Snapped Shut

Ah, sweet laptop...

I wring you dry with writing and sharing, searching and singing, and then...

Snap you shut to capture more juice for the next day's nourishment, like collecting dew to drink.

Twenty Pigeons, Twenty Doves

Art in Afghanistan was a moot point for years during the rule of the Taliban, but recently journalists have been returning to the country to find recovery in the form of art.  I recently listened to a writer on the voyeuristic program "The Moth" who had traveled to Afghanistan in search of art, any art, and he was told by government officials and liaisons that there was no art in Afghanistan, still, and he decided to wander among the people to see for himself.

This writer had a history of depression, and he commented, to the amusement of the audience, that Afghanistan was probably not the best place to go if you suffer from depression.  Still, the story was one of progression and discovery; he told of finding painters who were hired to paint over people in the museum portraits, musicians silenced, poets invisible in burqas.  The painters who covered the portraits came back after the liberation with water and soft cloths and uncovered the paint.  The poets still wear burqas because they would feel exposed if they removed them, and they liked finding stories in what Harry Potter tried on for those of us in the western cultures, the invisibility cloaks.  And the musicians dug their instruments out of piles of kindling and played from practiced dreams.  One man was asked, "Didn't you go crazy, not having any music, or not knowing when you would have music again?"  The man answered, "I thought I might...but then I went to the market, and bought twenty pigeons and twenty doves, and that was my music."  His house was "a mess," told the writer, but he had music, any form of music.

A writer, a creative, looks for the smallest thing to stay alive.  I can't say that I'd buy the birds.  But I already have a burqa--not one of cloth, but one of network.  I am invisible.  If stories be found there, then I should be able to rival Joyce.

Listen.

Write on.

POP-u-lerr, Think of It As Personality Dialysis

Yeah.  I love musicals.

*****

Every Monday and Tuesday night, in some cafe in the City, me and a few of my closest fellow writers sit ourselves down, introduce ourselves, and then shut up for an hour and put our thoughts on paper.  We sit mere feet from the tracks of the N Judah line, on opposite ends of it, clanging bells and espresso machines and the chef's choice of either jazz tunes or KFOG visions peppering our gumbo of thoughts.  I am the one calling time so that the pens can fly and the keyboards click.  I'm wired.  I'm sitting with a band of writers and my last corporate mentor sits at the back of my brain and gives me a stern stare:  "Show me your discipline, your focus."

I can't write a word.

Then I tell myself, "Free up, we'll keep it in the journal.  You don't have to publish this one."  And I don't publish yet another one.  I don't share yet another set of words with the universe, either because I know it's not intelligent enough to warrant comments, or because the kind of comments it would generate would stump me.  Or, worse, I would assault someone just by publishing the piece.

So my writing comes out in small, furious, tentative slivers, barely a wisp of smoke from where I'm standing.

I'm sitting waist deep in a river of writers and dying of fear of my own shadow.  The Tea Party can publish treatises that would make Dick Cheney sing the Hallelujah chorus, but I'm afraid to ruffle feathers or lose the last of a few fragile friendships.  I can't seem to comprehend a friend supporting me regardless of my opinion, and yet others who I haven't seen in twenty years could not only express a differing opinion but tell me that as a writer I shouldn't have missed on something so obvious, and I embrace their opinion.  I don't consider any of my ideas mature enough to present, even when I've read all over the board on the subject matter and have written the resolve out in my mind.  When no one else has presented my side of the argument, I see it as a miss on my part, not innovation.  Hmm...if no one's invented the light bulb, it's because there's something wrong with wanting artificial light, right?

Then I explode with my opinion.  Case in point, my post on another blog about the BART protests.

I opened up that post with fair warning--I was not going to respond to comments on that post.  I was angry at two aspects of the world when I wrote that:  a) I couldn't side with the sloppy, ineffective and reckless approach of the protesters; and b) I am probably the most inarticulate person on Earth.  I love words, nuance, and a slew of other inconvenient aspects of literature so damn much that they stop me from being a good, and intelligent writer.

Not to say I can't learn.  I apparently do not know how.

On a daily basis I come to the typewriter angry, and entirely at my own responsibility.  I hold myself back until I explode, when I should be writing, should be falling, should be placing my foot squarely in my mouth, if for no other purpose than to learn.  I need to learn that making mistakes and writing those mistakes gives me permission to get it right next time.

