It’s come to my attention that some of my amazing followers have been continuing to visit this site while I have my new site up and running! Please be sure to take a moment to visit the new link & subscribe to the new blog.
www.confessionsofawordslut.com
~ M 🙂
Well, I had a dream, last night, or this morning to be more exact. Brace yourselves. I was white water rafting (never gonna happen) in some sort of elaborate indoor waterslide-esque setup (umm…) that was large enough to encompass forests, rapids, falls, wildlife, etc. Still with me? Here’s the kicker, I’m in the back of a raft, my entire family (including the “only on holidays” relatives, and “here’s a fluffy puff paint sweatshirt for your 21st birthday” folks) fills the rest of our barely floating boat. But there I am, clinging NOT to the raft itself but to my cat, Alfie, who is fully equipped with a miniature helmet and life vest.
As should have been expected, at the first sign of turbulence Alfie gets flipped out and into the frigid water (you’d think in an indoor arena they’d pay to heat it) and I, like any reasonable person, jump in after him?!?! Just as I got hold of him, about the same time I lost feeling in my limbs and started debating on if I really loved said cat enough to die in a manmade rapids scenario – we were both zapped (yes, zapped… it’s a super technical term used quite often these days) into a sterile room with attendants, prepared to coddle, shampoo, fluff, and dry little Alfie, while I, was tossed a hand towel to see to my own impending case of hypothermia.
Once Alfie was back to good, we were zapped back into the raft, where our raft was suddenly surrounded with a flock of rabid ducks. Luckily I woke up before they launched an attack, relieved to find that there were no ducks in bed with me, only my iphone alarmclock. While I haven’t the slightest idea what any of this crazed symbolism means, I have learned my lesson as far as reading NonFiction Disaster books with wine in bed.
Once again, it’s been far too long since I’ve posted anything here. Not because I haven’t been writing, not the case at all, in fact I’ve been doing more writing in the past few weeks than I did for the month or two prior! But, the writing is just of a different sort, genre, topic… what am I trying to say…. alright it’s “professional” writing- all proper like. I’ve started 2 blogs for work, one being a basic “Insurance for Dummies, or Insurance 101” if you will (Insurance Made Simple(r)), and the other being for work as well, but focused on some of the amazing craft breweries here in the Northwest that also happen to be clients at work (What’s Hopp’ening)! If I haven’t forced you to check either of them out already, you should do so – they’re definitely different than the writing (read: venting) I do here, in my “voice” but works that I’m proud of all the same…
I’ve also been spending a fair amount of time on my attempt at a historical fiction novel. After much struggling with myself, and Agnes (my inner editor – for more on her check out my earlier blogs) over whether to completely steal the life of an actual person and by doing so have to adjust my entire ficticious world to fit with what is real – or to simply steal a few of his real life tidbits and apply them to a character all my own, in that world of my own creation.
This has been one of the sticking points that has (sadly) left me completely unproductive for long periods of time… simply sitting at the laptop arguing with myself in my head on what I can & can’t do. It wasn’t until just a few days ago that I had the realization that this is MY story, MY book, MY project, and I can do whatever the hell I want to with it! So, it’s been decided (Agnes be damned) – I’m writing “A Historical Fiction Novel; Loosely based on true events”…*whew* – you have NO idea what a paradigm shifting relief it’s been to have that decided & realized. I feel like I’ve reached the top of my first big mountain peak, am enjoying the view, the moment or two of tranquility and success, and looking out ahead of me at the remainder of the mountain range lying in my path.
And thus I move forward, onto the next comfortable valley before once again facing a challenging peak.
“Go confidently in the direction of your dreams! Live the life you’ve imagined.” Henry David Thoreau
I can’t remember the last time I was able to take a full hour & escape to the park by myself. Today, I was able to do just that, and those 60 minutes were utter bliss. Somehow the stars & planets aligned perfectly, and I found myself without excuse.
