I am amazed at how long it has been since my last post. And unfortunately, I am sad to say I return, not because I have been called to, but because I have been told to. Thankfully so. So many times I find that this life-- one built on the pursuit of art and craft and literary indulgence-- is one that so often falls short of intentions. Perhaps that is my fault. I am sure it is. But here we are just the same and I would like to think that the reason I have brought myself back to this blog is not a matter of importance. I would like to believe the simple fact that I have sat down and written something is the key point.
I am scared. Doing this frightens me beyond justifiably reason, but it also excites me to my core. How wonderful! How incredibly awesome it is to take a leap and truly have no idea, no control over where you land. Sure I have a plan, a general direction I would like to go, but who the hell knows if any of that will come to be? Maybe everything I ever wished as I blew out my rainbow birthday candles comes true. Maybe any skill I have as a writer is an imagining of my overzealous and often wandering mind. Maybe...
I have let go of forcing it. I release it to fate or the heavens or God or whatever you want to call it. Its all the same anyway.
It feels good to be back here again. I like this: creating, designing, talking to myself or some infinite void or maybe even someone out there who stumbled upon this by accident. Either way it is good...really good. It seems that taking some time away has given me a chance to see this from a different angle, for all the things I want it to be. I have some new ideas. I may even adventure out and redesign the whole thing. Who knows? The only thing that is certain is that I won't wait so long before coming back here again.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Sunday, May 16, 2010
For two beautiful weeks I left my life of schedules, deadlines, family ties, and responsibilities behind. As I boarded the plane to Hawaii I allowed myself to disconnect from it all. No bills, babysitters, homework, or blinding computer screens. I wasn't even allowed to think about it. Finally, I was able to open myself up to my surroundings and connect to them in a way that always seemed impossible before. The world around me was always cloudy at best. An after thought in my daily rituals and to-do lists. But suddenly, I was part of it. My senses were more acute; I saw things by way of their color, smell, texture. By letting go of trying to find creativity, I found myself just being creative. I have since returned home and am trying to settle back into the routine I held before. It is unsettling, really. Responsibilities, deadlines, and a fear of blank pages may never go away. But one thing I know for certain is that I want to keep that connection forever. We spend so much time alone or disconnected from the world. I realize more than ever, that if my goal is create a world of believability, wonder, and excitement I have to see that in my own surroundings. You are never going to find your creativity. It isn't lost. You just have to allow it to be. You have to push all the other stuff away and connect to the most basic, natural parts of the world. In between laundry and 500 words by Friday, of course.
Photo by Maisie Duncan
Friday, March 19, 2010
Thursday, March 18, 2010
How to Find Inspiration at Your Fingertips
I really do mean at your fingertips. I am talking about pictures. Practicing photography (and i mean practicing-I am definantly still at hobby try-out level here) is one of my favorite things to do. What I love about it so much is that it forces you to look at the world in a more discerning way. Suddenly you start noticing the contrast of light on angles, the back lit curls of someone's hair, the immense beauty in something so simple as a rock or a tree. What's even more thrilling is seeing the developed photo and feeling its story captured in that moment.
Pictures are used in writing prompts often. I bought a wonderful book, The Pocket Muse by Monica Wood, that is filled with pictures as prompts. I have had it for several years and it remains my go to back up in my frequent blank page stare downs.
The idea came up of using my love of taking pictures to find a deeper connection to my actual surroundings. All in the hopes of creating inspiration versus waiting for it. This was actually my mom's idea. I adore her for it, but kick myself for not thinking of this before.
Starting today I will be posting some of my photographs. Images of my world in which I find unexpected beauty, curiosities, or histories waiting to be told.
What ideas or questions do these pictures bring up in you? Use these as inspiration for your own writing. Or better yet, go grab a camera and capture your own! Have fun with this.
These photos are my own and I would appreciate requests before they are shared outside of this blog. Thanks!
