Am I a Fiction Snob?

Because I've been reading non-fiction almost exclusively lately, I have challenged myself to pick up fiction. I never really thought of myself as a fiction snob, but I frequently am disappointed about the novels I pick up.

And I don't know why.

I'm interested in discovering this answer, both as a reader and a writer.

As a reader, I obviously want to be swept away to another time or place, fall in love with the characters, and/or be otherwise entertained. I usually stick to literary or mainstream fiction because I prefer a strong character arc to my books. I don't care so much about the plot, and I lovelovelove beautiful language.

I assumed that genre novels (romance, scifi/fantasy, mystery/thriller, horror) didn't focus on character development and were more akin to Hollywood blockbusters for the ADHD crowd.

But that's ungenerous.

So I've specifically challenged myself to read more genre fiction. I purchased seven genre e-books--mostly romance, but two darker ones. I thought maybe the romances would surprise me. I do, after all, enjoy romantic comedies. Though, I have to admit that my favorite rom-coms are independent ones, and not the Hollywood blockbuster ones. (Strike one for genre.) And my only experience with romance novels were a couple of unfortunate Danielle Steels and Victoria Holt's gothic romance in my high school years, Harlequins in middle school, and some Nora Roberts when I was desperate for a book to read in my early thirties.

But that's ungenerous. Again.

So maybe I am a fiction snob.

But that doesn't add up either, because there are plenty of "classics" and award-winning novels that I couldn't wrap my head around (or even understand sometimes) and even stopped reading before the end--unheard of in my earlier days of reading.

I think what I really am attracted to is voice. The author's voice.

So, as a writer, I'm interested in what makes me turn the pages as a reader. What is it about an author's voice that I like?

That's harder to identify. And--it seems--is completely subjective. Which makes it hard to duplicate as a writer.

Right now, I am reading Crescent, by Diana Abu-Jaber. More mainstream fiction. I know, I know.

But what's a girl to do with a To Be Read pile like this?

I'll read one of the new genre e-books next. Promise.

An Exercise in Slaying the Perfectionist

I'm suffering from perfectionism right now.

I haven't blogged for many many months and it's because -- I think -- I've made a mountain out of a mole hill. Blogging is just journal writing, with a little more focus. But somehow I've built it up to being this big scary platform-building professional thing. And it's not. It really isn't. It's just a diary.

Sort of.

So, I made a deal with a member of my Mastermind Group that I'd blog for seven minutes today and post it. And then text him that I did. Accountability, yo.

Newsy Updates:

My garden is out of control. The front yard has gone all ghetto (which means it needs to be mowed and weeded and the carport needs to be organized, dusted and swept.) It's embarrassing to walk up or drive up to my house. The others around me are charming.

I might be insane enough to can some dill pickles this Saturday. I'll let you know if I do. And I'm going to start up the kombucha and jun again. Hooray!

I went on my first ever writer's retreat, which was divine. I had days and days of reading, napping, and revising my manuscript of Herbal Junction. And I got to re-connect with a lovely lady that means a lot to me.


My teens are starting up high school again next week, and I'm so glad to get back to my more regular routine. I love FALL!

What are your newsy updates?

Inspiration Strikes Again, With Gratitude

I've slated this morning--the whole day really--for working on client work. Editing. Typing. Editing some more. But I just feel so inspired lately. So many ideas percolating. One quick blog post won't hurt the overall day's intention. I'll get to the editing. I'll have to. It's the last day to do it. Deadlines, you know.

Yesterday I picked up a few magazines from the book store. I rarely gift myself with magazines. They seem so expensive and frivolous for what they are. Pretty pictures and full of ads. I could have bought two novels for the price of the three magazines, and they would've lasted me a lot longer. But I forget about feeding the Muse. I do need to seduce her once in awhile or she'll stop coming to play.

The only print magazine I subscribe to is Writer's Digest, for work. But Artful Blogging magazine, or Wanderlust, or Lonely Planet all could be "for work," too. Research. And, again, keeping me inspired to work on my novel and other writing projects.

I feel on the cusp of great things in my author business. I've got the correct mindset now. It's taken years, but with the help of my online mentor Joanna Penn from The Creative Penn, (She doesn't know she's my mentor) and my loverloverman at home, I finally know that I am living my dream life and working at my dream job right now.