It’s early July and the weather is finally showing signs of summer, 73 degrees, sunshine and a cloudless blue sky. At first I assumed the park must be closed, and the staff had simply forgotten to close the front gate across the long gravel driveway entrance. The parking lot, usually filled with cars, was bare. The fields and picnic tables, usually bustling with children, families, picnics, and animals, were silent. As though the park was mine alone. The silence and space mine for the taking. Choosing my picnic table wisely, close enough to the looming red barn to eavesdrop on its feathered inhabitants but just out of reach of its massive shadow.
Closing my eyes for just a moment, I realized that I’d taken the empty parking lot for granted, I wasn’t alone after all, the park was overflowing with it’s residents and their own daily conversations. The rustle of the wind through the leaves of the foliage, the incessant clucking of the hens, so like an elderly Jewish woman, anxiously pushing her own life lessons onto anyone who’ll listen, always busy and moving about. The proud crow of the rooster, a college athlete long past his prime but still insistent on announcing his presence for all to hear. The eager duck, testing the water in his small pool, so like a naive child, instructed to use just his toe but unable to control his excitement, running full speed into the water instead; splashing any adults standing near for his protection.
I wonder why I’ve neglected this amazing place for so long. Allowing myself to become so absorbed and overwhelmed with the rush of everyday life that I’ve nearly forgotten the sensation of just being. Sitting still and inviting nature to exist around me, not needing to be in control, but instead relinquishing myself to something greater than I am, than I can ever hope to become. Appreciating the little things. The birds, the sun, the grass, the breeze…
Almost akin to hitting the reset button on one of the many pieces of technology managing my day-to-day life. Seeking out and finding that small button, the one hidden within a crevice in the man made plastic box, using an unwound paperclip to sneakily press and grant myself & the machine 30 seconds of reprieve before returning to whatever menial yet urgent task lies at hand.
I need to do this more often, I tell myself this, just as I have every time before. When I’ve depleted my own reserve of relaxation and peace, and have stumbled back to my roots, to nature for a refreshing reset, a dose of quiet, and a reminder from Mother Nature that she hasn’t gone anywhere. She’s here waiting for me, if I’ll only make time to remember her.
That horrible feeling of being completely blocked up, of absolutely nothing getting through no matter how hard your push, how much you try to relax. Sleep becomes a hobby because your entire body lacks enough energy or drive to do anything more. Ugh! I can’t be the only one struggling with this…right?!?
It’s been weeks since the last time I’ve written something, anything, at all. So many days and weeks that together they almost compile an entire month! I have no excuses, no witty reasons why – only the dimming hope that at some point soon the roadblock will falter, crumble, and wash away.
I’m to the point where I still sit at my laptop each day, maintaining that if I intend to all myself a writer, I must at least attempt to play the part. And, each day, for 20 minutes, I sit… I’ve tried cookie cutter story starters, blog topic suggestions, mad libs, and re-reading through the chapters I’ve written earlier this year – all to absolutely no avail. So tonight I’m taking this first step, writing this meaningless post, in hopes that it garners a thought or sparkling insight from a kindred spirit that somehow chips away at the block. Or perhaps having pressed “publish” i’ll reawaken my inner editor from her overwhelming boredom, startling her into action…
*fingers crossed*
Last night I attended and read at what’s officially my first ever public open mic night reading. I’ve read a handful of pieces before in smaller, intimate groups at different writing conferences I’ve attended. Always surrounded by people that I know in some facet, even if only for a few moments, but always enough so that I know they’re going to be… nice? Last night though, was different… I arrived early in hopes of finding like-minded strangers interested in conversation… instead I sat alone, gripping my few printed pages and watching the podium and microphone in front of me as it grew a tail, fangs, horns, and leering yellow eyes… A group of strangers began arriving, gathering in the lower level of a local bookstore, all of them chattering eagerly with each other, making the monster before me grow even larger, and the knots in my stomach tighter, as I realized these people all knew one another. They knew each others style, voice, thoughts, opinions, and humor – whereas I, a tattooed trollope, had wandered aimlessly, naively into their lair, stupidly thinking that I might fit in.
Just as I was reacquainting myself with the nearest exit route I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to find a familiar face. The face of a friend from high school, 12 years ago, recently reacquainted, there to show her support for me. *sigh* You know who you are, and you both rescued me from a night of awkwardness suffered alone, and at the same time cemented the fact that I could not escape. I now had no choice but to follow through on my commitment to bare my still naked and quivering soul to these judgemental strangers.
