done.
What it boils down to is simply this - procrastination is fear incarnate. Fear of ______ you fill it in -- but whatever it is -- fear of moving forward, fear of checking things off a list, fear of getting something done and finding that it wasn't that hard, and oh, after all, there's 20 more just like that to do...
Fear, pure and simple, is at the base of all the distractions, sidebars, excursions and second lattes.
As much as I don't want to admit it, I'm simply afraid of not knowing where the next lead is going to come from, the next idea, the next inspiration. I find the more that I plod around on cop drama web sites, the more I can hide behind insipid "information" about who is getting married, who is vacationing in the Carribbean and who is planning to be the next guest star.
Diversions as they go, are simply meant to keep us from tackling the big work that is calling to us from those in-boxes, work that when faced probably can tell us a lot more about ourselves than most psychiatry appointments, work that can keep us focused and balanced and all those things that we say - I say -- I want for my life.
Then again, an hour to simply veg may help the synapsis in my brain start firing in all the right ways so that I can be perfectly brilliant at tonight's class, more than prepared for tomorrow's appts and maybe even excited about the new inspiration that starts to creep out at me from around the edges of my work-fried brain.
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