The Process in Art

Art is often used as a way to process. But what about the process of creating art? Here's my journey...

Sunday, July 30, 2006

Real Life

I admit that I am an escapist at times. I like to write to remove myself from life and watch from a distance (albeit, a short one at times). There was a shooting on Friday at the Jewish Federation. 4 women were wounded and one was killed. The assailant said that he was a muslim and he wanted the Jews out. I can't help but think that a completely ridiculous thing to say about killing another human being. Is religion more important than human life?

I am distressed by this. Who's child is that man who killed in the name of religion? He was only two years older than me. What did he learn that made him think killing was going to help anything? Who are his elders? Who are his friends? What world does he live in that I don't see?
He was from Pasco. I lived in Kennewick when I was young. What thoughts were going through his head when he pulled the trigger? I can't begin to imagine. I don't think I want to. In fact, to be honest, I know I don't want to. I don't want to think about how he got to that point. How did my lifstyle, my decisions, my patterns help him get there? And how will I help my kids come to different conclusions?

While my Judaism is a somewhat private thing, I know there are other lifestyle choices I have made that I feel are more public. I was reading a magazine recently about what is happening to the world (it's also summed up in "The Inconvenient Truth") and I started to retreat into my mind. I do that often these days. Everything seems threatened: land, water, humans, animals, future, hope...it freaks me out. I HAVE to do something about it. I'm figuring out what that is right now. I know it will have something to do with how I live my everyday life. I know it will be hard. And I will write it down and share it with others.

There's no way to make sense of what's going on the world...rather than spend (waste?) time doing it, I'd rather get to work on not being a part of the problem.

Saturday, July 29, 2006

What do I love to write about?

That's a very important question. And one that I probably ask myself 15-20 times throughout the day. It always changes. It's not that I simply love to write, it's that I like a certain kind of writing. Personal narrative is my favorite, but coming in a close second is ecological/social transformation. I love to read about people changing the world and I would love to be one of those writers. Someone who brought a unique story to the masses.
Do I have any unique stories?
My parents (Mom, Ricardo and my dad)
Pursuing the Ecological Dream (first I have to pursue it, and this would require some hefty travel--carbon-offset of course)
Surviving sexual abuse--although not unique, I do feel that I have become a very well-functioning part of society through my healing process

On my mind a lot lately has been what can I do about my impact in the world. I have been obsessed with living in Europe mostly for ecological reasons (recycling, waste reduction, social and political progressive lifestyle, mass transit that WORKS, health care, etc) and I have been torn regarding the social community I have here and the ecological community that already exists over there. So my idea was to research how I live here and then when we move temporarily, I can research life there. Then I can document the ease or the difficulty of the different lifestyles. In any case it would give me a good writing project that has the major components of research, experience, ecology, writing and living in Europe...all of which I love and all of which I do anyway.

So after I get married, I'll begin my project. Now I have to set up the process. First I want to document how I live. I know that I live an atypical life compared to most Americans but my point is NOT to be another 'jane' trying to increase my recycling habits. I notice in the more alternative world that I struggle with having one foot in each world. I support Starbucks AND I eat raw food. Usually, those two have a tough time co-existing.
Did you know that Starbucks HAS what's called 'for here ware?' Yep. They have ceramic mugs and glasses for your drinks if you decide to stay and sip. Why don't they advertise that, I wonder?
Little things like that DO make a difference.

Sometimes I break down and do things that I normally have a big problem with (styrofoam to-go containers...do I really need to take that food home? The food will break down faster than that container). Does everyone know about compostable to-go containers?

My plan is to learn about alternatives, try to live without, and overall be more conscious of the way I'm living. I tend to tell myself that it's okay if I drive a little since we don't own a car. Is that the right attitude? I allow myself to 'slip up' every once in a while because I don't pollute as much as the average American...but that's no way to justify. It takes hard work and commitment. Alcoholics can't have a tiny sip just because they've been good all year. Am I addicted to consumerism?
How can I hold myself accountable and not cause social disharmony? Or is the disharmony part of it? Will my choices affect my relationships? That's what I want to find out.

I know that I can't sit by anymore and watch movies like Who Killed the Electric Car and An Inconvenient Truth and other movies that point to our choices and NOT do something. And I can't say one thing and do the opposite. I've got to blow the whistle on myself.