Pictures are used in writing prompts often. I bought a wonderful book, The Pocket Muse by Monica Wood, that is filled with pictures as prompts. I have had it for several years and it remains my go to back up in my frequent blank page stare downs.
The idea came up of using my love of taking pictures to find a deeper connection to my actual surroundings. All in the hopes of creating inspiration versus waiting for it. This was actually my mom's idea. I adore her for it, but kick myself for not thinking of this before.
Starting today I will be posting some of my photographs. Images of my world in which I find unexpected beauty, curiosities, or histories waiting to be told.
What ideas or questions do these pictures bring up in you? Use these as inspiration for your own writing. Or better yet, go grab a camera and capture your own! Have fun with this.
These photos are my own and I would appreciate requests before they are shared outside of this blog. Thanks!
Photo by Maisie Duncan
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Riding the Short Bus to the World of Social Media
I’m not trying to create the greatest blog the internet has ever seen. I am just a writer trying to do what she loves and share the experience with others who are in the same boat: writers taking the leap from passion to career. Now, I have to create a presence, get known before I get published, gain followers, loyal readers, friends in the publishing industry, blogosphere, tweet and facebook world. Oh, and don’t forget the clips you need to get the jobs so you can get the clips you want. Okay...Breathe... I can do this....
This is my life now. I am in it for what I think are all the right reasons. So why does it seem like those reasons are supposed to be taking a back seat to all the hoopla I am supposed to be making about myself? And all that writing I am supposed to be doing whilst creating this vital platform…well let’s just say that it’s falling farther and farther down the list. Like the ‘do the dirty dishes’ part of the list. When I have managed to gain 30 minutes to write uninterrupted- which is not happening right now, by the way—I consider myself lucky. Now those 30 minutes are being scrounged out of seemingly nowhere.
The point here is just to comment on staying focused. Keep the priorities aligned with our desired outcome. If I had a blog rated in the top 10 on TopMomBlogger that would be the cherry on top! But I am trying to remind myself that it is not my initial goal here. It is so easy to get lost in this endless world of life stories, opinions, lessons, and advice. It is addictive. It’s downright mesmerizing! At any one time I have 8 to 10 tabs open on my server just clicking from one world to the next in a race against my short attention span.
STOP. FOCUS. FOCUS. FOCUS.
And I thought all I was going to have to worry about was just being a terrible writer. It can all be very overwhelming sometimes. But thanks to all of the other bloggers, tweeters, facebookers, and podcasters out there, at least I feel I am in good company.
This is my life now. I am in it for what I think are all the right reasons. So why does it seem like those reasons are supposed to be taking a back seat to all the hoopla I am supposed to be making about myself? And all that writing I am supposed to be doing whilst creating this vital platform…well let’s just say that it’s falling farther and farther down the list. Like the ‘do the dirty dishes’ part of the list. When I have managed to gain 30 minutes to write uninterrupted- which is not happening right now, by the way—I consider myself lucky. Now those 30 minutes are being scrounged out of seemingly nowhere.
The point here is just to comment on staying focused. Keep the priorities aligned with our desired outcome. If I had a blog rated in the top 10 on TopMomBlogger that would be the cherry on top! But I am trying to remind myself that it is not my initial goal here. It is so easy to get lost in this endless world of life stories, opinions, lessons, and advice. It is addictive. It’s downright mesmerizing! At any one time I have 8 to 10 tabs open on my server just clicking from one world to the next in a race against my short attention span.
STOP. FOCUS. FOCUS. FOCUS.
And I thought all I was going to have to worry about was just being a terrible writer. It can all be very overwhelming sometimes. But thanks to all of the other bloggers, tweeters, facebookers, and podcasters out there, at least I feel I am in good company.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Procrastination Station
I did laundry instead of writing this evening. As I was shoveling towels into the water basin and scrubbing out chocolate stains, I couldn’t help but note that I was wasting my time. Sure, laundry needs to be done. It did not, however, need to be done that very second. There was no laundry emergency. There was no underlying denial that I was stalling, either. I was completely honest about the fact that I was doing chores simply to avoid sitting at my desk. That got me wondering about the things we chose to procrastinate on.