You see, I kept trying to forecast what I wanted my dream job/life to be like three or five years from now. To work as if, but still knowing in my heart I wasn't there yet. I thought I was just "planning" and "setting goals"--which I still believe are important--but it was preventing me from feeling the satisfaction of where I already was. Much like the house we just moved into over last summer. I used to look at all of the projects that still needed to be done and felt like it was a never-ending heap of exhaustive shoulds on my shoulders.

"It'll never get done!" I'd privately wail.

But then.

I realized that our home, just like ourselves, was a living "document," if you will. It would ever-evolve, just like us. We grow and change everyday, and so would our home. Every few months, something changes on the house. We put up a towel-rack or a curtain rod. We hang more art. We paint another wall. We add garden beds to the front yard.

Like that.

So, too, my author business is a living and growing entity. It will change every few months to accommodate the industry and my growth as an author.

I'm already living my dream job in my dream life.

I still plan ahead. I still dream. But I'm so happy and grateful right here, right now.

What is it about your life or your job--right now--that you can be grateful for?

Please leave a comment below, or check out my website at valeriewillman.com.

Why Adrenal Fatigue Makes For Good Blogging

A while ago I addressed how Facebook had become a mini-blog for me, and so I've recently put more energy and thought into blogging. I like blogging. I like connecting with the world outside and starting conversations with my readers, even if it's only in their heads and not exchanged with me. I think this is why Facebook is so alluring for me. I get instant feedback on what I've written.

Part of the reason for the blog distance in the past year or so, is I get mixed instructions on how to utilize my blogs, which is confusing. On the one hand, I see the value and organizational conciseness of segregating my blogs into: Personal, Permaculture/Costa Rica, and Professional.

I alwaysalways--no matter what category in life--overdo it and make things more difficult for myself than they need to be. I have no idea why I do this. But if I want or need to attend to something, I'll make charts and lists and volunteer for an organization that's kind of related and start a blog about it. Even if all I needed to do was buy groceries. It's who I am.

But I don't like that. It's exhausting.

So the adrenal-fatigued part of me wants to consolidate all of them. For instance, the reason I started Eco-Expat was so I could write about my experience of moving to Costa Rica and all that it entailed. I wanted to take all that info and consolidate it into a non-fiction book to sell to other ex-pat wannabes or retirees. But I could just label that shit and put it in my personal blog. That's what the categories on the right side bar are for--searching for posts on specific topics. And the personal stuff that I think shouldn't be on my author blog for fans to read isn't really secret anyway. Duh. It's on the interwebs. And I even have a link to my personal blog on my author blog--and if that isn't an invitation to come read it, I don't know what is.

I think, perhaps, that--despite the professionally excellent advice to only Publish Polished Posts of a Not-Too-Personal Nature--just blogging on my website instead of Blogger (which I totally love, by the way, because it's the easier of the two interfaces to blog on), I will be daring and bold and publish it all on my website. I believe the professional down-sides of baring too much on my website--while off-putting to some--will out-weigh the professional down-side of spreading myself too thinly over the internet. If I can only average one post a week, and I'm writing on three blogs, that means that I'm only posting new content once a month. This will not attract readership.


What do you do to attract readership to your blog?
What do you consider too personal to put on your website?
What information--personal or otherwise--do you like to know about the authors you read?

Please view my author blog here, and sign up for my newsletter.
Mini-blog, or no, you can always find me on Facebook.

Blog Nostalgia

I've had some pretty great days this last month. My book launched; I had a party to celebrate--where much fun was had--and my reading was a hit. I've bonded with my kids (one teenager, and one in the making); I received a holiday invite from my ex (first time EVER); I was sick with a fever and allowed myself almost a week of sitting on my couch, reading, and watching movies. I've slept with doggies; make pots of delicious edible things; and played Scrabble with the mother-in-law I hardly ever get to visit  anymore. I have caught up with old friends, Skyped with my loverloverman while he was on a trip to India without me, and generally just smiled about everything that showed up.

Life is pretty grand these days.

I'm starting to get inspired again, too. Creatively.