And by "right" I mean in my own voice.  Not closer to the trend.  Closer instead to authentic for me, and closer to what my perception is.  If I don't trust the voice of my perception, then I am no better than those reviewers on Amazon and Yelp who are paid $5 a review to express praise they don't truly believe.  I'm preparing a recipe in which I hate the smell of the primary ingredient.  That could generate enough creative anger to last a (albeit shortened by stress) lifetime.

I realize I don't have to tear the door down with a battering ram.  While my goal is not to be popular or safe in my approach, it's also not to shock readers just for the sake of shocking them.  I'm no Madonna or Lady Gaga.

I have to write to discover.  No matter how unpleasant the outcome is.

Lastly, and probably the most difficult part to learn, is what to do about the comments, or lack of them.  I obviously have some unnatural phobia of apathy and criticism.  I often want an honest discussion and end up getting silence, total and yet vague agreement, or incredulous disbelief that I could be so wrong. My growth opportunity is in embracing comments for whatever form they come in, even if the trolls, strike, or if the post generates no commentary at all.  I need to strike boldly forward and have a self-discussion or self-critique ready, but not a self-censorship.  I doubt that my readership will grow beyond what it is now, but just in case my self-censorship and consequential outbursts are what is limiting my readership, I have to make changes.

And I have to ask myself:  do I want to be the resident expert, or do I want to be on a quest?

God, I love quests.

How to Deal With Interruption

Since yesterday my sinus issue has become a full-blown cold, complete with a streaming nose and fuzzy thinking.

Perfect for a writer hoping for a progress beyond interruption.

I'm giving myself somewhat of a break by lightening my load to carry in my handbag. For two to three nights a week (and one day on weekends when I attended the writing marathons) I would carry two bags or stuff my regular handbag with so much stuff that I would hurt myself. That will end starting today. I'm packing a pocket Moleskine, free-writing instead of expecting great strides (I'm shooting for the big strides at home), and for reading I'm accessing the Kindle app on my phone. When meeting other writers is hard work, then writing socially has to be re-thought and the expectations reset.

I met with my brother yesterday and he asked if I was booked the rest of the week. Cancel my writing groups? This is important to me, so I didn't press it. I know they are free meetings, but they give me access to other writers, instead of imprisoning me with other coworkers.

Passion friends vs. friends via imprisonment.

I'm going to keep working toward that, regardless of the physical struggles.

Multiples, Briefly

Another short post this morning...as soon as I can sneak breakfast in after my roommate leaves, I have miles to go and promises to keep. Today is a TWO writing group day--I am trying out a new one in the Mission, and I'm hosting my first solo event in the Richmond tonight. This means I get to eat out in some pretty disparate locales today and that I'm going to be out among the people for a majority of my day, instead of hiding in the apartment until I make an appearance. I've attacked my morning pages, my career change blog, and now this...after this venture I'm checking e-mail and fueling up and hitting the road.

I'm pretty much in love.

Yesterday was a damn hard day. I had slept about three and a half, maybe four hours the night before because I was so incredibly revved up by the opportunity to lead two (three if you count my subbing gig on Wednesdays) writing groups that I couldn't stay prone. I was exhausted by the time I got to writing group last night, and, to add insult to injury, the backroom that we normally utilize for the meeting was crammed full of people and I couldn't find a book that should have been easily found in green San Francisco. I didn't want to do group last night. Where we gonna put 'em? I had forgotten the cardinal rule of cafes in San Francisco: despite the presence of internet, people do turn over. By some strange and yet predictable miracle, the place cleared out and everyone showed up (save, of course, for the guy who has me host instead of him). And I felt like I could fly.

It NEVER fails. I could walk in with a flesh wound and the process of attending group would make the whole world Willy Wonka-ed again.

Write on.

From the Department of "Well, That Was Dumb"

I'm having one of those mornings where I got off to a weird start. I bought yet another laptop bag yesterday, and in the transfer of writing supplies to take with me to the library I forgot my pouch of back-up pens. I've Tweeted the fact, Facebooked the fact...I'm obsessed. This was supposed to be a writing session.

And it was. Just an on-line one, is all. I'm still working on adaptability issues, obviously. City writer, country writer. :) (Thanks, Robin.)

