As anticipated, this week has been incredibly busy. Not only am I juggling two short stories, getting started on some heavy edits for the June edition of eMuse and novel edits for a client, I also had to work all week and save my own personal universe from crumbling in upon itself. There's been a lot going on, needless to say, but despite the pressure, I feel resilient and strong. I've had a very helpful and awesome support system all along. It's been amazing. Thanks friends. :) You all rock.
The weather is finally shifting, and the disappearance of the cold, damp of winter/spring has gone at last. This has completely altered my physical health in a way that confirmed what I believed all along... the death-grip on my lungs all winter was some kind of indoor-allergy. I think it's something in this house. That's insane. When your house becomes your physical enemy and tries to drive you out with disease... hmm, I smell a short story.
With so much to do, and so little time, I'm off to the chocolate factory for a full tour... not really. I'm actually just going to hop in the shower, drop the squeenager off at the mall and sit outdoors with an iced coffee to do some editing. I may check back in later tonight after the wee one is asleep. (I'm keeping my four year old niece over night, YAY!)
I'll leave you with this morning's waking poem:
Dawdling Sun
Empty morning,
too much bed.
Wrapped in cold warmth
and the last fragments
of a quiet dream
still linger.
It's five.
The sun dawdles,
but soon
it will claw
away the last
remnants of
this darkness.
©2009 J. Hudock
Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts
25 April, 2009
15 April, 2009
"Call of the Selkie"--An Excerpt
Maybe it's my Scottish and Irish ancestry, but I have always been enamored by the idea of the selkie. While many people don't even seem to know what a selkie is, once you hear the typical story, you'll gasp and say, "I know that story..." Generally it features a beautiful young woman bathing naked in the sea. A young man comes up on her and finds an empty sealskin on the beach. He takes the skin and hides it from her, forbidding her to return to her home and her kin in the sea. Because she knows that he has that skin, she marries him, has children with him and plays the role of dutiful wife, until one day she finds his hiding place. Without a word to her own flesh and blood, she takes it in her arms and walks off into the sea, looking back only once with conflicting heart and lament before she disappears forever.
I wrote several stories about selkies, and here is an excerpt from one that I had published a couple of years ago when we were first getting eMuse off the ground. If you enjoy the story, I will leave a link at the end, so you can go and read it in its entirety.
"Call of the Selkie"
Despite living in the middle of farm country Pennsylvania, all of my father’s paintings were of the sea in its many guises. Each painting was a tiny piece of him that he’d left behind, the only goodbye note before he mysteriously disappeared that afternoon while I was at school. Every night after he left I sneaked into his studio, stood in the half-dark of the setting sun and tried to decipher the messages he’d left me. Orange slices of sunset slanted through the blinds behind me as I watched the raging sea roil inside the canvas. Alive and overwhelmingly real, in the silence I could hear the distant call of gulls as the waves smashed like fists upon the shore.
Eventually my mother put a lock on the door and gave me a stern lecture about putting the past behind us. She did it just to punish me. She was jealous that the paintings spoke to me, but more afraid that I might discover some hint about where he’d gone. Maybe she worried that I would follow and forget her just like he did. She hid the key so well that entry was impossible. I didn’t cry, or fight her though I needed to. I wanted to scream and tear the smug look from her face, but instead I acted like I didn’t care. She took away from me the last physical connection I had to my father, and for that I could never forgive her.
It wasn’t long after she locked the door that I began to dream myself inside the paintings. Drifting from wave to wave, surrounded by a host of sleek, grey seals, whose joyful song soared high above the waves. Around and around the seals swam in an ancient spiral dance, and then my father appeared from the edge of the circle, young again, younger than I’d ever seen him even in photographs, but his eyes always gave him away. He smiled, and it was a real smile.
“It’s time to come home,” he said.