The other day my friend was threatening imminent departure from Facebookland, and a comment was made about Facebook being a sort of mini-blog, and I thought--with a start--that this was true. (Thus, the scant posting here and other places.) I've wondered a few times if, and how, Facebooking has affected my writing.

I don't feel like I am addicted to screen time. I'm never turning to the computer because I am bored, or have nothing better to do. I'm never turning to the computer because I am sad. I don't waste my time on the computer. Mostly I use it as a tool. I work from my computer. I read on my computer. And, yes, I stay connected to some people on the computer--lots of times through Facebook. And yes, sometimes Facebook will suck me in and I'll stay on the site much longer than I anticipated (or needed to.) Just like when I go into the grocery store with a list of five items, and come out having spent $124.

Facebook, I'm sorry to say, has indeed become my new blog. I post my pictures on Facebook. I occasionally vent about something that needs attention, I post epiphanies, I write witty asides. I summarize in a sentence or two what I used to write pages on. While this might do wonders for streamlining my writing style, in actuality it has pert-in-near stopped it all together. Which is tragic.

This morning while eating breakfast I looked through some of my old book-marked blogs. Ones that I found inspiring in 2009. Most of them didn't make the cut, but it did remind me of how much I really had enjoyed reading and writing blog posts.

I turned to blog reading, and writing, years ago as a stay-at-home, un-schooling mama. (Please note the now-unfortunate blog url that can't be changed: Insane Parents Unite!) It was a way to seek out my tribe, to remind myself that I wasn't all alone on this planet of craziness, and that maybe--just maybe--I had something to say that would help other insane mamas, too. And let's face it. Despite my mostly regular handwritten journaling habit, I still used my blog as a diary. A cataloging of days. It kept track of how much I accomplished in my urban homesteading efforts, it reminded me that I was making a difference in my children's academic and social lives, and more importantly--that when written out like that--I could actually recognize good parenting skills amidst the chaos.

But now I mostly Facebook all that.
In small snippets.
That you can read on a status line.

This is no good, People!

I must return to writing in full pages. Grease the wheels of ingenuity once more. For I've lost the ease at which I once thought up stories. I used to have characters flitting around in my mind, waking me up in the wee hours of the morning, begging to be put on paper. But now, I struggle to write book reviews. I've had a couple of ideas for novels wade into the edges of my imagination, but not long enough for me to meet them properly. Not long enough to invite them to tell me their stories before they go.

I've become rusty.

And in too much of a hurry. (Maybe another by-product of the quick and easy world of Facebooking?)

Point: I must hurry up and print this for my writing group, walk the dogs before I go to yoga, make a to-go dinner to take to my next two meetings, and somewhere in there take my daughter to the print shop to print out a homework assignment!

"Raising My Rainbow" -- a book review

I read another great memoir this week. Hooray for memoirists! Raising My Rainbow: Adventures in Raising a Fabulous, Gender Creative Son by Lori Duron is sweet, and nurturing, and real. It's honest, and ... well ... I'd want to be her friend if I knew her in real life.

When her son, at age three, found a Barbie, Lori and Matt Duron's life changed forever. As well as their two sons'. What follows are years of self-doubt, unconditional love, and the angst of whether or not he can bring his "girl" toys with him when he leaves the house.

It was life-affirming to read about her advocacy, the friends they surrounded their little family with, and the joy that beamed out from little C.J.'s face when he was dancing in an all girls ballet/tap class with a sparkly tutu on.

It's a story about love, first and foremost. It's a story about the minutia of decisions parents need to make when the challenges arise, as they always do. It's a story about acceptance, and providing the best for your child.

I recommend this book to all.

Five stars.

I Know It's Summer When I Stop Writing

I once wrote how I knew it was winter. Perhaps it's time to write about how I know it's summer. And it really has nothing to do with bar-b-ques and heat waves.

It's summer when I have bursts of energy to clean and to organize -- which steals not only my writing time, but my impetus. Where I learn to brew kombucha, pick roses and plums from my backyard. It's summer when I only grumble and rant about my teenagers playing WoW and Minecraft non-stop for hours on end, rather than giving them time limits -- because what else would they do while I'm massaging clients, taking yoga classes, or working in the garden?