Friday, July 28, 2006

Where I Grew Up

K-E-N-N-E-W-I-C-K. I learned to spell Kennewick when I went to Kennewick High School's football game with my sister once. I was about 6 years old. I had a thing for cheerleading.
I lived in a stained wood house, with brown trim. Looking back I know it was obviously the seventies because we had different colored carpets in each room: Parent's room-white, Den- cum-little brother's room- yellow, older brother's room -orange, older sister's room-blue, and my room-purple. I loved those carpets. The fibers were shorter than shag, but definitely longer than today's contemporary carpets. I loved the way the eastern light would stream in and make my room even brighter. My poodle Nickie tried to sprawl out in the sun, in my messy, toy-filled room whenever possible. For such a dark childhood, it was the brightest room. I learned to love the sun in that room.
The rest of the house was similarly designed with that seventies style in mind. It was split level and the living room upstairs could look right into the kitchen. No one cuts walls out like that anymore. The stove faced the eating area, which I have always liked. The cook should be part of the goings on. The sink faced a window out onto the backyard down below.
My dad had his own shop and I believe that's part of the reason my parents bought the house. The shop could only be accessed through the garage.
It had this distinct smell of sawdust, metal, WD-40, and machinist's oil. My dad had this florescent desk lamp. It was essentially an extension of him, in my mind. I loved the lamp and the smells and all the little weird tools in that shop. There were staples and nails everywhere. I loved to go in there and spend time alone. I didn't do anything but pretend and sometimes it felt like my shop too.
Our house was big enough for a family of six. We had our own rooms, and plenty of space to do whatever we wanted. The backyard had a small orchard with cherry , plum, apple, pear, and apricot trees. Our garden had corn, peas, strawberries, and probably other things that I don't recall. We had an above ground pool that we placed underground and built a deck around. I loved living there. We lived at the end of the street, in a nicely sized culdesac and our home was easily the biggest, until a Mormon family came and built on the open lot next to us. They had three stories and a mother-in-law apartment.
I used to climb our front tree all the time, and when I was tired of that, I laid on the ground and watched the clouds float by, guessing what their formations reminded me of. Even now when I see a tree like that one, I can feel the texture of the trunk beneath my hands and I remember pulling leaves off and slicing them along their veins with my fingernail.
I learned to ride my bike at that house. My dad had been running alongside me with a belt tied around his waist (this could not have been safe) while I attempted to stay up with my own momentum. I recall thinking the training wheels were poorly designed because they didn't touch the ground evenly. Only recently did I realize that was the whole point. One morning, determined to keep my balance, I actually rode my bike by myself. It was early yet and I couldn't wake my parents up to tell them. But I felt so proud of myself. I kept riding around until I got the hang of it and wouldn't forget how I did it.
Even though my dad was probably sick by then, I had no idea. As I look back, I know I didn't feel like it was a dark time. There were things I didn't understand, and things that maybe felt a bit weird, but overall, my essential nature was the same as it is now. I was a bright kid, with an insatiable curiosity.
My dad passed away eight days before my seventh birthday. I had an early birthday party that year in the park. I don't think I knew he was dying. It was my first surprise birthday.
Kennewick represents the before time. Before my dad died, before we moved, before I lost my innocence, before I was sexually abused. Even though those things happened when I lived there, most of my memories are good ones, about normal kid things, and not about surviving traumatic events. I guess I didn't know they were even traumatic. I knew I just had to remember things so that I wouldn't forget about them.
My dad gave me a stethescope one time. He told me he got it from a friend. He didn't tell me that friend was probably working hard to try to save his life. He didn't tell me that a stethescope is used to see if the heart has been affected by cancerous cells. He was a good dad. Maybe the best.
I also remember being sick a lot. A symptom of child sexual abuse is severe constipation. I never knew why my stomach hurt as much as it did, but I went to the doctor a lot, and had to eat special cereal (Corn Bran, which to this day I love). One time it hurt so bad I had to go to the hospital so they could give me nutrients to flush it out. That was scary. I remember thinking I didn't want my family to see me this way, with an IV, too weak to care for myself. I wanted to be this strong little girl. I was DETERMINED to be strong. I did not even cry at my dad's funeral until the last possible moment, but even then it was reserved.
At Jewish funerals, the mirrors are supposed to be covered so you can't watch yourself cry. I was more interested in what happens at funerals than I was at the fact the funeral was for my dad. I remember being taken out of school and not crying. Not saying anything. Just getting in the car like a good little soldier. No one told me to be strong. No one said I wasn't supposed to cry. It was almost like I knew it would happen and therefore wasn't shocked or sad.
I was more sad when we had to move away from Kennewick. At least, I remember being sad about it. Now I can see how psychologically, I could have replaced my sadness about my dad with sadness about leaving the only place I had known. But I didn't think that at the time.

Kennewick was hot in the summer. I played outside a lot, ate summer fruit, went to the brand new waterpark occasionally. I liked the smell of air-conditioning. I liked the smell of Coppertone sunscreen. I liked the smell of chlorine in pools. I liked the smell of heat.