I was further down the list, allowing me the opportunity to fully commit to my nervousness, and to lose myself in utter confusion at what appeared to be a night devoted fully to poetry written quite eloquently in Klingon, while I waited for my name to be called. Eventually it was, and as is my habit I made excuses for the piece of writing I was going to share before even daring to make eye contact with any of the rabid beasts in the crowd. No doubt at the point, already having noticed that I am a stranger, and not one of them. I read my piece, a short story, my first ever attempt at fiction; a piece that I recently shared at a small writers conference I attended to good response on the validity and thoroughness of my “voice.” Last night however, the room was silent, and I lost my place on a few occasions simply because I wasn’t sure that I was actually reading aloud to the room, or if I might be awkwardly standing there, in front of the crowd, making no sound at all – simply rereading the words to myself in my own inner monologue. When I finished there was a quiet whisper of golf clapping as I zeroed in on my destination, my empty chair 3 rows from the back of the room.
Luckily, these strangers must be used to having a newbie such as myself mistakenly wander in off the street on occasion, because they were careful to refrain from eye contact, or any other form of communication that would require us to speak. And before I knew it, another poet had taken the stage, sharing a rhyme about topics I still have yet to realize. And then another, this one speaking of anger, loss, rage, and abandonment. A mere moment passed, and just like that my voice had been forgotten. With that, the evening was over, and with my single friendly companion in tow, we hastily made our way to the exit. Bursting into nearly maniacal laughter the moment we made it back out, safely, into the world we knew.
As those of you close to me may know, my recent ghostwriting opportunity wasn’t meant to be. Which is a nice way of saying that we went back and forth a few times negotiating numbers and whether I would be able to use the finished product on my resume at all – and in the end, we were unable to come to a mutual decision. I was definitely disappointed that things didn’t work out, but proud of myself for sticking to my guns on the few small things I felt I needed in order to make the project really worth my while.
Within a few days of realizing the ghost writing project wouldn’t be happening, I found myself slightly stumped for a writing project to drown myself in, especially since I’d just spent the last 3 weeks reading up on everything I could as far as fiction writing for dummies, character development, and setting a scene that already exists perfectly inside my head. As fate may have it, I stumbled onto a topic that’s held some intrigue for me since I was much younger, and almost instantly, in my mind, I could see the character that belonged there, her life, her traits, her flaws, her desires, and what would eventually be her demise!
At this point I’m 100’s of pages of notes & research in, and about 500 words deep into chapter 1 of what I feel could be the next big historical fiction novel to hit the shelves! Hopefully sometime soon – say 2013ish, assuming of course that the rest of the book/story tells itself as quickly and painlessly as things have fallen into place thus far. But whatever happens, however far I get, this is MY story – wholly and completely – and it feels EFFING AMAZING!!! 🙂
So, friends, family, and faithful blog stalkers – please accept my apologies in advance if I seem to be distant from the blog – and I do promise I’ll try to keep at least a few posts a month gracing these pages… Wish me luck!
~ m 🙂
It isn’t often that I find myself struggling with a decision. I tend to know what I want, and to pursue the option best fitting with my goals, whether they be short term or long, planned or spontaneous, wise or questionable *according to others* – but, for the past few days I’ve found myself at a dead stop, pondering the diverged paths ahead of me, and at a complete loss of which direction to pursue.
As a writer, being approached with a paying project is the constant waking dream, one that I was blessed to receive this past week. Discussions were had, coffee was drank, notes were taken, and an introduction was written. The end product would be the first book in a series of 3 or 4, written for the tween crowd, ideally approx. 200/250 pages in length, and centered around characters locked safely inside the minds of my cohorts. After much talk, prayer, pro/con’ing, and contemplation; an agreement was reached, a price named, and the contracts were all but drawn up. Then, the decision was made, by said cohorts, that they desire for this project to be completed with myself as a ghostwriter.
