I am REALLY overdue. (Bad writer, BAD!) I've had several great things written in my head over the past several weeks, including (but not limited to):
* Moments from my recent vacation with the hubby and kids. Tons of material even under the best of circumstances.
* General bitching about the state of (hu)mans' inhumanity to (hu)man.
* How I've started reading The Elements of Style for pleasure. (Clearly, not enough of it, because I'm not 100% sure whether I need that apostrophe above).
* Loss (my aged cat, an in-law, my sanity).
* Religion and science--and the Truly Religious Experience I had beholding pictures taken by the Hubble Space telescope.
* Why completely irrelevant moments add value to life.
* The stalled state of my novel writing. And waiting on poetry submissions.
I am willing to whore myself out and write to whatever topic you'd most like to read. Because I completely and utterly need your attention and approval.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Russian Dolls
I cannot get the image of Russian dolls out of my head. I'm sure you've at least seen a picture of them--A painted "doll" on a vaguely human-shaped box. You open it up, and inside is nested another doll. You open that one--guess what another doll! And so on...
Do we come into our lives as Russian dolls? If so, is life about exposing each new layer at random or pre-determined times, so that at the end we get to the "core" of who we are?
Maybe, the metaphor works in reverse--we come into life small and unformed, and as we progress through space and time we acquire new layers of who we are. Does that mean that at the end of our lives we have become removed from the essence of what we once were? Does it mean we spend our lives "becoming?"
If I am to play with this metaphor, I think I most often feel like I have built up layers around myself. But that is not to say that the layers are not useful; they have added a complexity and a sharpness that was not formerly present.
But sometimes it hurts to feel the burden of the layers--the weight of them pressing upon me. One layer is "society." It it made up of expectations and roles and all the ways in which others judge who or how I should be. It is made up of the ways in which I have learned to navigate my way through, the ways in which I have altered or changed the way I would otherwise be. There is a layer "family. A layer "job." A layer dedicated to all the joy I have ever experienced--and another that shades that joy like a dark woolen cloak--made up of the pain and disappointment life has thrown my way.
What does it mean, then, to love? To be truly intimate with another person? Does it mean you can cast off your layers and show that person your inner doll?
I'm going to ponder all this some more. I welcome your thoughts.
Do we come into our lives as Russian dolls? If so, is life about exposing each new layer at random or pre-determined times, so that at the end we get to the "core" of who we are?
Maybe, the metaphor works in reverse--we come into life small and unformed, and as we progress through space and time we acquire new layers of who we are. Does that mean that at the end of our lives we have become removed from the essence of what we once were? Does it mean we spend our lives "becoming?"
If I am to play with this metaphor, I think I most often feel like I have built up layers around myself. But that is not to say that the layers are not useful; they have added a complexity and a sharpness that was not formerly present.
But sometimes it hurts to feel the burden of the layers--the weight of them pressing upon me. One layer is "society." It it made up of expectations and roles and all the ways in which others judge who or how I should be. It is made up of the ways in which I have learned to navigate my way through, the ways in which I have altered or changed the way I would otherwise be. There is a layer "family. A layer "job." A layer dedicated to all the joy I have ever experienced--and another that shades that joy like a dark woolen cloak--made up of the pain and disappointment life has thrown my way.
What does it mean, then, to love? To be truly intimate with another person? Does it mean you can cast off your layers and show that person your inner doll?
I'm going to ponder all this some more. I welcome your thoughts.
Monday, March 1, 2010
(Re) Defining Self
I received some good news last week. The editor of the online poetry journal, Strong Verse, contacted me in response to a poem I submitted. They would like to publish it. Could they have my mailing address (to send the check) and a brief bio?
Yah. You betcha! :-) Could I get you some home-baked cookies to go with that?