I wanted to go back to Kennewick a lot after we moved. We still had family there and they were renting the house, so it was an easier transition. Once we sold the house I didn't want to go back as much. I didn't like thinking about someone else's stuff in our house, about what they changed. I didn't want to picture the new carpets (the ones we had were really outdated and a few rooms it needed to be replaced, but we didn't). I didn't want to see my friends grown up or worse, not there at all. I didn't want to see people I didn't recognize. I never thought I'd enjoy life in a small town, but now, after living in the big city for almost ten years, I miss that life a lot. Maybe I miss being a kid. Maybe I miss my dad.

I don't often think about Kennewick. I'm afraid if I dig too deep, I'll find memories I tried to forget. I feel like I have a split personality or just a different childhood disk that I can insert and type RUN and see my life back then. I don't feel like I was that kid with a dying dad, and a traumatic sexual experience, and a confusing and quiet childhood. It's like I have access to someone else's memories. I have a very good long term memory. I remember when I was 3 years old. Tastes and smells still come to me loud and clear. I wonder if I had a good memory before I needed it. Now I'm just thankful for it. I remember my dad really well. Although my memories are limited, I remember how he used to say my prayers with me. I remember him explaining things to me that I didn't learn in school. When I was learning math, he created a computer program to run like flash cards (I hated paper flash cards). He charted my progress so I could see my improvement. Even the hum of a dot matrix printer is soothing in a way.

I have a completely different relationship to my dad now. I can hear his advice or his congratulations in my head. I picture him still tall and lumbering, but the haircut he had when the operated on his brain has the bald part filled in. I have imaginary conversations about Judaism and Zionism and God. I ask him about major life decisions and sometimes I ignore him like a kid would do to a still living father. Although I never hear his voice, I even like to argue with him.

My wedding is coming up. We've taken out a lot of things that allude to a more traditional ceremony. No dad walking me down the aisle. No dance with the father. But it doesn't mean he won't be there. We're going to use his kiddush cup. And he's been here, with me, the whole time. I wish I could feel his hug, or hear him singing to me, but at least I still feel him close as ever.

Thursday, July 27, 2006

Frustration

I'm getting pretty frustrated with myself. I've decided to stop cleaning for my wages (they weren't a lot and we're trying to buy a house so I need a better, more stable income). But writing takes a lot of work...and honestly, I feel a bit lost when I sit down to write. I need topics and structure. Here's the thing: I like to write. I have a lot of interest in many things. But I need some structure. Deadlines, guidance, etc. If I had to write everyday on one thing, then I could do that. But not without another external entity moving me in that direction. Now this external entity can't be a hardass...I respond well to gentle, constructive feedback. I can do good work with praise. I can be humorous, informative, and pleasant to read. When it comes time to sit and write, I draw a complete blank. Well, not a complete one, which I would be able to deal with, but I hear all these ideas in my head and not one speaks to me. Have you ever tried writing without passion? It sucks.
So I'm back to the freelancing drawing board, knowing that writing will still be hard, but at least I can look for writing gigs that offer some structure. Basically, I don't have enough literary energy to just make things up and have them be brilliant. I'm not sure anyone has this, although it seems that they do. But maybe that's because I want it to seem that writing is too hard and that I am destined to do manual labor (somewhat mediocrely) for the rest of my life.

Josh has informed me that it's not wise to go from one manual labor job to another thinking that my writing will improve with less time put in to do it. My pride is hurt of course, because I don't like admitting that hard work is really not my thing. I don't believe writing is hard work, as it stands, and yet, it is! I know that by admitting my work aversion, I am calling myself out, but at this point, it's not fair to assume that I have the slightest clue about what I am doing (or not doing...). I want to make money and yet, I don't want to work to do it. I want to write and yet I want it to come "organically" (which might mean in between my organic lunches, trips to the movies, and fabric store shopping sprees). Writing doesn't usually come on command like that, nor does it present the best idea within seconds, all ready to be published. I should know that from many years in school.
I should not (and hopefully won't) get another job simply to buy bread. I should work on writing. I work out 4 days a week now, and I go, no matter how I feel. Sometimes I have a great workout, and sometimes I am barely breathing by the end (and if I'm lucky, that's the same workout). But I notice the difference when I don't work out. My body doesn't change.

How do I create structure? How do I create a timeline where I have to submit something? When the wedding is over, I want to be in a writing group so that I HAVE to write. Sometimes I miss school. How easy was it to write every week what my instructor asked for? Self-discipline hasn't been my strong suit...unless it's FOR something else. Can I write for a new house? It's worth a try.

I've been getting up later too...I had a few days of getting up early to write, but then that stopped. UGH. And the frustration continues.