And for those of you following my bag count...I picked up this little gem at the outlet mall, Kenneth Cole, $17, AND it matches my current handbag. Oh, I'm such a girl.

I'm at the Carlsbad City Library this morning, the Georgina Cole branch, while Serena volunteers at the Senior Center. Yes, I could have volunteered with her. Yes, I was selfish about my writing and chose that instead this week. I'm used to the San Francisco Public Library, which isn't much different from this library at the satellite branches. The two biggest differences are:

• The librarians here are so friendly they greet you coming in, and they invite you to stay and read a while. "It's hot out there; you better stay put," was my instruction on Wednesday. I readily complied and read for two hours that day. (Had plenty of ink and I read the whole time--oh, for God's sake, let it GO already, Jo...) The San Francisco librarians are pleasant, but you have to get in front of them and make yourself known. I suspect that has to do with the second difference, below...
• About 30% of the patrons at the SF Public Library are homeless people, camping in the temperature control with free knowledge. I don't begrudge them that, although it lends an unmistakable aroma to a library in San Francisco that for the most part does an excellent job of keeping me from curling up with a book there. In this library there is just one homeless person, and none that I could find at the main branch over on Dove Lane. The homeless woman here seems disturbed but well-behaved--I imagine she doesn't want to be thrown out in this heat.

I love the Main Branch of the SF Public Library for it's grandeur, but I must say that I love these little libraries for their humanity. Today I had to journey upstairs for a vacant writing table, but Wednesday I got a table right by checkout, and got to talk to children. One little girl who I swear came up to my knee insisted on showing me the correct way to self-checkout (Tina Fey, Jr.), and another little girl passed my table and demanded that she wish me goodbye and that I have a good day. This friendliness seems consistent with much of Carlsbad--Mike and Serena's neighbors invite me over to their units and show me pets and renovations with relish, offer up sunburn cure-alls, and ask if I'm looking for a vacancy down here. They even nod in agreement about my love of San Francisco--"Oh, I understand, hon. Just saying you have a home here if you want it." At the cafe yesterday two people stopped to ask me about the library book I was reading, and if I was reading it for work. STRANGERS. It's like Mayberry meets Surf City.

Well that's enough writing for now...I'm going to finish that book I started on Wednesday and wait to see what the tide will bring.

Write on. :)

Hide and Go Seek

I'm in San Diego this week (well, Carlsbad...I get liberal and start incorporating myself in that San Diego curtain pretty freely), and not writing much. The only writing I get done is my morning pages. I got in four pages of free-writing yesterday, but that's it.

But I'm okay with all of it.

What I am doing down here is a lot of living, or watching the living. I've got the pace almost down, but I don't need to--I just watch and talk to people and listen. Listening is the big thing. I had one hang-up yesterday; our neighbor is high drama and took her high drama on her cell phone down to the hot tub in the courtyard to share with the whole complex. She's the only one I've had to drown out with the iPod. Everyone else I listen to.

Either I'm at peace, or people have better articulation skills down here in Carlsbad. In SF most Muni conversations are peppered with the word "like." I know the scientific study behind that word's abuse but having that knowledge doesn't make the abuse of the word any easier to bear. When I get back the new goal is to leave the iPod off first and see if I can find pockets where, like, you know, like, they don't, like, talk like that.

Next to me at this cafe there are two women talking intelligently about education plans at the local school for the coming fall. At the table on the other side of me is a mundane conversation about what one of the party should have ordered, but, despite the subject matter, it's easy to listen to. Other things pop up to fuel my writing idea pot. On Tuesday night a woman in the complex across the lagoon tried to jump, and was carted off by the paramedics. My sis-in-love called it "Rear Window, Revisited," and asked me what I had to write about since I didn't know the circumstances or the aftermath. I grinned. "See, those are the parts I get to make up," I said with relish. Earlier in the vacation my brother gave me an idea for a modern twist on "The Old Man and the Sea, Revisited." So I could write. But I'll do that when I get back to lonely.

There are inspirational places to write as well. A suggestion made to me didn't pan out because that location has been closed for about a year, but the suggestion got me exploring downtown. I wrote a little in a french bakery, the local libraries (two of them), and the cafe here. I get words down. To paraphrase Picasso, they don't look like me now, but they will. And I'm losing my fear of deserts. Or, I should say, the fear isn't so acute.