Strong Verse is the poetry site started by writer Orson Scott Card (their motto is "Good poetry is meant to be understood, not decoded.") I am incredibly impressed with all of the poems I've read on the site. There is a lot of bad poetry out there, but the work on this site is wonderful, and I would classify some of the pieces as downright brilliant. So I am incredibly thrilled and honored to be published by them.
So, have I "become" a writer?
I've been writing poetry since I could write. I have very distinct memories of writing poems as early as fourth grade. In seventh grade, I blew my English teacher away with a short story I wrote, about a girl who was a shoplifter. I remember her writing a glowing response, and including the comment that I was "very empathetic." I had no idea what that meant at the time. When I asked her, she told me to look it up. She also told me to keep writing.
In high school and early college, writing poetry kept me sane as I dealt with the tumultuous, tidal feelings that are part of adolescence. In the back of my high school yearbook--in the section where they print what the graduates want to be when they grow up--I wrote, "To become a writer."
So naturally, in the frustrating non-linear way I seem to have handled much of my life, I primarily studied communication as an undergrad. I did minor in English. And took a lot of psychology. Upon graduation I took a job in radio sales. Then customer service. Then inside sales management. Then I took classes in anthropology and archaeology...met my future husband, and went back to school for a graduate degree in psychology...moved to the Chicagoland area... instead of finding a way to finish the semester toward my psychology Masters, I switched to Sociology...we moved back to New England, I took a job as a Research/TA Assistant. Had two kids...etc...
After twenty years, I have come back around to writing. Through everything, it has remained my passion. I have begun to refer to myself as a writer--trying it on for size, tentatively, as though it were an exotic, overpriced hat.
I write. I am a writer.
Yah. You betcha! :-) Could I get you some home-baked cookies to go with that?
Strong Verse is the poetry site started by writer Orson Scott Card (their motto is "Good poetry is meant to be understood, not decoded.") I am incredibly impressed with all of the poems I've read on the site. There is a lot of bad poetry out there, but the work on this site is wonderful, and I would classify some of the pieces as downright brilliant. So I am incredibly thrilled and honored to be published by them.
So, have I "become" a writer?
I've been writing poetry since I could write. I have very distinct memories of writing poems as early as fourth grade. In seventh grade, I blew my English teacher away with a short story I wrote, about a girl who was a shoplifter. I remember her writing a glowing response, and including the comment that I was "very empathetic." I had no idea what that meant at the time. When I asked her, she told me to look it up. She also told me to keep writing.
In high school and early college, writing poetry kept me sane as I dealt with the tumultuous, tidal feelings that are part of adolescence. In the back of my high school yearbook--in the section where they print what the graduates want to be when they grow up--I wrote, "To become a writer."
So naturally, in the frustrating non-linear way I seem to have handled much of my life, I primarily studied communication as an undergrad. I did minor in English. And took a lot of psychology. Upon graduation I took a job in radio sales. Then customer service. Then inside sales management. Then I took classes in anthropology and archaeology...met my future husband, and went back to school for a graduate degree in psychology...moved to the Chicagoland area... instead of finding a way to finish the semester toward my psychology Masters, I switched to Sociology...we moved back to New England, I took a job as a Research/TA Assistant. Had two kids...etc...
After twenty years, I have come back around to writing. Through everything, it has remained my passion. I have begun to refer to myself as a writer--trying it on for size, tentatively, as though it were an exotic, overpriced hat.
I write. I am a writer.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Writing Rituals
It is Saturday, and I have been able to carve out some writing time this afternoon. The kids have been sick, so no sports to run around to. I did some food shopping yesterday, so that my husband and the kids can be relatively self-sufficient. A few hours of writing, some more rest and time for the antibiotics to get into the kids' systems, and--if all goes well--I get my choice of restaurants tonight to go out to for my birthday. I want cake. And the kids want to sing to me. It's been a chaotic week.
I place my laptop on top of the antique green sewing machine I use as a desk. From this vantage point I can survey the goings-on of the house. I am always on call.