Tuesday, July 25, 2006

Distractions

The desk has been cleared off and it's a LOT nicer to sit and write. My wrists don't hurt. There's nothing that's distracting me (well, the wedding is an overall distracting element, but that will all be over with in less than 45 days). It feels good.
I realize that I will have to stop cleaning after I get married. We're moving forward with many plans and those involve me having more money and therefore more work. I'm okay with that. By that time, I will have worked cleaning houses longer than any other job I've had (kinda sad, admittedly) and I'll probably go back to the temp world. I hope to have a gig every other week, or simply two weeks on and two weeks off. Or one month on, one month off. Something where I can work but I can also stop working when we go to Brazil or when I do something else. I'm scared of working 8 hour days and not having any time to write, but I'm reassured that many writers had full time jobs, full time families and other strange circumstances and they still managed to write. I think now it will feel different when I do temp work because I know I am working FOR something, rather than just to make money and pass time. Many writers have temped. In fact, that's pretty common as writing tends to take some time before it can become a FT profession. So that's my plan. In any case, I have to stop cleaning because it wears on me a little harder than I like. I feel good about a job well done and maybe I can clean on the side every once in a while, but for the most part, it's demanding and tiring and 4 hours of work exhausts me and I get paid well for those hours, but then I can't do much the rest of the day.
Plus, cleaning for friends and family is far more enjoyable and I only do that occasionally.

Sorry this is so mundane. My brain is filled with tiny wedding details and future planning (for home buying and moving and getting a new line of work) and I need to just let whatever is in there come out however it does. Brain dumping is a good exercise for me because it allows me to stop the thoughts from floating around in an endless cycle.

Josh leaves for Chile soon which gives me some more alone time. Hopefully I can write a bit. I may just get overwhelmed instead, but I'll try not to. Writing letters is often really therapeutic for me and it's nice to write Josh when he's away. Okay, I think I am done here...there's a lot to be done!

Saturday, July 22, 2006

Waking Up Before the Sun

It's finally cool on my skin this morning. I even used a blanket in the middle of the night. The heat becomes unbearable at the drop of a hat and my brain slows to molasses. But as I cool down in the morning, my thoughts speed up and like a tornado, their swarming grabs me and thrusts me into the day.
I love the morning. The crisp fresh smell, the quiet hum, the way life has been reset. I wish morning was longer. It holds all this potential. I can feel myself getting anxious when midday approaches. "Wait!" I yell. "I'm not ready yet!" It never does. My energy is highest before 1pm. At 1:05p, the day feels like it's starting to slip away.

I like to pretend my dreams are still possible in the morning. Before words have been spoken, cereal eaten, shower taken.

I'm frustrated. I want to write more, to write SOMETHING, but sometimes I just end up writing nothing. It's not "nothing" but it's just my mind unleashing. Maybe the first 30 minutes have to be morning pages and then I can let myself write real stuff. The process seems to be a struggle. Sometimes I feel good and sometimes I feel like a complete failure. And yet, nothing on paper to prove anything one way or another. Blogging is good for me, but it's a different voice.

What's important to me?
My relationships
The state of the Earth, and our purpose on it
Health and Healing
Design, green and otherwise

My desk is a mess. I'd rather be cleaning it. After spending time in someone else's CLEAN office, I am motivated to make mine the same way. Then the clutter won't annoy me as I try to type. Environment is important when writing. If I can look over at my wedding papers and get distracted, then it's no good to have the papers so close. I tend to like a lot of stimulation but when I write, maybe it's not such a good thing. I have been fantasizing about a simpler place to live. And composting. And growing my own food.

Back when I lived in Kennewick, WA, we used to have a tiny orchard with apricots, cherries, plums, pears, and apples. Then we had corn, strawberries, peas, pumpkins (and probably other stuff but I only remember eating the peas). Before my dad got sick we'd go out as a family and pick food to eat. I didn't help that much as my food went right into my mouth, but I can still taste those peas and I remember how big our strawberries used to be. Big as golfballs, my brother Aaron used to say.

When I think of us back then, it seems completely surreal. A family going outside and picking food to eat. We did lots of things together back then. Young families usually do. We hung out by the pool, all of us doing different things. We had a very active Jewish life despite the small community of Jews in the Tri-Cities. As I prepare for my wedding, the beginning of my own family, I am hopeful. I want to have a young family that picks food in their garden. I want to have an active Jewish life. I picture us traveling the world, with matching somethings (my grandma made all of us cableknit sweaters and denim backpacks when we went to Israel), learning about being a family and the foundation that becomes for all of life.

Maybe my search for community is a way for me to relive those great family times. Even as my dad was dying, I felt close to everyone. It was hard and scary, but I've always been able to come back to those memories, and hold them in my fingers like a worn security blanket. As we've gotten older we don't talk about those times that much anymore. We're creating new memories. I look forward to hear my own kids recollect their childhood.