Summer time is for not thinking big thoughts, stuffing them instead while I busywork through the day, taking advantage of the light. The skin-peeling consequence of that, is that if I don't allow myself to think them, I can't write them down either. And then THAT starts a cycle of writer's block.

I know this pattern.

I breathe it.
At least twice a year.

(I wonder if it correlates to when the seasons change, or if it happens when my life twists and alters course.)

Summer is for new business ventures, self-publishing books, and splashing merrily in the waves of a nine-month-old romantic relationship with my Turk. Summer is the time to break up dog fights with hoses, and walk the neighborhoods looking for those same cherished doggies when firecrackerfear compels them to jump out windows and push through six-inch openings in fences and find their way to the other house they live at, all by themselves.

I know it's summer when I fold my laundry and wish that I had a clothesline to capture the scent of sun.  When ants and fruit flies invade my compost bucket under the sink, and no amount of bait alleviates the swarms. When sneezing doesn't make people shrink back from your germs: It's just allergies.

I know it's summer when my arms itch for no reason, except maybe ambient pollen. When I make jam from the raspberries in my yard. When I surprise myself with gardening prowess. I know it's summer when doggies sleep on the bare hardwood floors in my house instead of upholstered squishy green couches.

When I envy the neighbors' gardens and flower beds.

When I think of all manner of things to do BUT write.

I can't write because I'm not caught up with the housework, and I don't want to leave it for another four days before I get back to it. (I clean in spurts.) I can't write because I often over extend myself, not just in summer, but it feels like I do it more in this season. So much so that come 3 o'clock in the afternoon, I'm bushed. Extra sunlight be damned. All I want to do in the afternoon is read. So I trick myself into reading books that are "good for me." Non-fiction mostly. Or that one novel I need to read for the Early Reviewers Club.

Summer is for looking at my knitting bag with wist and longing, because knitting is for winter days by the fire.

Summer is for remembering to stay hydrated, but then peeing every forty-five minutes until I'm bored with it.

I know it's summer when I only find out I have a fruit tree in the yard by almost stepping in the too-ripe ones on the sidewalk in front of my house.

If Summer isn't for big thoughts, it's for big PLANS. So many plans that I effectively gouge out huge slabs of writing time and just watch them fritter to the floor. Camping for a week, a conference for a long weekend, a flight out of state to take my children to their grandmother's place, and music festivals with costumes.

Summer is here when I take an art class for a day, sleep with the door open because it's so hot I'm counting on the dogs to scare away any intruders, and finally getting around to taking my first Spanish lesson.

I know it's summer when I meet new friends at cookouts and birthday parties. When I feel inspired to change things up. To build a chicken gate for the run that has no chickens yet. And to run yet another errand. It's a season of feeling euphoria, and then worry that the euphoria might be manic, and thinking I should probably write about it, but instead allow the weather and my productiveness to give me an artificial high so that I forget about that reason I'm not writing.

I wonder if Autumn is the season to write.

Launching in six, five, four ..

I was talking to my friend this morning about my manuscript. And other stuff. Kissing, boys, work habits, gardening. The usual. But the shocker of the conversation slipped out of my mouth, quite unexpectedly.

"I want to launch my book November 1st of this year. That's ..." I counted on my fingers. "...SIX AND HALF MONTHS AWAY."

This was definitely news to me. I mean. I'd been saying I wanted to launch in November for months now. But the knowledge that November 1st follows April 15th by only SIX AND A HALF MONTHS really threw me.

Good thing I've been researching self-publishing and talking with the pros on that. The writers' conference I go to every year is in August, so I want to be promoting the book even then. It's time to get some more nitty gritty work done.

I'm an editor. And I've edited this book for three years, but even I know that it still needs to be professionally edited by someone Not Me. Funds are uber-low right now, what with my van on its last "electrical problem" legs. (Even my mechanic can't find what's wrong with it. I'm just hoping I can make it last until August. I'll be done paying my daughter's private tuition by then, and can be a little less "creative" in my funding.) So, I might need to do without the editor. I've sent it to four beta readers though. Maybe that will help.

Gulp.