This may be my last post until I hit the Bay Area again on Monday. Meantime, write on.

Unknown

I received a cute little comment on yesterday's post suggesting my titles for posts in this blog suck. So I went for even greater obscurity today.

This blog is mostly for my notes, and mostly for my notes as a writer. I don't try to market this one--I have two others that I market, and this one just sits here to give me a chance to talk about writing without censoring myself. So when I get the feedback that I need to improve my titles on this blog I have to snicker. Someone hasn't been reading the blog, and someone therefore doesn't know much about marketing this blog.

*****

I'm falling into a pattern with my writing groups--I'm using the time during the sessions to freewrite on my writing projects and tune the goals. For the last week I haven't done any actual project work in the sessions, and it feels right. It actually provides me with two luxuries: meeting other writers, and spending time thinking about my writing so that I have a sharper focus for the next time I sit down with the project.

It's like I'm teaching myself my own college class...or actually seeing through a work of art.

Write on.

Follow Through

My most difficult challenge these days is trying to not to push other writers into discipline.

This is a particular challenge with the Meetup "Shut Up & Write!" meetings. I'm to the point where I am attending nearly every meeting, and in each one, whether I try to hide it or try to advertise it, it comes out that I'm a veteran of these meetings. Someone (or more than one person) ends up talking to me and asking me about my writing habits, about how to meet people in San Francisco, or confessing to me how they just can't get anything written.

I can relate. I have been there. I sometimes go there.

But at the end of the day, if you don't love to write as much (or more) as life itself, then bear in mind that it won't be good. It may take off. You may become famous. I'm reading a novel right now by someone who wanted to be famous. That's how the book reads, anyway. It's action-packed. It's all exotic.

It's a string of vomiting and sex linked by a train ride. I'm debating whether to stop reading it, because I'm hoping the second half of the novel will redeem the first half. I'm running a risk, though. It could just be more of the same.

That writer got lucky. I could love writing and write every day for all of time and not get published. The thing is, in the end, if that stops me.

It doesn't. So when they ask me for advice, I just say what my mother said, "Be patient." That's my stock answer. At the end of the day they either take it and write for the whole hour or the whole day (in the case of marathons), or they have better things to do or less want to write, and I see that come out, too.

My task is to let it go and not lecture them. Not everyone is cut out to be a writer. Even some of those who are published.

Write on.

Jane

Another close encounter with literature last night...got to listen to and meet Jane Smiley. Of her and Mary Roach, I would rather talk with Mary...Jane was a bit too college PhD for me. It was a treat to hear her though. I was most struck by her comment that she loves what she is working on now best, because it keeps her optimistic.

I was amazed that there was nearly no one there. This woman won a Pulitzer, and I didn't have anyone sitting on either side of me. Was Smiley amazed by this? She didn't reveal it if she was. I don't know why I keep thinking of writers as rock stars, when no one else my age seems to. Sad fact: at all of these events, I'm the youngest person in the room, by sometimes up to twenty years younger. What will happen to the culture in the years to come? I feel old and yet like a kid when I go to these things. I'm caught between two ages--go to an event that costs hundreds of dollars like an Adele concert or Stephen Colbert's political march in Washington DC, or go to see the authors who write the words I relate to? I wish I could be cool, but I can't.

In a minor shift, however, there is a cartoonist with the Bay Citizen who always seems to end up at these events with me, although I never meet him. He looks to be my age in his pictures, or maybe even younger. Suddenly, despite being surrounded by retirees, I feel youth in my choices, and it keeps me going back.

Write on.

Turned To Stone, Or, Closed Minds

I'm sitting here listening to Ingrid Michaelson's music, which isn't diva force but is spider-web strong. It's been another good day, but not the most productive of writing days. I'm not quite sure what a productive writing day would be for me--finishing a novel in a single day? Writing the entire New York Times Book Review section? I have a tendency of grading my accomplishments harshly. Particularly since most of the writing today was behind the scenes: an article on a library event tonight and a blog post on the blog that is designed to back up my resume with English instead of that resume-ese that I hate writing in. I'm not sure if any employers read it, but after reading a post today from my friend Robin I don't really have an excuse not to look it up.

Speaking of reading, or giving writers a chance...