He held out his hand, and I grasped his fingers, but as he disappeared beneath the water, the waves pushed me upward every time I tried to follow. I couldn’t follow where he went, as though the sea itself kept spitting me out. One by one the seals all disappeared and darkness drew the sun away. Alone, buoyant, wave over wave of salt musk and hundreds of miles between me and dry land, I laid back and floated beneath the endless stars while moonlight rippled silver sheets over my ocean bed.
"Call of the Selkie"
Have a great night everyone, and don't forget, tomorrow is Thankful Thursday! I'm already planning a great blog full of awesome people I can't wait to share with you.
I wrote several stories about selkies, and here is an excerpt from one that I had published a couple of years ago when we were first getting eMuse off the ground. If you enjoy the story, I will leave a link at the end, so you can go and read it in its entirety.
"Call of the Selkie"
Despite living in the middle of farm country Pennsylvania, all of my father’s paintings were of the sea in its many guises. Each painting was a tiny piece of him that he’d left behind, the only goodbye note before he mysteriously disappeared that afternoon while I was at school. Every night after he left I sneaked into his studio, stood in the half-dark of the setting sun and tried to decipher the messages he’d left me. Orange slices of sunset slanted through the blinds behind me as I watched the raging sea roil inside the canvas. Alive and overwhelmingly real, in the silence I could hear the distant call of gulls as the waves smashed like fists upon the shore.
Eventually my mother put a lock on the door and gave me a stern lecture about putting the past behind us. She did it just to punish me. She was jealous that the paintings spoke to me, but more afraid that I might discover some hint about where he’d gone. Maybe she worried that I would follow and forget her just like he did. She hid the key so well that entry was impossible. I didn’t cry, or fight her though I needed to. I wanted to scream and tear the smug look from her face, but instead I acted like I didn’t care. She took away from me the last physical connection I had to my father, and for that I could never forgive her.
It wasn’t long after she locked the door that I began to dream myself inside the paintings. Drifting from wave to wave, surrounded by a host of sleek, grey seals, whose joyful song soared high above the waves. Around and around the seals swam in an ancient spiral dance, and then my father appeared from the edge of the circle, young again, younger than I’d ever seen him even in photographs, but his eyes always gave him away. He smiled, and it was a real smile.
“It’s time to come home,” he said.
He held out his hand, and I grasped his fingers, but as he disappeared beneath the water, the waves pushed me upward every time I tried to follow. I couldn’t follow where he went, as though the sea itself kept spitting me out. One by one the seals all disappeared and darkness drew the sun away. Alone, buoyant, wave over wave of salt musk and hundreds of miles between me and dry land, I laid back and floated beneath the endless stars while moonlight rippled silver sheets over my ocean bed.
"Call of the Selkie"
Have a great night everyone, and don't forget, tomorrow is Thankful Thursday! I'm already planning a great blog full of awesome people I can't wait to share with you.
14 April, 2009
Changes Brewing on the Wind
Well, after all of my whining about the difficult time I had working on my short story last week, I am proud to say that Sunday I finished draft two. I sent it off to a couple of friends I workshop with, and this afternoon I made third draft edits. I then folded it into a cyber envelope stamped TEAM AWESOME and sent it off to the secret project that requested the story to begin with.
Aside from feeling incredibly accomplished today, I was also quite flattered when my friend and colleague, Steve, told me that the story reminded him of Edgar Allan Poe. That is probably the most amazing compliment I have ever gotten as a writer. Thank you, Steve.
I am now working on a group of short stories for a concept I'd like to propose, but the project is very secret, so I can't share details at this time. I have one story finished, and a second one about 1/4 of the way done. I hope to have the first draft of that story finished before Friday. Wish me luck.
All of this has left me feeling incredibly good. Big changes are coming, and I'm excited about them. I leave you with this poem, and wishes for a wonderful wednesday!
Brewing On the Wind
Tangled clouds like webs of dust
blown from hiding under the bed
and the dragon's open mouth
smokey teeth glisten
preparing to chomp down
on the light of the moon.
Hallowed Mother, suffocate
beneath speeding
atmospheric veil.
There are changes brewing
on the wind--
I can smell them.