Friday, July 21, 2006

Spirituality and Writing

I had an interesting dream last night. The main gist of it was that I was at some kind of conference in this huge, kinda bizarre hotel. It had white walls and was kind of adobe-feeling. I was always getting lost in the hotel, not being able to find the elevator or stairs that led to my room, or where I was supposed to be. So I was there with a group, but I’ve forgotten what our purpose was. The interesting thing was that there was another group there. They were on this spiritual retreat or studying spiritual stuff because they were always together and they were praying. Then I stumbled onto this area where there were huge, 8’ in diameter nesting pods (picture big bird's bed on sesame street, but with a huge glass dome on top) with glass domes covering them (it’s always so challenging to write something that I see when it seems insane). They were like giant cake dishes you see at diners. And the ‘bed’ part was different things: amber rocks, crystals, and other spiritual elements. I really wanted to lay down in one of them and meditate. But the group I was with, I had the suspicion, wasn’t a spiritual group. They thought it was weird. I thought it was awesome. So I wanted to be in the other group. I wanted to study spirituality and be a part of their thing.
I felt I was with a younger group. We had a conversation about attraction and I said I wasn’t attracted to one of the people because he was a teenager (which may or may not have been the case, but it *felt* like that).

Interesting dream.

So that brings me to Spirit and spirituality in my life. That’s something that is REALLY important to me. I have always been spiritual in some way or another. I’ve always believed in God. I think I tried not to at some point, feeling it was weird or immature, but then I’d secretly do it (and btw, it’s nobody’s business if I believe in God anyway, so now I don’t bother keeping it so secret). The connection to Spirit is something I try not to take for granted, but I’m happy that I can sometimes. When it comes to writing I try to let Spirit in, in any way it feels like being there. Lately it’s been challenging.

I tend to write like I’m having a conversation, but the spiritual voice I have sometimes doesn’t match that casual tone. Because spirituality isn’t usually casual to me. I mean, it’s not a black tie dinner, but when I stop to think how blessed I am, how amazing the universe is, how connected I feel to Mother Nature/God, the Flow, etc. it can’t be casual. It’s intense. It’s all around me.

There are things that I do, that I observe others doing, that distracts us from the main event, which disheartens me, for sure. And there are times when all I have to do is see the moon and remember that I don’t have to watch tv to make myself feel better. I am really valuing the idea of simplifying my life. I can pinpoint my stresses now and a lot of it comes from holding onto crap, buying into an idea just because it seems convenient and fulfilling (packaged food, fashionable clothing, an ‘experience’). Even though paying attention to spirit takes more energy in a sense, the return is higher. I love to cook. I love to bake. Both of those experiences are very spiritual. I love to write, read, walk. I love to eat, sleep, bathe. All those things are spiritual. Can shopping be spiritual? Of course. It may take some ritual and preparation, but when I buy from a company that supports the things I support, it can definitely feel spiritual. When I connect to the people who brought the things in the store closer to me, it feels really good.
Bringing spirituality into my life more and more may feel strange at first. But I guess I’d feel better than if I hadn’t brought it in closer to my life. Many things (if not all) have a spirit. Actions and objects. Keying in to them can change our experience of them. When eating becomes spiritual, the food tastes different. When shopping becomes spiritual, I don’t think about spending money, I think about supporting someone in their livelihood. When writing becomes spiritual, I think about sharing my life with others in order to forge a connection where there might not have been one.

Wednesday, July 19, 2006

The Setting

I wrote earlier about having the write tools (ha!). Very important. And second, I have to have the write setting. Although I have been known to write in cafes, barbershops, on buses, etc., I really like to write in the morning, in the quiet of my space. I've been housesitting for the past couple of day and I really enjoy the aspect of a simple, quiet, non-distracting space to write. I've housesat at several other places and the same is true. It's great to be able to have the mornings to write, have a nice place that doesn't have things that call to me, and be surrounded by a new collection of books. That's always a bonus. Different things to read. That's why I like the library. I can read new things all the time.

So about the process: After writing a little about the sexual abuse I have given myself a little break before I go back and write even deeper. I know that it's necessary for me to go into the places that I fear the most, but also important is the way I care for myself when I write. There is no rush, no expected outcome (like publishing or sending a letter), and no need to uncover all of it at once. It takes time. It takes some self-trust too. It's good to start the process before I get married, because it inevitably will be coming up after the wedding to be dealt with. This way, I feel prepared somewhat and have begun to use writing as a way of healing. Talk therapy is great for some things. But writing has always helped me with things that I just want to work through on my own, in my own time. Therapy has a beginning and an end and involves payment and those things can muddy up the experience somewhat.

