The Writing (?) Week

Monday—I could wait ‘til Tuesday
If I make up my mind
Wednesday would be fine
Thursday’s on my mind
Friday’d give me time
Saturday’d be great
Sunday’d be too late

--“Seven Days”, Sting

Thursday—being that the Creative Writing Class is on Wednesday nights, my writing week begins on Thursday mornings. I am chock full of brilliant ideas, creative thoughts, and eagerness from the night before and I face the blank page with no hesitation. I call Wednesday nights my “therapy night” because it is a great excuse to over analyze everything—stories, life experiences, TV shows, family, you name it. Joe never wants to over analyze anything, and the kids just kind of “uh huh” in my direction when I start being profound, so this is big fun for me. So, Thursday morning, I am bursting with thoughts that just want to be written. Problem is that there are just so many ideas—where do I begin to sort through them?

I start a story, edit, and then delete. I start another. Edit. Delete. Hey! None of these are quite flowing the way I want them too! That isn’t good. Where do I want this one to go? Too wordy. That’s dumb. Who cares about this? Oh, that’s digging deep into my “black box”. Don’t want to be in a funk again. Lighten up. Like Bev says—“Butterflies. Rainbows. Unicorns.” All the barriers are coming up and blocking my creative mind. Damn. I look at the clock and realize I am burning house cleaning hours, and I shut the computer down for now.

Friday—The kids are off to school and the house is quiet. I can write for the whole morning--the whole day if I wish. I check out all of my favorite websites and blogs for ideas and get caught up in stuff that drifts my mind in a non-writing direction. Mah Jong doesn’t really get a story going, but I clear the first board. Yes!

Once again, I gather some story ideas, but nothing is grabbing and pulling me in the direction of something productive. It isn’t writers block—it’s writer’s ambivalence. I want to write, but then I don’t want to write. I check the class blog to see if anyone else is posting. Crap! Nothing. I find comfort in knowing that I am not alone. This goes on for awhile before laundry, a good book, lunch, or talking to the fish becomes much more important.

Saturday—Joe and the kids are home. I get the computer early in the day, but their presence somehow stifles any creativity I have. Maybe it is their banter about what SpongeBob episode is on or who is leaving the toaster oven out that distracts me. Maybe it is Joe reading me the sports page out loud or the fact that they all chew like cows that I can’t form a complete thought. I give up. I can’t write when they are home—I call it “family block”.

Sunday—Day of rest--nuff said. Like all of this writing is exhausting me.

Monday—A new week. The kids are off early, one cat is stalking a cardboard mouse in the living room, and the other is outside having a stare-down with the chipmunk that visits our yard. I am excited to begin writing something today and prepare the work area with the creative necessities—coffee and reading glasses. Coffee is needed to get heart pumping and the ideas flowing; the reading glasses are so that I can at least see my great ideas if I write them. Neither is helping.

Did you ever notice how important laundry is when you have to write something? Or the dishes? Or how dirty the fish tank is?

Tuesday—I am in panic mode as tomorrow is class and I still haven’t written anything for the blog or for class. I will write something today. I will.

The phone rings and caller I.D. says that it’s my mother on the phone. The dilemma? Sit and stare at the blank screen for a while longer or answer my mom’s call and deal with that for an hour. I guess I’m desperate for an escape because I actually pick up the phone.

“Did you write anything for class yet?” It’s the first thing out of her mouth.

Geez, the woman knows. I suck my breath, but I don’t think she heard it on her end. My mother takes personal credit for everything in my life, including this class. She saw it in The Center flier and told me about it. Now she takes credit for every aspect—from me signing up, writing stories that might or might not be good, continuing my quest to be a writer, and probably for even creating the class itself. That woman’s gall amazes and horrifies me at the same time. It is a long conversation and it drains me. I am forced to put my writing on hold, again.

Wednesday—Ok, this is serious. I have nothing for class. NOTHING!

After numerous tries, I settle on thoughts of stories that I have put on hold. I think of people, things, songs, and almost anything that will start a thought. Sting, my Oreck, and I do the morning dance, and miraculously, I have a story! There is something about vacuuming that gets me going. (Has anyone ever credited a book to their Oreck? Note to self.) I am relieved, as I will have something to show for my week between classes.

I spend the next couple of hours typing away. I edit, copy, delete, somehow end up with something, and I think it might be good. I print it out and head off to “therapy”. Whew!