Next thing on the list is layout and cover design.

And reading the bible of self-publishing.

Can I get a cover and layout in six month's time? Time to find out!

I need a new title, too. Grief Shadows: Young, Pregnant, and Widowed isn't doing it for me anymore.

I'm really excited about this next phase of my book's journey. !!!

Best Friends Can Cure Writer's Block

I'm suffering from perfectionism. It's showing up as writer's block. Sort-of.

While I go about my day, I think of topics to write about, but don't jot them down, and then -- of course -- forget them. But in addition, I just want my blog posts (and essays, and book chapters) to be GREAT, so I don't end up writing them at all. Because ... they won't be great.

It makes perfect sense.

And I know what to do about it.

Just write shit.

I need to remind myself (on a frequent basis apparently) that I am allowed (encouraged even) to write badly. Just to get it on the paper. And then I can edit.

I went on this really great vacation with my honey ...

... so you'd think I'd have plenty of fodder to write about. And I do, but I want it to be great travel writing, not my diary. Sigh. But, again, then I just don't write anything. And that's just stupid.

So. This blog will just be my diary. 

There.

I just gave myself permission to write whatever comes to mind. Whatever is important to me that day. And today it's this:

**

I visited with my best friend today. First time in a few weeks. It was superb. She brought her ukelele and played music while I made lunch, and then I gave her a massage. We talked about relationships, music, gardening, community living, Costa Rica, what we'll do when our kids are older, weight gain, and old times.

She's inspiring, and I hope I am still best friends with her when we are both 82.

**

A Time of Transition Requires a New Name

This blog started back in 2008 as a mommy blog. Or, more accurately, a place to compile the insanity of my life -- specifically with my son's undiagnosed PDD-NOS, and the unschooling/homeschooling adventures I had with him, and his sister.

The blog was aptly named Insane Parents Unite!

But now my kids are in middle-school. And you can't even buy parenting magazines geared towards kids that old. Not to mention that both my children refuse to be photographed, and what fun is a blog post about teenage angst, hunting for high schools, or the continual battle of limiting video gaming time when you can't even add a picture?!

Grumblegrumble.

So I changed the blog title to Indian-flavored Everything because I love all things Indian, was dating an Indian man, and I was running out of kid topics. (Which isn't really true, but whatever.) I still want to write about my favorite Bollywood movie, and the trip I'm dreaming up for Kerala with my new guy, but I also want to write about homesteading and reading and parenting older kids and cross-cultural dating. And hopefully in an artful-heartful way so that I may bring some joy to the soul along the way.

So now what do I call the blog?

***

And now for something not-so completely different ... I will be starting a BRAND NEW BLOG within the next month (in addition to this one). Something along the lines of Eco Expat. I've bought some land in Costa Rica at an Eco Village (off the grid, self-sustainable, intentional community) and I want to chronicle my experience of readying myself for life in a foreign country, earning income in a foreign country, learning a new language, practicing my homesteading skills -- plus all the logistical things I didn't anticipate happening but I'm sure will.

Stop by here for a link to the new blog.

Pura Vida!

Why I Write And What Happens When I Do

I write to quiet the demons. The pesky ants that bite me and tickle my skin with their feet.
I write to capture dreams. To recall faces and emotions and what ifs.
I write to know myself.
I write to explore.
Myself.
And the world around me.But mostly myself.

When I write I feel luxurious. Like I have all the time in the world. Like I'm important and what I'm saying is so important I have to drop everything that needs to be done in that moment to write those specific words down. Or they'll be lost. Which, ironically, is true.

When I write I feel like I have something to say. Like I AM important. But sometimes I feel that what comes out of my mouth or onto the page is not helpful, not worth saying or reading. Ultimately I want to make a difference in someone's life, and I want my words to make a difference in their lives, but .... it doesn't have to. My actions can do that, too. Like yesterday. I had friends over, and I actually didn't interact much with them at all. But I provided the space for them to be able to connect and relax and feel safe. And THAT made a difference to them.