A few weeks back I took up the challenge from a columnist who backed Naipaul despite his diminishments of women writers and decided to give him another chance as a reader. In her article (which I cannot find now, Lord love me) she stated that we shouldn't discount good writers just because of their beliefs. I'm in full agreement. Hemingway and Amis were/are as much of masochists as Naipaul, and yet I would gladly read them. Naipaul, as another commenter on another blog put it, is just "tedious." Tedious is kind. I found the best way to get to sleep was to read Naipaul, and that was with my reading glasses on. I had tried "A Bend In the River" when Naipaul first won the Nobel, and the cure for insomnia happened then, and this time it was "A House For Mr. Biswas," another yawner. I just couldn't justify any more than 87 pages of such behavior.

I'm sure there are vast and great societies of people out there who find Naipaul worth putting up with despite his views. Maybe someday I'll reach their intellect. But for now I find myself relishing the Pulitzer Prize of Jennifer Egan (um, woman writer who loves language and format), Jane Austen (a comedy-of-manners writer like Naipaul who knows how to love language, and, um, a woman), and "Major Pettigrew's Last Stand" by Helen Simonson (another comedy of manners by a woman who can make south Asian and Middle Eastern characters look more intricate and regal than the British).

Life is too short, I say, for V.S. Naipaul.

Going to take a walk, grab a cup of coffee, and get in some fiction rough drafting before my library event tonight.

Write on.

An-tici-pa-tion...

It's a gloomy morning here in the Inner Sunset district of San Francisco, although God knows the sun is trying to burn through the fog. I am moving around the apartment, doing "knucklehead" stuff, as they would call certain tasks on "West Wing" that fell below the radar of POTUS. I got cleaned up, had my healthy breakfast, did one load of dishes (there were two loads in the sink, so I have more knucklehead stuff for this afternoon), paid bills, filed papers, and in a few minutes will get to the job search. I am doing knucklehead stuff for a couple of reasons: I do this garbage every Monday; and I am waiting for UPS to deliver a package. Last month I signed up for something called Lost Crates, where, once a month, the recipient gets a sampling of the latest and greatest in art and/or writing supplies, without knowing what they'll be. It's probably the last thing I can afford, but I was intrigued, just to see what it would be, to have the anticipation of looking forward to something akin to a care package, as though I was still young enough and still learning enough to get those.

It's been a couple of months like that, though...looking forward to Giants games, to the Treme tour concert, to the Woody Allen movie, all at discounts, and all unexpected. This package will be the last big event for a while, and then I'll have to create events of my own--maybe a new job in the traditional sense, maybe a story sold.

*****

For a long time I thought of Meetups as something formal, only operated by the truly sane and secure in themselves. The founder and original organizer of the Meetup series that I attend, "Shut Up and Write!" set the bar high. He's the perfect vision of manager/facilitator/mentor/motivator; when one of the group's members says, "Hey, why don't we have one in Berkeley?" his response is, "Yes, why don't YOU look into that?" This empowerment has created a spreading of the group throughout the Bay Area and continued it to New York City (with two groups there) and a new possibility now in Toronto. It's a great way to spread the word and the concept of the group geographically.

It's creating a bit of skirmish back here in the home turf, though.

Different organizers take different accountability for their groups, to be sure. The founder wants to make sure that every Shut Up and Write session is consistent, so that if you like Shut Up and Write you'll tell your friends, and either they'll come with you or go to a Shut Up and Write in their neighborhood. Keep in mind that the group has reached that level--this past week there were meetings in Berkeley, SoMA, the Mission, the Inner Richmond, and the Castro/Duboce Park area. I love that layout--I can finally go to Meetups close to me (for me, a Meetup that's close is one bus-line away from me), and I'm sure others find the locations that aren't close to me close to their homes or workplaces. It's a great idea. And so what if meetings fall on the same day as other meetings? It's still a great way to choose.

It's a great selection for everyone but one of the organizers, that is. Last week two of the organizers scheduled for the same time slot--one a long-established meeting in the Mission, one a first-time meeting in the Inner Richmond. Delightfully, the Inner Richmond is not only closer but in a library, so that I have a shorter commute AND I don't have to buy coffee and snacks to write. Surprisingly, the first-time meeting had more people sign up and actually show up than the long-established meeting, and I know from talking to that facilitator before that he was probably livid. He is a facilitator that does contract work, and he's in the middle of a project right now and doesn't come to his own meeting very often, but he hates it when other groups try to copy-cat or try to borrow the Shut Up and Write concept. I've always bit my tongue to keep from reminding him that we borrowed the concept from Natalie Goldberg.

