Funny, that

I read so much… when I’m not busy with children; housekeeping; Face Booking; working; miscellaneous creative projects, or most of all recently- yes, writing. I read books on historical fiction, science fiction, fantasy fiction; some books in the way of biographical persuasion have also hit my shelves. I also read books on meditation, religion and philosophy, psychology, photography, different animals, how to better understand what you read, and how to write, among others. I read books that I hadn’t thought of since I was a child, since I now read to my kids. I look up information on line, and read up on subjects that peak my curiosity, and I am reading a lot of what is written here in WordPress, also.

 Some of us sound SO SMART when we write, it’s like we’re all geniuses. And then I do something like make a comment. It seems, then, that all that reading and logging information into that big ole’ computer of a brain just goes out the window. I make a pampering idiot of myself. Or perhaps I’m unintentionally condescending. Or perhaps I just didn’t get it and realize that I went on a tangent– just after hitting the “publish post” button.

So if you happen to read my comments, and just HAPPEN to come here, please know– as much of an idiot I seem, I’m not, really. I just get so excited when I see that someone else has the same voice– or perhaps a different voice, than mine, that I just can’t hide it. And I refuse to. Because one day, my idocy will really make someone feel good. Or laugh. Or just shake their head and grin. Whatever.

 I want you to know, however, that I have come to admire each and every one of you. I understand what it means to put who you are into words, and share it with strangers.  It is something that takes a certain kind of determination, maybe a titch of desperation, a strange combo of humility and pride, and perhaps a bit of naivete, as well …  as well as the deepest of needs- to connect in a meaningful way with others- that we all are driven to fulfill.

 I salute you, fellow readers, AND writers!

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Waking the artist

 So I’ve figured out now how easy it was, once upon a time, to give up my writing- I was homeless, no place to keep anything except a backpack which, as I remember, quickly filled and choosing which items to toss became agonizing. I was young, foolish and made spontaneous choices that nearly always ended in some lesson learned the hard way. But as I got older, as I somehow took advantage of friends’ good graces and other resources, and got myself settled down. Took a long time. But then what?

 I had a few kids… the entire time thinking that as I was deemed smart enough, there HAD to be something I could do with myself, other than be a glorified calculator, input data entry, be a part-time book keeper. Something that took all the “stuff” I’d learned and the creativity I knew I had, the inventiveness that got me noticed as a young adult, before I left the real world for less tangible experiences. There had to be SOMEthing that I could apply myself to. Never once realizing I had one tool that never left, even though I threw away the evidence- I can write. Even the stuff I don’t like that much has in it the possibilities for great stories.

 I’ve always been able to pump out that 5 page essay hours before the deadline, with little effort, and still get a better-than-passing grade. I’ve always enjoyed the exercises I learned from creative writing classes I took in San Francisco. I inherently use many tools used for writing in other parts of my life, but never thought twice about it. Until suddenly, the idea of actually going beyond a short story no longer daunted me. Somehow, coming here and finding so many writers of so many different backgrounds and talents, has woken that dormant beast. Now I’m a slave… and now it’s so much FUN – it’s better than that ultimate earthly pleasure, sex. Really.

 I’m never stopping, until I have no use of my hands or mouth. Making up a fantasy world and story line this last week has been the most gratifying experience, and taking ONE day off was the strangest thing- I don’t think I could give it up for more than that again … not now- not ever. Not willingly.

 Here’s to waking an artist; evoking emotional responses from readers, and creating a reality that overwhelms their own when they sink into the pages. Here’s to writing the book I always wanted to read…

Life Happens

 I have endeavored to improve myself, my interests and knowledge and skills that I have neglected for too long. I promised myself, suddenly and without prompting, something that has begun to change my life. I look back on all the little things I’ve done this past year to further this idea of mine, and I can’t help but feel a sense of accomplishment. But the part that I’ve begun recently has had, so far, the largest of returns. I’ve begun to write- and to edit, and censor and renew old ideas and imaginary friendships.

 

It’s an awesome feeling when I begin to experience the flow of a story- the need and drive to continue on and not stop for distractions- don’t go to the bathroom, yet; let the kids watch a movie today; the plants can wait until later; the laundry will still be there tomorrow … It’s been a long over-due visit from a dear friend, this feeling.

 

As another writer, you might get it- what is falling out of your mind just won’t let you go, and you don’t want it to; it feels like there’s a hidden purpose behind the mad intent to stay locked to the computer screen for hours on end, ignoring bodily needs and outside disturbances. And once you are locked into your world of choice, everything else is truly “outside” for a while.

 

Unfortunately, it also seems that every time I get there then something that CAN’T be put off happens. How’s that saying go? “Life is what happens when you’re busy making plans.” Yep- or when you’re really just having the time of your life up in your own little world. It barges in like a bull in a china shop then, too.

 

I have promised myself something, though- I will not give up. I will come back. And I will find another idea, if the first no longer wishes to “play” for me, although I hope to make each and every one sound out beautiful little notes before it’s death. Beat it to death with grammar, tease it with punctuation until it hurts, then restructure it until it becomes a different tale- make it sing. And sadistically cherish every moment with it, for it is truly my own creation. That’s my promise.

Therapy in Waiting

 From the time I read The 2,000 Pound Goldfish and wanted to become a play writer or film director, to the time I read Ramona Quimby and imagined my life as a living video blog ,(this was before reality t.v. shows, OR blogging, mind you) I imagined myself as the star of my own life story. And I secretly wondered if other people did it, too… I guess these blogging sites go to show me that I’m not alone, eh? 😉

 

If you’d watched Cher and Winona Ryder in Mermaids; or perhaps Riding in Cars With Boys, with Drew Barrymore; or even maybe a little of Boys on the Side with Whoopi Goldberg; then you’d have a small idea of what my life was really like- not something I’d want to share publicly unless I felt like inviting pity. Or proving how much stronger than events I felt I was. Or how dramatic my life could be.

Although these experiences helped to shape who I am today, for a long time I felt they defined me. In other words, I thought that the fact that I came from such rough backgrounds made me viewable by others a predictable type of person, totally not understanding how you change when the real “you” is extruded through some hardship in life. There have been times I’ve self-censored myself to death, and times I’ve bled out onto my friends and into their lives.

 

Sometimes, it is in the telling that therapy and true healing begin, as we explore our own motives for past actions in a third-party view. Sometimes stories beg telling with persevering insistence, regardless of your ideas of who you are, or were, or how well they’re expressed. And it’s high-time this one was told, I suppose … Among others. So here I leave off, saying that the so-far-just-a-short-story, Waiting, is therapeutic; half true, and half bad memory, a dash of fancy and a smidgeon shameless self-promotion.

-MommaC