When the paths I chose to follow are habitually walked with intention, even if I end up clawing and clamoring to the end, why this random stray? If I know that the challenge is going to throw me out of my comfort zone, be painful, uncertain, or I am told I won’t be able to do it I am all the more for it. Yet when it comes to the one true passion I have held nearly my entire life, I get up and do the laundry.
Four loads later, I finally made it back my desk. Whites white and brights bright, I have permission to relax. The kids are in bed, the house is clean, and the dishes are done. I am all out diversions.
How do you stall when it’s time to write?
When the paths I chose to follow are habitually walked with intention, even if I end up clawing and clamoring to the end, why this random stray? If I know that the challenge is going to throw me out of my comfort zone, be painful, uncertain, or I am told I won’t be able to do it I am all the more for it. Yet when it comes to the one true passion I have held nearly my entire life, I get up and do the laundry.
Four loads later, I finally made it back my desk. Whites white and brights bright, I have permission to relax. The kids are in bed, the house is clean, and the dishes are done. I am all out diversions.
How do you stall when it’s time to write?
Friday, March 12, 2010
Hemingway, Starbucks, and Plastic Clowns
I have been writing as long as I can remember. It always held a special part of me; the spirit of my secret world. That little spark catching my attention, nudging me to the seclusion of my room. There I would write until my arm cramped from the vigorous whirl of chicken scratches only I could decipher. I was then, and still am an advocate for the old fashioned pen and pad. In between these childhood quests of creation, I would often imagine what my life as an adult writer would be like.
I would be wildly successful of course, but still maintain my delicate insecurities we creative types are supposed to harbor. I imagined sitting by a glowing fire, drinking wine and dining on fascinating conversation of all things essential to the modern creative mind with other artists du jour.
I would envision vacations on the east coast, taking in the salty breezes of ocean air. Closing my eyes, the scent of water would fill my swelling nostrils as I breathed it in deep. I thought about how I would bask in the glow of the sun and the warmth of my latest rave review, while I wrote my anticipated follow-up novel and dug my toes in the sand.
I pictured snuggling into a corner of a local coffee shop during the winter months. Nestling amongst a dozen other aspiring writers. I would write fueled by inspiration and too much coffee. We diligent coffee house writers, pouring our jittery little souls into our manuscripts, with the screams of a milk steamer as our background music. Of course I was picturing 1950’s Paris café, not so much Starbucks circa 2010.
I admit these fantasies are all a bit cliché. But this was what I thought the leisurely life of a great American author was like. Every picture I had ever seen of Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Plath and more only seemed to emulate this. It was lovely.
Fast forward a few, uh hem, years and well….I don’t like wine, live nowhere near a beach, and the background music in my local coffee shop is excessively loud cell phone conversations instead of the rhythmic click clack of keyboard keys. And in most cases the coffee I rely on is cold before I manage to get halfway through it.
I spend weeks working in five minute spurts in between fights over cowboy hats, diaper changes, meals, and play dates. The prose I toil over is read aloud to an unresponsive wall covered in Crayola stick figures instead of contemporary art. I never gain the confidence of that beach dwelling writer I envisioned. My opinions of the world and its affairs fall onto the tiny ears of my 3 year old. She listens intently, her blue eyes wide and head shaking ‘yes’. But just as I start to think I am instilling some impression of smart, opinionated womanhood onto my precious little girl, she usually follows with something along the lines of, “Mommy, I got boogies.”
Instead of swanky coffee houses I have fast-food playrooms. That’s okay. It’s the writing that feeds my soul. Not the location or circumstance. I have learned the value of like-minded friends. That is one thing a writer must have. Otherwise it can be lonely, and suddenly, life a lá Hemingway doesn’t sound so glamorous anymore.