I see this week, on Monday, that neither Wednesday group has scheduled. I can almost bet what has happened. Either neither one of the facilitators are scheduling, waiting to see if the other one will, or, they are both duking it out with the founder to see if this is ethical. Either way it seems a bit erratic--there's no Wednesday night meeting yet, and, if you want to grow your group, shouldn't you get a calendar up as soon as possible so that potential group members would want to make plans? Don't you at least want to LOOK stable?

All I could think of was Natalie Goldberg's final pages of "Long Quiet Highway," where she sat for peace in downtown Santa Fe every weekday from noon to twelve-thirty. She had been practicing Zen for years, and this wasn't a protest, it wasn't "partisan," it was just her way of dealing with the first Gulf War. I look at it this way--if I could write regardless, like Nat, then I'm grounded, I'm stable, and maybe others will join me. I'm thinking that they will be more likely to join me if I show up myself, but if not, well, that's their practice. Maybe it's time to establish a practice of my own, a Shut Up and Write of my own, to show up to regardless.

And it would be something to look forward to, without any doubt at all.

Friday

I did in fact get my short story work in today and my morning pages, but all of my other writing seems to have gone out the window. Everything else that I needed to do took twice as long to do, in some sort of Vulcan Mind Warp:

• Woke up at 3 a.m. and couldn't sleep. Finished the Anthony Bourdain memoir, reviewed it, and loaded the Naipaul book on GoodReads.
• Slept from 4:30-7, then fell back to sleep.
• Woke up at 9. Criminently. Wrote morning pages, had breakfast, did dishes, walked up the hill for exercise and energy, bought stuff for lunch.
• 11:15, put laundry in. Worked on short story. Switched to dryer at 11:50. Worked on short story.
• Made a lunch that will be leftovers through Monday.
• Read two articles in The New Yorker.
• Walked, got coffee. And here I am at 4.

And I have evening concert plans. So the day is pretty much shot.

But, dammit, I got to that short story now, didn't I?

Shut Up and Write, Dammit

This week I've been working on a project, a.k.a., short story. I haven't written a short story since the extension course in spring of 2009 that I took with UC Berkeley extension, and about 60 days after finishing that class I broke my writing hand. I'm just now writing short stories again. You could say my bounce-back abilities suck.

But here's the wonderful transition--based on my past experiences in writing, and my past superstitions, you would have thought that I would have given up writing altogether by now. My father would say that the gods were trying to tell me something. My mother, however, would point to Job and ask, what would God (or the devil) have to do to you in order to shut down your writing? Would you write no matter what?

God damn it, yes, I would.

Would you lose your job, your livelihood, for your writing?

Yep.

Would you lose your family for your writing?

Yep.

Would you lose your home?

I have. Whenever I put the pen down, I've lost my home. If I'm writing, I'm home.

Would you lose your sense of self?

I don't have a sense of self to start with. "Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose."

I get my sense of self from writing. You'd have to take away the writing to diminish my sense of self.

Would you give up your health?

Again, seems like if you take away my writing you take away my health. Can't happen.

There is a part of the story of Job, from what I remember, where Job pushes back at God. I'm not going to look it up and quote it exactly, but Job says something the extent of "God, I give up. Why do you pick on me? Why do you take away everything? Why take away my happiness?" And God says something back about how Job can't possibly know WHY things happen--his tiny little brain can't handle that part. Job's job (heh) is to handle it and ask God for strength.

My job is not to ask, "Hey, what's with the timing? I just wrote a short story about a man not unlike my father who becomes a widower and adopts a dog to take the dead wife's place, and you hit me with this crap about my mother dying of cancer. I finally feel like I write a story again, and you crack my hand two months later."

And God answers, in my mind, "You don't get to know the big picture. You don't get to know why. YOU JUST HAVE TO KEEP WRITING. IS...THAT...WHAT...YOU...WANT?"

Yep.

God damn it, yes, I said, yes, I do, yes.