When I write I see birds, taking flight "to the world that is invisible and is sure of bliss." (from the movie Lady Jane) Promises, echoes, memories, callings. I see imaginary animals and dreams and thoughts barely constructed. I see the past and the future, but rarely the present. I need to remind myself to see the present. Because that's where all the parallels are. That's where the meat of it is. THAT'S where I should be writing from. From the present. Write what I see in front of me. That's what can help people.

And myself.

When I write I discover who I am. Whom I'm meant to be. I discover forgotten dreams. I discover stories in the leaves and hear whispers in the foliage. When I write I discover charm and grace and wit that I don't have in my speaking world.

And THAT is why I love to write.

To access that graceful and creative place that isn't quite so apparent in me otherwise. To reclaim all of me. To remember stories of other lives. Other meanings to things. A new perspective.




Why do YOU write?
And what happens when you do?

Write Write

I have a man on my floor. My hardwood floor. He is humming his symphony and reading The Handmaid's Tale. He is my friend. My platonic brother. He stays with me when I am lonely. He stays with me when he is lonely. And we talk.

We dance. We eat. We cook for each other. And we take walks.

We ask questions and make observations. About each other.

And sometimes they are ... not what we want to hear.

I don't know where to go to write anymore. To process life’s griefs and sorrows. The big ones that stop my breathing, and send me to bed with my clothes on, and the little ones that I just want to vent about. I took this platform class that has streamlined my blogs and website to make it more "professional," but then ... I don't have anywhere else to write write. Write write my heart. But maybe. Maybe maybe I should just write write anyway. Platform be damned. There is something, after all, to be said about writing as you are -- showing up on the page -- and whosoever gels with the message will stay to read. Will feel the resonance. Will soak up my words, like rain, and plant their own seeds because of what I've said. That's who I want reading my stuff anyway.

The other ones -- the ones that take umbrage with my phrases, my pictures of story -- those ones, they can just not read. They can put the book down. They can click away. They can unfriend me. Not with any haste or malice. Just. Because they don't find what I say interesting. It doesn't make them bleed or cry or say Yes. And that's ok. I am not writing for those people.

I've been dancing lately. Unpeeling myself and looking inside. Sometimes I'm amazed at the beauty, other times I'm startled at the dishonesty and ignorance. The blindness. The self-defeating practices.

Even now I'm struggling. Struggling to write these few words, because I've been blocked again. Blocked by my own arrogance. My own denial. My own ... unhealthy practices. Who knew that not eating enough calories, or subsisting on restaurant food and instant oatmeal, or not going to bed by 10pm could interfere with my writing?

But there it is.

So I'm forcing it through.

Sucking the stories and truths out of my bone marrow to look at them.

Thinking.

Trying not to think.

Feeling.

Trying not to feel.

And then realizing I have to.

One of the things my brotherfriend and I talked about tonight had to do with letting go of static ways of being, honoring the grieving process – no matter what it’s about, and then looking at ways to bring yourself back to wholeness. He says that I can't grow with fear stopping me every time I open up a little bit. But isn't fear a natural reaction to change? Isn't fear a necessary emotion during transition? One that helps you slow down your impulse to sprint through the grieving process? Because that's my inclination. Hurry up and grieve. And in doing so I would miss the lessons and gratitude my life situations have gifted me. I want to meander, not sprint. Even as my fear is slightly paralyzing, isn't that better than the alternative?

Ultimately I know that the fear will subside with time, and I will begin to move again. Look at the light again. Foster hope again. And actually, I think that will happen probably sooner than I think, but the safety of fear and paralysis is comforting.

If even a little annoying.

And then. And then then. Maybe after I have the courage to leave the sameness and routine of fear – I can write write again. Platform be damned.

What motivates you?

Someone asked me recently why I wrote. Or rather, what *motivated* me to write.

This was my answer:

"Creative People Feel."

I have writer's block. But not the regular kind. It's self-induced ... sort-of.

I was looking through some old content on this blog and recognized a certain open-ness that doesn't seem to exist on here anymore. And then I went to Facebook, and the same is true there, too. I'm not posting in either place. Or, I am, but in a vanilla sanitized way. Not too emotional. Not too raw. Not too edgy. Not too ... real.

The Ghosts of Unwritten Blog Posts

Makes you wonder
what happens on Thursdays at 11am.
You know?