Getting married is a rich topic too. As the day approaches I find that my dreams are getting richer (and being in another house I think helps me remember the dreams). I don't always remember the circumstances, but I feel present in the dreams. I had one a few nights ago where I was asserting my space, which is perfect for this time in my life. Writing-wise, marriage-wise, timeline-wise. We're talking about buying land as well, which is something I hadn't been considering a month ago and it feels good to exploremy desires to own and create a sustainable place where I (we) can live lightly, and have our own space, and do it affordably.
All the wedding details are coming together. The dress doesn't have to be remade. Apparently the first draft was a pretty good draft (!). The groom's attire is almost done (I'm going out today to find a shirt with french cuffs instead of buttoned cuffs). We have our rings, next week we'll write our vows, we're meeting with folks to get things planned, it's all coming together nicely. People are RSVPing. I'm getting excited. Josh is getting excited. We'll actually be married in two months! We'll be in SF in two months!

There will be a big chunk of time where I'm not working (wedding+honeymoon) and I want that to be a transition for me regarding what I spend my time doing. I've debated with people about working for a writing/publishing place while I discover my own writing voice. Some claim that will get me closer to my profession and others claim it will dissapate my writing energy. I believe the latter. If I am writing for someone else, it usually drains me too much to sit and write for myself. But on the other hand, I am interested in working a bit closer to my field (and I'd like to stop doing manual labor). I know I get paid well working for myself, but for the most part, I'm tired of it, my body is tired of it, and I want to spend more time writing. At this point, I'm just ready for something more. Although, I don't want to work FT, and I want a flexible schedule. I suppose it's up to me to start freelancing. I have to sell my work. I have to write profitable work. I want to set that as my intention. I intend to start writing about important, relevant topics and selling my work to magazines. That's part of my ritual and routine, once a week I have to write about something that affects others. Maybe the rest of my writing time today I will come up with things/topics/magazines that can go together. So that I can reach into a file, pull up a topic and write about that.
Okay, off I go.

Friday, July 14, 2006

Writing as a Way of Healing

Well, I think I've maintained a very surface, somewhat objective view on my process as of late. Sometimes my writing voice is geared toward audience and I don't always write from the deepest depths.
But in reading this book (title above), I realize that I am pretty anxious about writing about the deepest parts of my life. There are thoughts that run through my head daily that are not about buying milk, or getting the mail. They center more on what I have swirling inside me about my past, my childhood, my fears, etc.
Louise DeSalvo, the author of WAAWOH, gives concrete advise and examples that have inspired me to look at this shadowy part of my self, my life, and the things that swim around when I am waiting for the bus, or trying to brush my teeth.

I have written about sexual abuse in my journal, at some distance. I've spoken with many therapists about it, gone through extensive healing, and been able to even feel somewhat normal (relatively, of course). But the fact is, I haven't really written about it. About how I felt at the time (did I feel?), about how it happened, even about what exactly happened. I tend to spare others and myself the nitty gritty because it's sometimes embarrassing and also sometimes really painful to talk about it. I also know that writing it down makes it "real" in the sense that it gives me something to read again at a later time and I know I have a habit of not wanting to read or even acknowledge stuff that is upsetting (to say the least).
I've written many an unsent letter and shared with a therapist or two, only to be told to rewrite it or not send it because something hadn't been expressed. They were always gentle, but I never really felt supported in the writing about it.

Similarly with the death of my dad. I've written about it a lot, but from a distant, poetic place, rather than a close-up, 'this is how I felt' place. I have much more to write about, I see.

I've been treating my writing and writing itself as a pleasant pasttime that can be brought out on vcacations and shared only in school settings (where it's okay for it to be bad, unpolished, and amateur). This has discounted my love, my need of/for writing. I have been writing since I was in second grade. I can remember (even if I haven't read it in over 7 years) my first entry. I can remember the rage I used to feel (and scribble with) when I wrote. In retrospect, I can see how my writing styles were methods of healing styles and how those helped me see a bigger world, without having to directly navigate it.

Writing as a career is a great thing. I hope to do it one day. Soon. But before I can get to a career, with crossed t's and dotted i's, I feel pulled to really get down into myself and reveal my life. It scares the shit out of me, make no mistake about that, but I realize that it's necessary. It's not about publishing my tragic memoir of surviving sexual abuse while enduring the loss of my father. It's about how I survived, how I was effected, how writing helped me, how it continues to help me, and how speaking the truth isn't just for politicians and well-known writers and heroes.

I'm embarking on this journey with a lot more self-care. I'm creating a writing/reading schedule. I'm going to be gentle with my process, while at the same time trying to challenge myself to share more and more deeply.

What scares me is that revealing details and secrets can be terrifying. It can have repurcussions that I can't control. It can be painful to revisit. But what scares me even more, is that I could live the rest of my life NOT doing it...and I believe that will harm me (and others) more.