I light two candles. One is on the altar to my right. The other sits on the corner of my desk. The candle holder is shaped like a Goddess holding up the moon. She is an Earth Goddess; Gaia; She is covered in vines, flowers, small animals and assorted greenery. On her breast is a crescent moon. She holds up the candle like a beacon--or perhaps a warning--enter at your own risk--this is my time. Tread lightly.
The rest of the family is playing Monopoly. This should keep them busy. But first, I fetch drinks for everyone. I make sure they are fed. I remind them where to find additional snacks. My son asks for a snack his sister has--I bring him one. "Mom, you are the best Mom in the world. In the Universe." I call him my biggest fan. I think he actually has a love-hate relationship with my writing, although he is surely unaware of this. He is proud of my writing. He really likes some of what I've let him read. He muses, "Wouldn't it be cool if you became a famous writer?" At the same time, he knows it is my passion. I think he tests my committment to writing versus my committment to him. He needs to know he is first.
I microwave my now-lukewarm coffee. Bringing it to my desk, I survey my various Tarot and oracle decks, wanting to pick a card to help me focus my intentions. I pick an oracle deck, and enter the slighly meditative process where I shuffle the deck, and try to get in touch with my intuition. The cards go shuffle, shuffle; cut, cut; shuffle, shuffle. A child comes up and asks a question about where I put something.
I've learned, over the years, how to pop in and out of a semi-meditative state. I'd learned it out of necessity. I plug headphones into my laptop, getting ready to stream some classical music right into my ears. It is an additional physical symbol that I am concentrating, and it helps keep the nosisy chaos at bay.
The phone rings. My son answers, and hands it over to my husband. A call from one of our credit cards--a missed payment? My husband sounds perplexed. He schedules these for automatic payment. I'm grateful he is on top of the financials. It's just not something I have the brain capacity to handle. He figures it out--he set up the current payment for next month, accidently. They will waive any fees. He thanks the credit card company for their "excellent customer service."
My daughter enetrs the room. She has left the Monopoly game. "I'm gonna play Barbies in here." she announces. I smile and nod. I still haven't picked a card. Shuffle, shuffle, cut. I use my intution and select a card from the fanned out-deck. The Altar Priestess. Presparation, prayer, sacred ritual. Uncanny. I place it in front of my candle, behind my cold coffee.
I begin to write.
I place my laptop on top of the antique green sewing machine I use as a desk. From this vantage point I can survey the goings-on of the house. I am always on call.
I light two candles. One is on the altar to my right. The other sits on the corner of my desk. The candle holder is shaped like a Goddess holding up the moon. She is an Earth Goddess; Gaia; She is covered in vines, flowers, small animals and assorted greenery. On her breast is a crescent moon. She holds up the candle like a beacon--or perhaps a warning--enter at your own risk--this is my time. Tread lightly.
The rest of the family is playing Monopoly. This should keep them busy. But first, I fetch drinks for everyone. I make sure they are fed. I remind them where to find additional snacks. My son asks for a snack his sister has--I bring him one. "Mom, you are the best Mom in the world. In the Universe." I call him my biggest fan. I think he actually has a love-hate relationship with my writing, although he is surely unaware of this. He is proud of my writing. He really likes some of what I've let him read. He muses, "Wouldn't it be cool if you became a famous writer?" At the same time, he knows it is my passion. I think he tests my committment to writing versus my committment to him. He needs to know he is first.
I microwave my now-lukewarm coffee. Bringing it to my desk, I survey my various Tarot and oracle decks, wanting to pick a card to help me focus my intentions. I pick an oracle deck, and enter the slighly meditative process where I shuffle the deck, and try to get in touch with my intuition. The cards go shuffle, shuffle; cut, cut; shuffle, shuffle. A child comes up and asks a question about where I put something.
I've learned, over the years, how to pop in and out of a semi-meditative state. I'd learned it out of necessity. I plug headphones into my laptop, getting ready to stream some classical music right into my ears. It is an additional physical symbol that I am concentrating, and it helps keep the nosisy chaos at bay.