I woke up in the middle of the night last night and thought of all the blog posts that have been rolling around in my head lately -- unwritten.

First there was the one about my vacation and love and what it's been like in long-distance relationship realm. Then there was the one about abortion and how single parenthood could affect someone's stance on that issue. And then that blog post segued nicely into the one on religion and what last vestiges of power and guilt organized religion still hold over me. Also how my cyber-friends in Portland can make classy barbs at religion -- during Halloween no less -- and still have a following.

Then there was the post on Ikea and secrets.
One on assimilation, and becoming someone else -- how hard it is to stay authentic, especially in relationships.

One on moving yet again.

One on the pros and cons of having a baby later in life. Or more specifically do I want to have another baby. Because being newly divorced means you can ask yourself these questions now.

There was another post I thought about on self-improvement, living in line with your principles, and saying sorry when it's the right thing to do.

But dammit.

I had a conversation with a friend that turned that post on its ear.

Another blog post was going to be about my favorite sweater. The one I love and looks great on me -- like it was made for me -- painted on. With a hood and cool buttons. My Faerieworlds sweater.

But.

How every time I wear it, I think of my ex-boyfriend.

And that's crummy. Because it's coming on winter now and I'll be wanting to wear it all the time. The only thing I can think to do is ... wear it. And hopefully new memories will come from that.

And then there's the post on my son and counseling: more invisible special needs, and my fears surrounding those.

And my fears surrounding the future. Everyone has those fears. That would make a good blog post, too.





But not in the middle of the night.

Permission to Unleash -- a memoir review

This book cover has a boob on it.
How could I miss a BOOB on my book?
I looked again, and the publisher had added a 'sleeve' tacked on to cover the nudity!
I immediately ripped it off and trashed it.
I liked the boob.
It's a nice boob.

I can't help it.
I'm not finished with this book, but I have to talk about it anyway.



I love this book because ... she writes like I think. Short, staccato sentences. Verbs. Blurting. Metaphors bleeding.

"Gonna Learn to Bend"

What came first? The melancholy nostalgia in-between ache, or the music of Amber Darland on a No Shame Eugene Theatre night amongst friends I used to have. Ones that smile and hug me when they see me tonight, but whom I've lost touch with because of my divorce.

With heart beating, my fingertips rubbing against themselves, I see hijab. I see art. I hear "I Am." I hear whispers and quiet footfalls and the warm chords of acoustical guitar. My favorite.

Struggling not to cry, I applaud instead.

I feel stupid in the skirt and tights I've worn tonight, and wish instead I could hide in jeans and the wool cap my friend crocheted for me.

No hiding for me tonight though -- I'm performing. Reading a monologue. Something different. Jump into the fire, no toes in the water.

Coming Back Into Myself

I've made myself a cup of tea and I'm sitting down for an hour before needing to go to work. I'm working a double shift today, so we'll see how my energy levels go for the rest of the day.

Right now I'm feeling fairly upbeat. I've been battling some depression this week, so a respite now and again is nice.

I need to re-evaluate what brings me back to me. When I'm feeling discouraged or emotionally under the weather, what can I do to nurture myself?

Soooo Many Books To Read

A surprising, or not so surprising, by-product of attending writers conferences, is the books you end up buying that you weren't planning on. I came home with four more (not counting the review copy of Tasting Rain that was waiting in the mail box upon my return) books than I left with.

I justified them all.

Duh.

First of all, The Chronology of Water was mandatory because it's a memoir. And I write memoir, so I need to read memoir for research purposes. (See how I justified that?) Lydia Yudnavitch's writing is brilliant. Lyrical. Random. Poetic. Like how I like to write. Picked at random: page 115 shares when she met Ken Kesey the first time:

writing

I dream about writing.
When I'm sleeping.
When I wake, in that dreamy half-sleep,
I think of the things I'm going to write about -- the things I have to say, to the world, to my self, to my friends.

To my not friends.

To the friends I haven't met yet.

I don't think I have any enemies, but if I do, then to them, too.

But when I fully awake and settle into the computer ... or my journal ... other "things" get in the way. Other emotions that block my writing behind a barrier of 'what ifs' and the bricks of 'you're not good enoughs.'