Tag Archives: writing

Today is August 25, 2014. I am alive and well.

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I’m riding high at my computer after some deep breathing exercises. If my laptop could float, it would. And the keys would advance with invisible fingers writing something I can only guess about. “The air is fire-dry. Light a match, touch it to the carpeting and watch your hand jump. Make certain the kittens are boxed so they can be removed along with you from your home.”

I have never had fire in my home, although it is something I worry about. While at Stephens College in Columbia, MO, one of the dorms caught fire and destroyed most everything if not by fire, by smoke. My friend said her toothbrush reeked of fire. Such a small thing to catch smoke.

Although I am paranoid about having a fire, I cannot think of anyway my house would become lit unless it was intentional and by me. I like watching flames, but only the safe flames, the flames that are trapped in a fire pit. Their colors radiate and I am reminded of popsicles.

Today, I am safely sitting at my keyboard in my bedroom/study. Sure, I see an armadillo at rest on the windowsill in all the glory of its armor. But it’s only a flash. I see it as well as I see invisible fingers punching in the impossible. Why look at things from one reality? There are so many more possibilities. Hang onto the sky. Wrap a rope around the sun. Haul it in and think heat. Writing is partially about making heat.

Today is June 1, 2014. I am alive and well despite myself.

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I have no shortage of time today. I find myself rally resistant to sitting down and writing. I allows myself only one hour of my addiction to Property Brothers. And I spent a couple of hours watching Super Soul Sunday on Oprah’s Network. I hadn’t realized that Maya Angelou had died. I usually don’t listen to people that are popular enough to earn a living writing. I get it in my mind that they are simply repeating over and over what has already been said and what has worked. I suppose that’s snobbery on my part.

Maya Angelou was fabulous. I really enjoyed her commitment to truth telling and her love of God. She radiated through the television and onto my couch. I felt touched by a being who truly loves.

Now, my resistance. Is it fear of not having anything to say? Is it fear of telling the truth? Is it fear of being boring? One of my professors said, “write anything, just don’t be boring.” I did take that to heart.

The only thing I can think of that I find really boring is brushing and flossing my teeth. Twice a day is almost beyond me. I do do it dutifully, though. The coffee stains are permanent and my teeth are crooked, but I’ve only had one cavity in my 50 years, and no other procedures.

The house is quiet. Guy is still out of town with the little dogs. It has been five weeks. My mind is treating me well; dust stops at my ears. I am moving like a swan in sneakers with no webbed feet.

Today is May 28, 2014. I am alive and well.

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I am working on a second memoir. I am working on it even if publishing it may not happen. My editor told me things with memoirs were slow, unless you’re a celebrity. I do understand that celebrity memoirs are dominating the genre. I keep writing regardless.

I like what Pearl S. Buck had to say about the writing process. She writes, “I don’t wait for moods. You accomplish nothing if you do that. Your mind must know it has to get down to work.” Writing is like going to the gym today. I don’t want to do it, would rather be sleeping, but know it is good to forge on. So, I walked on the treadmill this morning and am now sitting in the favorite room in my house, the study, surrounded by deep blue walls, willing to be present enough to give writing my all.

I conjure up gardenias in my mind and breath them in. The smell is like a bite out of my favorite vanilla bar. I imagine my grandmother sitting beside me, silent, and am hoping to catch her voice. A picture of her pinned to my bulletin board, she in half shadow, looks imperial to me. I remember that writing about a grandmother is not cool. Too sentimental. My grandmother is no longer sitting beside me. Ha.

I will venture out into the world today. I look forward to being a worker among workers. I will glow in the presence of my colleagues at the library because they are good people. Tonight, I will retire knowing that I am loved and I do love. The mind is a wonderful place to visit. Forge on.

Today is May 19, 2014. I am alive and well.

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I feel like I’ve been mentioning God quite a bit. I have a deep spiritual connection with something larger than myself that allows for coincidences and deja vu. God also helps tame my fear, which is often times out of contral. But I don’t want to lose followers because of talking about or mentioning God. So then that brings up the question of who do I write for.

I know I write for myself, but because this is a blog and not a journal entry, I am also writing for an audience. A blog is a broad thing, larger than the expanse of an eagle’s wings, larger than a shelve of books, and maybe as large as a dictionary. Because of this, I”m not certain of my audience.

I am not religious. By stating that does it mean I am losing followers? I do believe in God. By stating that, do I lose atheists? I have many friends that come form many different spiritual experiences and even religious experiences. The religions include Judaism, the teaching of Islam, Catholicism, Buddhism, Wiccan, and the Metaphysical. Oh, and I almost forgot to mention Atheism.

I do try to be as inclusive as I can because I believe the world ought to be inclusive. There are plenty of roses stripped of their thorns to go around for everyone. Hell, I don’t even mind a bit of thorn as long as it doesn’t harm my core.

My core is what I try to offer my readership. It is what I like to read of others. There is something to truth telling that is mind boggling. More truth, more light. The dark isn’t a bad thing, it’s simply a moment waiting for batteries. There too is truth to be found in shadows. A shadow can be a lovely thing; think of paintings and chiaroscuro. Think to what fun it was to first note as a kid your shadow following you, or even your shadow leading you. Light, dark, shadow–there is a place for all of it. A grand place for all of it.

Today is May 12, 2014. I am alive and well.