The important thing is that we make time to write. I emphasize the word make, because if we are always trying to find time to write, we will be on the hunt forever. I used to look for time to write, like I was going to find it hiding under the bed or in the closet. There isn’t any more stashed away, waiting for us to count to 10 and start looking. Whether it’s on the commute to work, sitting on the toilette while the kids take a bath, or next to a life size plastic clown surrounded by the echo of a dozen screaming banshees, er uh, children…it doesn’t matter. It’s not exactly the elegant lifestyle I imagined I would be living by now. That’s okay, and then sometimes it’s not. I know I will get there eventually. The key is to never lose site of the art, the love of the craft. I have to believe I AM the writer, to DO the writing, to HAVE the life of a writer I imagined. Even if that means my biggest fans still pee their pants.
I would be wildly successful of course, but still maintain my delicate insecurities we creative types are supposed to harbor. I imagined sitting by a glowing fire, drinking wine and dining on fascinating conversation of all things essential to the modern creative mind with other artists du jour.
I would envision vacations on the east coast, taking in the salty breezes of ocean air. Closing my eyes, the scent of water would fill my swelling nostrils as I breathed it in deep. I thought about how I would bask in the glow of the sun and the warmth of my latest rave review, while I wrote my anticipated follow-up novel and dug my toes in the sand.
I pictured snuggling into a corner of a local coffee shop during the winter months. Nestling amongst a dozen other aspiring writers. I would write fueled by inspiration and too much coffee. We diligent coffee house writers, pouring our jittery little souls into our manuscripts, with the screams of a milk steamer as our background music. Of course I was picturing 1950’s Paris café, not so much Starbucks circa 2010.
I admit these fantasies are all a bit cliché. But this was what I thought the leisurely life of a great American author was like. Every picture I had ever seen of Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Plath and more only seemed to emulate this. It was lovely.
Fast forward a few, uh hem, years and well….I don’t like wine, live nowhere near a beach, and the background music in my local coffee shop is excessively loud cell phone conversations instead of the rhythmic click clack of keyboard keys. And in most cases the coffee I rely on is cold before I manage to get halfway through it.
I spend weeks working in five minute spurts in between fights over cowboy hats, diaper changes, meals, and play dates. The prose I toil over is read aloud to an unresponsive wall covered in Crayola stick figures instead of contemporary art. I never gain the confidence of that beach dwelling writer I envisioned. My opinions of the world and its affairs fall onto the tiny ears of my 3 year old. She listens intently, her blue eyes wide and head shaking ‘yes’. But just as I start to think I am instilling some impression of smart, opinionated womanhood onto my precious little girl, she usually follows with something along the lines of, “Mommy, I got boogies.”
Instead of swanky coffee houses I have fast-food playrooms. That’s okay. It’s the writing that feeds my soul. Not the location or circumstance. I have learned the value of like-minded friends. That is one thing a writer must have. Otherwise it can be lonely, and suddenly, life a lá Hemingway doesn’t sound so glamorous anymore.
The important thing is that we make time to write. I emphasize the word make, because if we are always trying to find time to write, we will be on the hunt forever. I used to look for time to write, like I was going to find it hiding under the bed or in the closet. There isn’t any more stashed away, waiting for us to count to 10 and start looking. Whether it’s on the commute to work, sitting on the toilette while the kids take a bath, or next to a life size plastic clown surrounded by the echo of a dozen screaming banshees, er uh, children…it doesn’t matter. It’s not exactly the elegant lifestyle I imagined I would be living by now. That’s okay, and then sometimes it’s not. I know I will get there eventually. The key is to never lose site of the art, the love of the craft. I have to believe I AM the writer, to DO the writing, to HAVE the life of a writer I imagined. Even if that means my biggest fans still pee their pants.
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