The Black Box

mmmmmbb I am sitting here thinking, which is never a good sign. I am thinking of writing a story about a black box. At first, this black box will be sitting on the table in front of me, between me and the computer screen. Yes, this black box is blocking my view of the story and as such it becomes my writing block. So I think that I will write a story about my writing block and I will make it a physical object that way I can visualize it much better. So I am sitting here writing a story about this black box that blocks me and the black box grows. The black box is now as big as the table itself. I guess it grew because I was thinking that this story is dumb and will take me nowhere (and I won't make money) and I stink as a writer and . . . a never-ending list of negative comments that feed the box. And the box grows and grows - pretty soon, the box has forced me out of the room and into the TV room.
So I take a break from writing and there are shows on in which contestants have to perform and please the viewers so they don't get eliminated. These shows are on almost every channel and I think how dumb: this is the same concept - someone wins, everyone else loses over and over again. I begin to think (another sign of the appocolypse - the end of the world due to bad spelling) that I could come up with a better show to watch. Some ideas come to mind and I think that there are bad things (things I hate) and good things (things I don't hate as much) about these REALITY (whose reality is like this?) SHOWS.
In the show "the Great Race" contestants fly all over the world and do crazy things just to win. This show is a geography lesson in disguise (I somewhat like this but don't ask me why). In the show "Beauty and the Geek", people spend time together and learn that even brainless boobs and awkward nerds are human (I can relate to this show because I am both beautiful and a mensa-kind). In the talent shows (American Idol, Dancing with the Stars. . .) the best does not win all time - the most popular does. (I like this concept because the idea of what appeals to people is a mystery - and I like mysteries). So I decide to come up with a premise for a new show using all these ideas.
It is at this point, that I realize that I am being creative and that I can write about this (Hurray!). So I head back to the computer and I find that the black box is much smaller now, about the size of a pea. (I know that a pea is round and that a box is cubic but visualize a pea with corners, okay). I begin to type in this story and I begin to realize that the creative process comes from dealing with what is at hand. Rather than trying to make something happen, why don't I just write about my life right now and sculpt it into whatever I want to write about. (I apologize for the vagueness of the previous statement - I am on a chocolate high - blame the pusher of this drug - calls herself the Easter Bunny). To me, the process of writing creatively is a mystery. What inspires me does not inspire you (sometimes) and might not inspire me tomorrow. So this is a mystery, a huge mystery, right up there with how did the universe begin ? and how do horrible politicians keep getting re-elected ?
BUT creative writing is an ADVENTURE. And like all adventures, it is chock full of challenges, setbacks, and dangers. There is also romance (you gotta love what you are doing) and the final outcome (in which the story is done and maybe published and maybe makes you lots of money).
And maybe the money you earn will help put an end to war and hunger or maybe you will blow it in Vegas. But the point is - creative writing can be fun except if you feed your pet black box TOO much and it gets big and starts bossing you around (hint: black boxes love to eat negativity especially self-loathing.)
Finally, I have reached the end of this piece (you might have thought this would never happen - I didn't either but I did promise a happy ending and I cannot think of anything that would make me happier than ending this). The moral of the story is take proper care of your pet black box AND make sure to not let it poop on you. (because that really stinks.)
THE END

Returning Son

     He was angry, I could tell.  Limping into the kitchen, he balanced on one foot while he peeled a banana,  grabbed a box of cereal down from the shelf, and mumbled something about how hungry he was.  "Could I help?" I asked.  "Yah, put my coffee on the table."  I almost said, I'm your mother, not your slave.  But I silently lifted the cup and set it on the table.  What was he angry about?  Hadn't he slept well?  Did he take his pain medication the night before?  Had he broken up with his girlfriend?  Was I really responsible for his mood?

     Dec. 20th he had suffered a serious ski accident on Whistler Mountain in Canada. Completely severed his ACL--anterior cruciate ligament--and had to be gondolaed off the mountain.  He was 40, unmarried, and cried on the phone when he finally called me the next day.  "Mom, I tore the ligament in my leg," he sobbed.  "I don't know when I'll be able to work again."  My heart was breaking.

     We got him home, that is, to OUR home, saw an ortho doctor Christmas Eve day, and scheduled surgery for the following week.  His own apartment was a three floor walk-up in Chicago back of the yards.  Not a place for a cripple to heal.  So, his father and I were it--his temporary rescuers.  We were glad to help but life would not be the same for quite a while.  I'm sure he didn't like losing his independence, any more than we did.