I chose my concentration for my degree to be "Writing for Sustainable Community." What I just realized today is that I'm writing to sustain my OWN community. I have a very amazing family, that has its share of tragedy, that I am of course a part of. I see my writing as a way to examine my past and empathize with others in light of those tragedies. While my family, in all its configurations might not necessarily cheer me on in my endeavors, it's nonetheless an important part of healing. At least for me, but I believe it to be the case for them too.

I won't always share my writing here, right away. That's just a boundary/precaution that I want to have. But I will feel free to talk about the writing (forgive please, it's possible crypticness) so that I can still share about the process I am going through. That is an important part!

When I decided to be a writer, I had completely different intentions (I flashed to Dave Eggers, JK Rowling, Maya Angelou, Stephen King, etc.) but really, they wrote for similar reasons. Fame isn't the goal, expressing myself is. And that is something I can do without any previous experience.

So thanks for reading, commenting, and supporting me. It doesn't go unnoticed.

Thursday, July 13, 2006

I've missed the mornings

Waking up at 5:45am doesn't seem like a good time if you're getting up to do something you've been dreading. But when you've been waiting all night to get up and write, it feels like a great time. I used to get up without an alarm when I lived at Findhorn every morning because I either wanted to go and meditate or write and my body was all for it. Even when it was pitch black outside. Goes to show you that it's not all about alarm clocks.
So I got up early to get my two hours of writing time in before I got ready for work and it was awesome. I wanted to write about my/our apartment (we're going to move soon!) and instead, I was drawn to write about life at Findhorn. While I've written about it before, I hadn't really sat down and written about all the things I loved in one place...usually I referenced it when I was writing about something else. This time I just sat and wrote about living there and what I enjoyed and how it affected me. In writing about it, I realized that I'd love to write more and maybe take some time to go back and visit with the goal of writing about it. Many people do that, so I'm not thinking of anything new, but I don't care. It deeply affected my life in all areas and I think that's worth something.

The book I've been referencing, Writing as a Way of Healing, talks about having a process notebook where you discuss what you've written. Brilliant! Instead of writing it in a book, I think it will be just as efficient to blog about it.

I thoroughly enjoyed writing this morning. Josh came and did his computer thing, but I moved my laptop to the kitchen table so that I couldn't see his screen (I am easily distracted) and so I could have a simple desk area. I think having an office, where I have a special writing desk with no crap on it, will make a big difference. All the little papers and reminders can keep me from writing very easily. I am an endless to-do list. So a clear space is nice because then it's all about the writing instead. So Josh did his thing I wrote 6 pages in an hour and a half. Woo! I think the structure of goals, time, space and all the things that go along with that is important for me. I loved being awake in the silence, before the morning had officially started. And now, I am ready and okay to go to work. I got my writing done, and now I can go and clean without the heaviness of not doing what I want to be doing. I realize that I have to keep working while I write. I haven't written enough to quit my PT, financially supportive job. And if I put that pressure on myself to make money, then surely, I will be frustrated and depressed. This way, I can write about anything, for however long and not sweat the financial thing. Aha!

I'm thinking of many ways to organize writing sessions. Picking a place to write in, once a week (or month, maybe), having topic folders (that coincide with magazines, just so I can practice writing on similar things and so I can have goals for publishing), a notebook for beginning sentences or ideas for writing, a book list of books I want to read, etc. I'd also like to work in some research time where I go to the library for a couple of hours and research/read about stuff I'm curious about. At this point, I only read between buses and before bed, but after understanding that reading is a very important part of a writer's life, I must make time for that too. Some mornings I might just devote an hour to reading. At night I'd like to spend time transcribing my dad's book. His handwriting can be a bit tough (and he scrawled all over the page sometimes, which is hard to follow) so having a type-written page to read would be nice.
I was reading yesterday about the idea of losing our geniuses and it made me think that although my dad probably didn't need/want the fame or fortune (well, who doesn't like fortune?) of acknowledgement of his inventions, I can't help but think I've buried my very own genius. I mean, not only was he my dad, but he made a LOT of contributions to society and I don't know anything about that. My Architect comes to mind...a movie about this guy who's Dad had another family and was rarely present in his life, but who architected these amazing buildings all over the world. I've always wanted to interview people who knew my dad. Now, before they get old, or it's too late, or something like that. The internet will help me. My dad might still be working at Battelle for all I know and maybe some of his colleagues are still there...or at least tracable. Hmm. Another idea for a book. My inventor.

Anyway, I feel really good right now, inspired, complete, full.