Now I realize that ghostwriting is a career that many authors choose to take, and that it can be a fulfilling position, paying fairly substantially. But, I struggle with the idea of pouring my own storytelling skills, passion, and creativity into conceiving & birthing a being that I’ll then be handing over to someone else to be responsible for, as well as my not being able to celebrate that beings successes, my own pride at it’s creation, and of course, no reaping of rewards or publicity if things were to hit it big. *sigh* On the other hand, I do realize that as a writer who is essentially just starting out, I need to be grateful for the opportunities I’m presented, and see them as wonderful learning experiences, and situations that can only assist me in growing as an author!
Ugh! Any advice?…
~ m 🙂
I visited with a new client yesterday afternoon and as she told me her story, I realized we have much in common, but really are living in two completely different times. From a young age she’d known that she would pursue a degree and career in journalism. And, after receiving her education, she sought out positions with the local newspapers, realizing quickly that while she possessed the same qualifications as some of her male counterparts, as a woman she would be hired as a “journalist” by title only, and would spend her days fetching coffee, answering the phone, and filling the role of secretary or receptionist, instead of writing the hard hitting news stories she so yearned for. Thus she pursued a career in education, becoming an elementary school teacher, and later a reading specialist.
Flash forward to myself, a single female, 60 years later, who’s decided to press pause on her technical education after receiving her Associates Degree, and instead of pursuing book smarts in the form of an astronomically priced Bachelors Degree, is earning her education through the school of life – working a few months as a freelance reporter for the local newspaper, a monthly columnist for a local entertainment magazine, published in a magazine that holds as an institution in most American homes, and all the while writing whatever I’d like, about whomever I’d like, with the dream of having a book of my own resting on the shelves of a local bookstore.
Thank you, to those that have come before, Virginia Woolf, Emily Dickinson, Sylvia Plath… Those who faced the struggles they met head on, because of you, I’m able to do me.
~ m
Well, this is my last full day relaxing here in sunny southern cali and as if doing it’s part to help me prepare for the transition back home, to rainy western Washington, the clouds have made an appearance here in the valley. It’s still a gorgeous morning, and one that I’m hoping to use as a productive one, seeing as how I’ve done so little writing while I’ve been here. I embarked on this trip with lofty plans of an utterly carefree relaxing week, spending time accomplishing nothing of consequence with my best friend, catching up on some sleep, reading, and brainless television, od’ing on vitamin d, and of course going home with a full manuscript written, edited, and ready for publication – the words magically flying from my fingertips due to my amazing new surroundings.
I’ve accomplished everything, save the last. I’ve been sure to dedicate time each morning and evening to sit with my laptop, open a blank document, and wait… After too much impatient waiting, I’ve found myself opening the files of pieces that I’ve been working on for the past year and for whatever reason feel like there is just one or two small things missing before they’ll be complete. Sadly, I’ve yet to stumble over any of those missing pieces either, but I have reread them, a few times, and while disgusted with them at times, I’ve found that for the most part I have a great sense of pride over the pieces that I’ve created in the past year. It was after all just about a year ago now that I attended my first writers conference, in beautiful Coupeville, Washington – and whether it was the location, the like minded company, the intuitive leadership, or perhaps it was just the right time for my stories to be told – but I returned home with what would be a prize winning short essay for the Reader’s Digest Magazine, as well as solid starts for 4 other essays, and best of all, a newfound confidence in the power and validity of my own “voice.”
I suppose I was hoping for the same kind of magic on this trip. Believing that perhaps removing myself from the hum drum of my daily routine, the chores that are constantly beckoning, and the phone that seems to be always buzzing; that I might allow myself a moment to breath, and to purge another piece or two of those thoughts, memories, dreams, and fears that I’ve been carrying. While I haven’t been writing, I have been reading and just finished re-reading Bag of Bones by the infallible Stephen King – a story that I suggest for anyone and everyone, whether you’re looking for an escape from reality, a good fright, or in my case, inspiration and reassurance that even an award winning novelist created by the master, experiences (and overcomes) writers block every now and again.
Alas, the day isn’t over yet, and either way, this has been an amazing vacation spent with a kindred spirit and I’ll be flying home tomorrow refreshed, and as ready as one can be to reenter the 9-5 life of a working stiff.
~ m
Confessions of a Word Slut 