     It is now three months later.  I've gotten to know my son John, maybe better than I had ever imagined possible.   He is almost completely healed, with only a few more sessions left of physical therapy.  It's been tumultuous and unpredictable and sweet, all those feelings together.  As he healed, I was struck by his energy.  Putting dishes away is a cacophony of loud, crashing sounds.  The dish-washer drawer is yanked out, the plates slid forcefully into the cupboard, silverware tumbled into the appropriate partitions.  Slam, the coffee-maker is pushed along the counter; thud, the garbage can is kicked open; thwack, the dishcloth thrown against the sink.  Is he really trying to be helpful?  I'm tempted to hop up to intervene and save the lives of my appliances, but I stay put.  "Be calm," I tell myself.  Maybe this is a good sign.  He's ready to be in his own apartment, his own kitchen, where he can take out his frustrations on his own belongings.  

     I think about relationships, how much of a mix they are of love, hate, tolerance, impatience, joy, sorrow.  Always changing, and just when you're ready to say, "I've had it, I give up, get out of my life," the friend, lover, or child will do or say something that melts your heart and you're ready to try to make it work again.  John has told me more than I want to know about his girlfriend's failings, her scathing E-mails to him, their near-breakups.  I almost feel like I'm dating again myself--so relieved when she agrees to join us for Easter dinner AND bring her mother along, too.

     The latest crisis is John's purchase of a car on E-bay, exactly like his falling-apart vehicle, if one can believe the photo on the computer.  According to my son's information from the seller, it's in mint condition--what else?  But where does he need to pick up this beauty?  Tinley Park?Lockport?  Downers Grove?  Of course not.  Odessa, Texas!  Does this make sense?  But the price was right, he says.  How about the airfare, I ask, to get there?  What if it doesn't drive well?  Will you have to stay at a motel one or two nights on the drive back?  Loud noises follow.  "You never believe in me!  You keep telling me I should buy a different car, and now you're only negative about my choice!"  More discussion ensues; we calm down.  Then I tell him, if he needs a ride, I'll drive him to the airport.  He says, "Thanks," and we can both smile again.

     John is at the doctor's office now, anxious to get his release to return to work.  Then comes the call to his work.  Do they still have a job for him?  He hopes so. I hope so.  Now if only his Texas car can get him there!    

       

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[Fwd: Optional Class Assignment - what is your writing name ?]

In the book, "Artist's Way" by Julia Cameron, the author has an
exercise about describing several of your secret selves - i.e.: Steve
Slate would be my secret self who is a detective. This is the name of
my 'psyche part' that is determined to find out the truth, no matter
what. This part of me will turn over every rock and look in every dark
corner; this is the part of me that likes to do that.
Lately,( five minutes ago), I have wondered why I don't have a name
for my writing self. Samuel Clemons did. His was Mark Twain. I think
that having a writing name will enable me to focus on writing better and
to give me shelter from criticism. For instance, if I am thinking about
writing something that I am not comfortable writing (dark stuff?) I can
use a different name, an alias, that gives me distance from people who
might be offended.
Also, a writing name can give one an affirmation. I take a sacred (to
me) writing name and I will honor it. Therefore I must be serious about
writing. (or silly enough to write). Therefore, I must have a soul of a
writer. Therefore I must be a writer. Yes, I am writer!! And I have no
blocks !!! (SURE, keep dreaming).
So if you take this assignment on try to create several writing names
and pick the one that feels best for you now. It can also be our secret
code name (used when amongst non-writers). If you want to go further,
write an essay why this name feels right for you or write about how you
came to choose this name.

That's all for now!
Frank

P.S. Give me feedback on this assignment - like? dislike? why?

Grace (Ralph) the Cat

It is inevitable when you own a cat. Accepting this part of my fur friend is like accepting the fact that she sheds or that she eats smelly cat food. People who do not own cats don’t understand. You get questions like “Is it a hairball?” or “Is she sick?” Cats eat. Cats drink. They poop in litter boxes and sometimes the neighbor’s garden. Cats groom themselves and rarely need a real water bath. Cats scratch things even if you have their nails removed. And cats throw up. A lot. And for no reason.

I have a sweet cat, Grace, that I have had for nearly 10 years. She has been my sidekick through raising my family and she is a dear companion. She doesn’t really like the kids, even now in their teenage years. She avoids them like she does dogs, quickly scooting around them hoping they don’t notice her entrance into the room. She sneaks around like a burglar, creeping along the baseboards, making a quick dash to the food dish, all the while avoiding their gaze. She lets out a scream when they pet her, alerting me to the fact that they dared to touch her. They never were mean to her, she just never liked them. She is a one-person gal, and that person is me.