So I've taken this week off and learned how to write a short story with the same lack of fear and the same day-to-day determination that I would a blog. I want to write short stor-IES. Plural. Not one every 7 years, or one every 2 years. I want to crank them out on at least a monthly basis, for at least an hour a day, like I do my blogs and my free-writing. I want a short story to come easily to me, and not pick up the concept like a loaded gun and holding it out at arm's length between two fingers, afraid I'm going to hurt myself or kill a relative because it's loaded. It's LOADED. Take it out in the field and fire it. Point it at tin cans at first if you must, stand four feet from the target or closer until you can hit it, but PULL THE TRIGGER. LOAD IT AGAIN AND PULL THE TRIGGER. And if I do that every day for an hour, then the loaded gun becomes the art of marksmanship instead of the dreaded thing we keep in the house because it looks wicked or because we live in an area of necessary self-defense. Keep backing up from the tin can. Get better. Move on to moving clay pigeons. Move on to birds. Move on to harvest.

I didn't mean to go all Sarah Palin, but that was the best analogy I had.

Technically, I'm back. But I'm back in a capacity that is nowhere NEAR what it was before. The capacity of before was keeping up with trends. That will still be the goal, but on MY terms. Facebook was down to an assigned day when I left--now it will just be used for a posting of stuff that I do on other sites, like when I finish reading a book, when I write a blog, when I watch a movie, and when I sign up for a Meetup. I can do all of that stuff and never go to Facebook. And I think from now on that would be best. I was spending too much time on Twitter and Google Reader, too, so they will be limited to time like writing gets allocated, not just every time I'm bored. I'm still working out the kinks there.

But I'm writing. Things, not just journal entries.

Thank God, I'm free at last.

Onward, dear reader.

Better Now

Stayed away from Facebook and the news today and did much better, mood-wise. Cleared up two reading assignments, completed morning pages, and did some freewriting. And took a walk in my Backyard. That was refreshing, and I was hungry for ideas and food for the first time in two days.

Tomorrow? God knows. But I feel much better knowing that there's no calendar for tomorrow. Perhaps that's trying to tell me something.

Onward, dear reader.

Clutter Patrol

Heh, heh...just organized all of my favorites on Safari, so now I get to do mind melt every time I try to find stuff for a little while...

Have had a really good couple of days of writing, and so was absent from here yesterday. I'd like to think of this as a running on-line journal, so when I miss a day I start to get that feeling like I mis-buttoned my shirt or something. But most of the day happenings for yesterday and today went into a blog post on Sea Level that I'll point out on Facebook tomorrow. I am trying to get in the habit of only going into Facebook on Fridays, with marginal success. It's a work in progress and a goal I'm not going to hit overnight, but I'll still try for it. The plan is to only hit up Facebook on Friday, and on Friday on Twitter point my Twitter followers to Facebook for news. Changes things up and maybe some of the readers will follow back and forth. We'll see.

Twitter = Reader's Digest Condensed Book.

Facebook = Reader's Digest Condensed Book with the paper illustrated book jacket still on

Debating an event tomorrow night...the Bookswap thing at Booksmith. The weather is supposed to be crappy, I want to give readers a chance to go, I've never been to Booksmith (and yet I write about 'em--just call me Stephen Crane, war hero, and get it overwith), and I don't have a book to swap because I give all of them away as I read them, damn it. On the other hand I just added "Writing Down the Bones" to my Kindle and have a pocket copy that I could trade. That book has probably been the greatest writing teacher I have ever had. I was going to give the pocket copy to a friend of mine, but only because her therapist has her journal-writing, and not because she is normally a writer. Probably not the best reason if I don't want this copy to get dusty. We'll see. I'll head over there now, see if there are tickets, and check out the store. (Removes a couple of the cons on the list, I guess.)

You ever hit one of those strides where you don't care if anyone's reading--you're just glad to be writing?

Hells, yeah. I'm there.

A Lake House

I'm not quite sure who exactly still reads this blog, which probably makes it the safest thing on the planet to write in. I sit here looking at my dashboard with Blogger, and I realize that since I haven't been here since January it's probably a great place to play with writing, experiment, write with the truest voice I can without trying to impress, and then take that practice and write "better" with the blogs that may be more promoted.