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A few of us go on Oprah, say God is Love, and make millions. Than there are those of us who are fiercely convinced God is Love without a dime. I work in a library. I can’t tell you how many books there are spouting spiritual beliefs. And usually, it all comes down to the same thing, God is Love.

It baffles me that one person’s beliefs make the New York Times Best Seller List, whereas another person’s beliefs remain at the side of the bed where she just got up from praying. Some of us write. Some of us don’t. I guess it’s just in the way you type God that makes all the difference. Is God more powerful in Times New Roman than in the font Arial Black?

I do believe that things are as they’re supposed to be. Those who make millions on writing about God, are suppose to be making those millions. Those who say “I love you God” from the side of their bed are suppose to be given ease and comfort and a fiercely peaceful heart.

It is good to know that loving God for a dime is equally as powerful as loving God for a million. And I do believe that those who make a million loving God, would give up their millions if they could only find ease and comfort and a fiercely peaceful heart in loving God for a dime.

A little girl loses control of her red wagon in which she’s seated and says “help.” God hears this regardless of her age, race, class, gender, and makes certain she lands in the grass rather than slamming into the brick wall. The little girl may not know God yet, but she will remember that saying “help” helped.

There is a power out there. I hope you find yours even if you believe the power is internal. Atheists have might, also. Atheists can be in awe of the world just as the priest bending to light a candle.

Today is February 24, 1014. I am alive and well despite challenges.

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The good thing about being sober and in recovery from my schizophrenia is that things change. The little energizer bunny is no longer running laps around my mind. In fact, he didn’t even finish a marathon, just a couple of miles that took an hour or so. 

I still hear voices which isn’t a big deal to me because mostly they are just a hum, or garbled, acting like a dog in heat who chases her tail and then lays quiet when there is no partner to find.

This morning, I managed to drag my happy ass to the gym. Quite the feat. I often wrestle with should I write when first up, or should I walk on the treadmill at the gym first. The treadmill usual wins out, especially if I know when I get home that I will have several hours to write and read, and yes my work practices as a writer includes reading; I simply try not to use reading as a form of procrastinating. Admittedly, I have avoided the terror involved in starting writing by procrastinating. But the procrastination is anxiety building, so I forge on writing sentence after sentence in a slow rumba, allowing the fear to silently leave me without protest. I seek the zone, and find it. It is glorious.

It is February 10, 2014. I am alive and well.

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It feels like the trees have tipped south again. I am afraid of foliage laying on barren ground. Am I going to be able to write about myself for another 300 pages? Why would I want to do this? Is writing about the self the same as having a feeling of self importance? I don’t feel self important; I feel, curious. I’m not a writer who knows what I will write before sitting down. And in sitting down, it could be a good twenty minutes before I write a sentence and then get up to stretch. I find myself walking to the kitchen in search of water often. Is this a form of procrastination? I think not. I think it is a brief time in which I can let resonate the sentence or sentences I have just written. 

Thank you for your readership. Here’s toasting another day of inspiration.

Today is August 4, 2013. I am alive and well.

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Alive and well…..with a bit of anxiety. My book is launching soon. I am excited but also scared. I was going to say terrified, but I think that word is a bit strong. Of course, in the book I have relationships with other people. Relationships are not always smooth; sometimes they are challenging, even a bit rocky. I considered how the book might effect people that see themselves in it even though their names have been changed. But I don’t think I considered deeply enough. For a moment I thought that maybe I shouldn’t have written the book. Sigh. Someone reminded me that I am a writer, that is what I do. The same someone has read the galley copy of the book and has said the book is honest and that is important. I will trust them and try to relax. If you ordered the book through Amazon, I believe you will receive it on the 27th of this month. It hits the store on the 1st of September. Soon. Most of the time, I feel exhilarated. These next three weeks will pass quickly, although the clock will remain true; sixty minutes is always sixty minutes, ha.

Today is July 10, 2013. I am alive and well…

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…and breathing. It was a challenge getting out of bed this morning. Like all mornings. My meds make me really tired, but the alternative to not taking them is worse than tired. So I take them. To help get up, I think of the bagel with butter and orange marmalade that I am going to eat. Food is a great draw!

Excerpt–

I’m too tired to think of ink. To think of word. To think of pen, scratching its way across freeways, between cars deadened to their role in pollution and war. So much depends upon concern for the squirrel that just got flattened on Route 10.

Today is July 5, 2013. I am alive and well.

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Just off work from the library. I am tired, but I brought three books home about word press and blogging! I learned I have 34 books checked out. I have no idea where they all are. It will be a treasure hunt! Hope all enjoyed the 4th! Below is an excerpt from Mind Without a Home. It is kind of long. Hopefully it won’t bore you. Someone once told me that any writing was okay as long as it didn’t bore people!

Often I wake to a cluttered conversation carried on by people I can’t see. Guy has left for the morning, leaving his side of the bed in an open yawn. I look to the little dogs. Their bodies lay like thick socks at my feet. They don’t hear what I hear, or at least, they show no interest.

I can’t make sense of the air but rise away, my naked body a shimmer of life. The six feet that I am dresses in shorts, a T-shirt, and rubber flip-flops. It is the dogs that motivate my movement. They must be walked on leashes. This ritual spills me into the morning like the sun curling around dawn.