Grace sleeps all day on my bed. She rarely leaves her spot unless The Evil Vacuum Cleaner makes its appearance, and then she goes under the bed. She waits for me until it is “our “time-- our quiet time when I pet her. She won’t tolerate being held (too confining) but she will sit close with the motor running on extra loud. She likes her back scratched and her head kissed. She doesn’t want her feet touched or her tummy rubbed. She likes to wrestle with me while I make the bed. She is the only cat I know that likes to sleep in on the weekend. She’ll go outside only if I go with her. She is a sweet kitty who all but ignores the rest of the family because she is devoted only to me.

As much as I love her, I do hate her stomach. Grace has an extra sensitive tummy and vomits nearly on command. She isn’t a long haired cat, so it isn’t a hairball issue. She isn’t allergic to her food. She just throws up a lot. She’s at it after going in the yard. She has a field day when we are on vacation. She seems to favor middle of the night and near the bed. She is at it when she eats too much. Or drinks too much. She hacks when it is hot or when it is cold. She recently threw up over the excitement of a snow day-- I found it only when I tried to crawl back into bed for a couple hours of sleep. She sat there looking at me like she usually does—“So, what’s the problem?” She doesn’t get it.

There is nothing as disconcerting as the sound of the cat hacking in the middle of the night. I try to ignore the sound, but I have to admit I am intrigued as to where the obvious has occurred. And does it need to be handled at 2:00 a.m.? Was it on the rug? Is it in the hall where someone will step into it? My mind and imagination are racing and I end up getting up. Why is it that nobody else hears this or is concerned by it? Why is it that my whole house has hard wood floors but that cat goes literally 3 inches onto the one rug we own and aims there? Why does she back up like a dump truck when she’s at it? The worst is when I hear the unspoken in my bedroom and I have to search for my special reward. Is it under the bed? Is it right where I step down? Is it on the husband’s side and can I get away with feigned surprise in the morning? NASA has never experienced a launching neither as high nor as fast as Grace hacking in the middle of the night on the bed. We’re talking complete sacrifice of the animal for the dry clean only comforter cover. I do have my limits.

Now I have to admit my patience has been tested more than once with my friend’s quirkiness, but for the most part I have accepted this part of her. I also dealt with it when my son was an infant and he, too, had a penchant for heaving. She accepts me for my quirks. She doesn’t get mad when I push her away. She understands when I’ve run out of her special weekend kitty food. I’ve learned it is just who she is and to be grateful that the other cat doesn’t share the same soft belly.

Welcome to my world

I wish I could say that everything is rosy here in WriterWorld - but it is not. It is morning the day after the class day and I wonder if life is worth living (again). I think that I do this every week the day after the class. This is the first day-after that I even feel like writing so I think I might be making progress. I hope that the new people are able to make accounts for themselves and use the Blog. My thinking is selfish - I want people to write more and to work through non-writing - perhaps they can inspire me or each other by posting writings (thoughts, ideas, comments. . .etc)
Right now I have grabbed a interface for the blogger and I am testing it out. It is supposed to allow me to go from text editor to blog without having to deal with the aggravating blog post editor. I say that because no matter how carefully I word my posts paragraphs, the blog editor takes things and posts them any which way - so I want up looking stupid with 2 word lines and no indentations to start paragraphs. I don't dare even try form poems.
But that is off the subject - I want people and this means YOU - to be gentle with yourselves. Writing creatively is tough, especially for adults. The reason is that by the time we reach adulthood, we have learned to turn off our creative processes. Very few adult jobs allow you to be creative. Most jobs in our society follow this path: do the job correctly then do it again and again and again and again with minor variations. the thinking and creativity is for higher ups. So therefore, the older you are the harder it is to access your creativity.
Our brains want to justify being creative so we tell ourselves that we can make money and become famous writers and drive big cars and get invited to Hollywood parties. We tell ourselves that our writing has to be a certain way and that is NOT how creative writing works. Creative writing comes from the place of PLAY. When you were a child, your mother did not have say anything else but go and play. You did not need INSTRUCTIONS. You just did it.
My hope is that everyone will go back to that play place in their mind and pick up a pen or crayons and see what happens. That is my real assignment for this week. See you next wednesday,
Frank