Wednesday, July 12, 2006

The Tools

So I exchanged the keyboard for the one I wanted and I am very happy with the switch. I have to get used to it, like any other keyboard, but I've typed on a mac since I first got on a computer, and I like these keyboards. They have a nice clicking sound. I also got a more expensive mouse, but it's not as loud. I admit I never really thought of it before, but after taking some time to really think about the proper tools for writing, I see that it makes a lot of difference to really commit to the process in all areas. I have pen preferences and paper preferences, and it just makes sense that I have proper typing tools too.
These keys feel so smooth! I love them! I think I will make a dust cover though because apparently, the keyboards get dirty and they are hard to clean. Josh's keyboard is already dusty/filthy and white always shows more. :)
I hope to continue to write more and to lay out my writing plan, goals, accomplishments, and challenges.
Stay tuned!

I like me some structure

I'm reading "Writing as a Way of Healing" and it's actually really helpful. Not only for the ideas of how to write to heal yourself, but it actually gives some concrete ideas about when to write, how to organize your writing, creating writing goals, long term plans, etc. I think I have been fooling myself lately that I will one day get this lightning bolt of creativity, write a best seller, and live happily ever after touring the world and reading my work. So the fact that I haven't done that yet disappoints me inevitably.
But DeSalvo (the author of the above book) breaks it down. She says that writing isn't as spontaneous as we'd like it to be. Often we have to create scenarios so that when we do finally sit down to write, we have direction and focus. I'm not a night owl, nor do I have special things I need to do before I write, but I do need some structure. And I need to see writing as necessary (I believed it to be before this, but I always left it for times when I was too tired, bored, or REALLY upset...which created bad writing, to say the least). I need to care for myself as I write. I need to write the deep stuff, the real stuff, the hard stuff.
I cannot simply wait for genius, I need to create a space for it.
So to the dismay of my "flexible" self and the desire to "not be constrained by a schedule" (which I'm not sure I actually agree with) I am setting up a schedule for myself to write. I can easily get up for jobs, so getting up to head into the living room to write, should be relatively easy. I'm going to get a better keyboard and mouse today (ones that make the right sounds and feel good to the touch) and I will start my schedule on Friday.
I'll write for two hours on the days I work, and the other days I will do the prep work like reading, researching topics/ideas, and revising. I have many a stalled project that I want to get going on.
Scheduling my life has always been a strange balancing act. I don't want to be too rigid, but at the same time, I don't want to check email all day and then tell people I'm a writer...I want some real, morning-heavy time to write and get things out on the page. Hopefully writing in the morning will keep me from distancing from my friends (which I tend to do in favor of work/obligations). But this also means that I don't do morning stuff anymore. Lying around, leisurely breakfasts, etc. I guess I'm okay giving that up in favor of doing more of what I love.
I work out at 6pm everyday and although it renders my nights a bit useless, I still manage to interact with the world. I am not losing sleep as of yet, and I know that writing in the early morning has proven successful before. It's hard to get out of bed when I am an avid snuggler, but at this point, I really need to listen to the part of me that is dying to be up at 6am, writing, healing, and exploring through words. Making decisions to listen to that part of me is part of the battle and I believe it's a worthwhile one. I will work on some goals, plans, and further structure on Friday and will relay that. I hope to start putting some stuff I write into the blog. :)

Til then!

Monday, July 10, 2006

Fifth Chakra

It's Monday morning and after a rousing weekend of activity, I am home with some time to write. Finally. I've been avoiding it, to be honest. It hurts to write for long periods of time with a tiny laptop keyboard so after some hounding by good friends, I went out to buy a new keyboard and mouse. What a difference it makes! Now I have no good excuse not to write.

I've been cleaning houses regularly and doing some odd jobs here and there and honestly, it's a good gig. My own hours, my own way of doing it, and it's satisfying overall. But it doesn't take away the fact that I *really* want to write. I know that my expectations can be a bit high, and then consequently make me feel really gloomy if I don't become the next Virginia Woolf, but that doesn't take away my desire to write. Write and write and write. About whatever, whenever, however. I just want to write. And honestly, I don't even care now about making a fat living...I just want to spend hours writing about whatever I can. I need some routine, structure, accountability measures, but that's easy to do. I have to commit and then I can organize that.

So in honor of this commitment, and other commitments in my life (speaking the truth, committing to Josh, moving into this new place in my life), I got a tattoo yesterday of the 5th chakra symbol on my left arm (feminine side). It's a simple line drawing, with the possibility of color later (when my pain threshold is restored to above average), and it represents communication, creativity, and the honest expression of oneself.

While cleaning houses is a good living for me, I eventually want to be a writer and no better time to start than now.

Getting a tattoo is a great metaphor for me. It's about enduring pain and seeking change at the same time. It signifies commitment. It's a bonding experience between myself and others. It reminds me.

So look for more writing...