The phone rings. My son answers, and hands it over to my husband. A call from one of our credit cards--a missed payment? My husband sounds perplexed. He schedules these for automatic payment. I'm grateful he is on top of the financials. It's just not something I have the brain capacity to handle. He figures it out--he set up the current payment for next month, accidently. They will waive any fees. He thanks the credit card company for their "excellent customer service."
My daughter enetrs the room. She has left the Monopoly game. "I'm gonna play Barbies in here." she announces. I smile and nod. I still haven't picked a card. Shuffle, shuffle, cut. I use my intution and select a card from the fanned out-deck. The Altar Priestess. Presparation, prayer, sacred ritual. Uncanny. I place it in front of my candle, behind my cold coffee.
I begin to write.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Why We Create (Why I Write)
Humans have a brain capable of abstraction. We can reflect on why something has happened, what may happen...we can project our imaginings into the future, and conceive of countless ways to "be" in the world...we are (as far as we know) the only animals on this planet capable of contemplating our own mortality; of contemplating God or Whatever-You-Want-to-Call-It.
This is why we create.
A hallmark of humanity has been our manipulation of the material world, combined with our ability to think abstractly. We create Art, tools, body adornments, etc. We are brilliant in our facility to adapt our environments to our needs. We excel at contemplating that we *can* do this; and creating artefacts that represent this knowlwdge.
This is why we create.
We are driven by an internal thirst to make sense of why we "are." Why are we here? Are we a dumb and blind product of natural selection, or were we put here by LGM?* Are we the beloved children of a beneficent Supreme Being?
Inside, we are always questing in some way. It is in human nature to never be satisfied. We can be content for a time--even downright happy--but that questing is always there, inside, smouldering in our guts.
When asked why I write, I have often said that "writing saved my life." This form of creation has been by my side since childhood. It has allowed me to voice my growing awareness of the world's complexity. As I grew older, it was an outlet for my inner turmoil. There have been times in my life when I literally felt as if I would burst and die if I could not, in some way, exorcise some of the thoughts, desires, or pain I was feeling....then I would pick up a pen. Or a keyboard. And I would write. And that unbearable pressure would lessen.
We create to give form to that which cannot be contained in other ways. Love, pain, hatred, sorrow, isolation...none of these are quantifiable; all are part of the human condition. And so we write...or paint...or cook...or create in a myriad of ways, according to our skills and inclinations.
We are all artists.
*=Little Green Men
This is why we create.
A hallmark of humanity has been our manipulation of the material world, combined with our ability to think abstractly. We create Art, tools, body adornments, etc. We are brilliant in our facility to adapt our environments to our needs. We excel at contemplating that we *can* do this; and creating artefacts that represent this knowlwdge.
This is why we create.
We are driven by an internal thirst to make sense of why we "are." Why are we here? Are we a dumb and blind product of natural selection, or were we put here by LGM?* Are we the beloved children of a beneficent Supreme Being?
Inside, we are always questing in some way. It is in human nature to never be satisfied. We can be content for a time--even downright happy--but that questing is always there, inside, smouldering in our guts.
When asked why I write, I have often said that "writing saved my life." This form of creation has been by my side since childhood. It has allowed me to voice my growing awareness of the world's complexity. As I grew older, it was an outlet for my inner turmoil. There have been times in my life when I literally felt as if I would burst and die if I could not, in some way, exorcise some of the thoughts, desires, or pain I was feeling....then I would pick up a pen. Or a keyboard. And I would write. And that unbearable pressure would lessen.
We create to give form to that which cannot be contained in other ways. Love, pain, hatred, sorrow, isolation...none of these are quantifiable; all are part of the human condition. And so we write...or paint...or cook...or create in a myriad of ways, according to our skills and inclinations.
We are all artists.
*=Little Green Men
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