Since I have been writing in other blogs for some time now, I don't feel guilty for neglecting this one. This one is like what relatives of mine used to own in lake houses--those summer places that you button up in the fall with boards and dropcloths and other protective measures and that you open up, usually just before or on the first big three-day holiday weekend of the spring, like Memorial Day. I wander into this one now, take the boards off the windows, shake out and fold up the dropcloths, and head, as E.B. White would write, "once more to the lake."

It's been a strange day, which it normally is when I am hormonal. I tend to have strange sleeping schedules, I tend to eat the strangest things, I'm wired for sound but too exhausted to execute, and I tend to panic easily. All I had planned for today were two things: read 100 pages of David Mitchell's "The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet," and visit Hayes Valley to taste ice cream. I never got to Hayes Valley, and I kept falling asleep during the novel. The sun wouldn't stay out, the Giants were offering up Jonathan Sanchez, and my downstairs neighbors were noisy. There were a million excuses not to do what I planned. At 3:30 I finally gave up, broke out all of the tools I should have for the reading, forgave myself for not getting down to Hayes Valley, and made my reading goal with the help of coffee and reading glasses. I turned on the fan in the living room for white noise. There's still time for Hayes Valley, another day.

When I finished the reading goal, I wandered the apartment, restless. What to do now? Pick up the pen and try to write something? The journal didn't yield much--about five ruled lines. I wandered, paced, again. I reached for a well-read, well-worn copy of a book that was written by a teacher of mine, even though we have only met once: "Long Quiet Highway" by Natalie Goldberg. Everything spinning in me settled in a series of ever-slowing circles until I was still. I could think. I had to find it in another voice, but find it I did. The sunset filled the lake house windows and I put on a jacket and went to find food to prepare for dinner. Pasta, sauce, and wine later, I am still calm, the lake house ready for me to spend a summer here, and write anything I damn well want to, without fear of repercussion or judgment.

And now, for a swim. Write on, dear writer.

Resolutions, a Work in Progress

Good morning, kids, and welcome to a long-lost blogger. Posting here will probably prompt a barrage of crap from a number on-line pimp stores for Asian porn (don't ask me why, they tend to love me), but I'll risk it to post my latest offering, a work in progress we like to call "New Year's Resolutions."

Here's the first draft:

• Try one new thing every day
• Do not buy any new books in 2011--if I want to read a book, I have to beg, borrow, or steal.
• Do not buy any new pens in 2011--I have enough now to last me through Armageddon.
• Give up Facebook.
• Tweet more.
• Blog more, regardless.

Read on, dear reader...hopefully. :)

On Writing

I started a new blog specifically with a Facebook audience in mind yesterday, which was a long time in the thought process of coming. I was torn between several options:

• Tearing down this blog and starting a new one (which might be a good idea given the continuing spamming of the Asian pimp circuit)
• Starting a new blog with a different blog site, like Wordpress. At this point I realize that anyone who can go from Blogger to Wordpress probably should be in Mensa. I'm not at that level of savvy-ness yet, and, for the purpose of just importing the thing to Facebook anyway, probably don't necessarily need to be.
• Just writing a note when I feel like blogging on Facebook. And that option seemed too immediate for some reason--and who wants to write a straight note, for heaven's sake? Shouldn't there be something fancy it links to?

So I sat down yesterday afternoon and knocked out a blog on Blogger in about ten minutes. Yes, I'll reap what I sow, I suppose, and, given enough time, talent, and desire to read instructions I could have killed with something fancier, but I opted against it. Learning what a networking site is for = priceless. So here's what roles mine has adopted:

• Stories of what I love about California (blog)
• Reviews of what movies I watch (used to be Netflix, until their app stopped working, and is now Flixter)
• Reviews of books (Goodreads)
• YouTube (usually of the music that I love)
• And any news that goes to my core

That should suffice for now. This blog will remain, but not shared on Facebook--here is where I put my struggles, and, occasionally, a triumph or epiphany. And if you like that sort of thing...

Read on, dear reader.

Part the First - How to Care For a Self With No Self

Today in my part of the City it was foggy, like a rainy-day gift in the Midwest. So I took the day to take care of my ego:

• Writing, four and a half pages.
• Reading, one hundred and sixty pages.
• Importing music, 700 songs from CD to MP3 format.

And then I painted my toenails like a girl and relaxed in lamplight.

This is what I do when I'm not in love.