© 2009 J. Hudock
Aside from feeling incredibly accomplished today, I was also quite flattered when my friend and colleague, Steve, told me that the story reminded him of Edgar Allan Poe. That is probably the most amazing compliment I have ever gotten as a writer. Thank you, Steve.
I am now working on a group of short stories for a concept I'd like to propose, but the project is very secret, so I can't share details at this time. I have one story finished, and a second one about 1/4 of the way done. I hope to have the first draft of that story finished before Friday. Wish me luck.
All of this has left me feeling incredibly good. Big changes are coming, and I'm excited about them. I leave you with this poem, and wishes for a wonderful wednesday!
Brewing On the Wind
Tangled clouds like webs of dust
blown from hiding under the bed
and the dragon's open mouth
smokey teeth glisten
preparing to chomp down
on the light of the moon.
Hallowed Mother, suffocate
beneath speeding
atmospheric veil.
There are changes brewing
on the wind--
I can smell them.
© 2009 J. Hudock
07 April, 2009
Because it's Tuesday
I'm happy to say that I haven't been blogging as much frequently because I've actually been writing. That's always a positive thing. Right after finishing the draft on my short story Sunday, I actually started another short story. I've also been writing a lot of poetry, some of which I share here with you.
Whole
In the lion's jaws
this lamb lies still
bent neck, bleeding
all fear receding
as he lopes off
away from the pride
finding some dark
secluded place to hide
where he can lap at her wounds
until saliva mends the skin
and she is whole again.
© 2009 J. Hudock
The Sea
Waves rush in against the cliffs:
that is the crushing breathlessness of you.
Three gulls circle overhead, little spies
that carry pieces of me away in their cries.
I am nothing but the spray of rain on stone,
an essence of color, refracted light.
Breathe in all the mist that is left of me,
and carry me back out with you to sea.
© 2009 J. Hudock
Here's hoping your Wednesday is bliss.
Whole
In the lion's jaws
this lamb lies still
bent neck, bleeding
all fear receding
as he lopes off
away from the pride
finding some dark
secluded place to hide
where he can lap at her wounds
until saliva mends the skin
and she is whole again.
© 2009 J. Hudock
The Sea
Waves rush in against the cliffs:
that is the crushing breathlessness of you.
Three gulls circle overhead, little spies
that carry pieces of me away in their cries.
I am nothing but the spray of rain on stone,
an essence of color, refracted light.
Breathe in all the mist that is left of me,
and carry me back out with you to sea.
© 2009 J. Hudock
Here's hoping your Wednesday is bliss.
05 April, 2009
It Has Been Done
So today I spent the majority of my day working on finishing up the first draft of a short story I started about three weeks ago. I finished the draft about two and a half hours ago, and as I wrapped it up, I felt slightly unhappy with how it turned it out.
I already gave myself a talking to while on the treadmill. First of all, it's a first draft, which means nothing is set in stone. It's not like I'm handing it over as is (cringes at the thought). I'm letting it rest for a couple days, and plan to pick it back up Wednesday or Thursday to read it over and see how it can be polished and improved.
In the meantime, I've had an idea brewing for a couple of days for a new zombie story, and while I was on the treadmill tonight it clarified itself. So I'm gathering some research before bed and getting to know my new characters.
Overall, I feel like I had a productive weekend. Last weekend I really did not get a lot of writing done at all, and I felt the drain of it during the week. Especially considering how much I had accomplished the two weekends before that. I was on a roll there for awhile, completing a short story or memoir each week, polishing it up and workshopping it, then sending it out. I hope to get back into that routine, where I'm at least sending out one thing each week.
I'm off to get this new piece started, then a little reading, then bed. Oh, and if you're wondering why I have the glorious devil from "Legend" as my picture today, it's because the story I finished today featured that fiery fiend, the prince of darkness.
P.S. I wanted to clarify that the story I was talking about in yesterday's blog was, in fact, a short story, and not a novel, for all you wonderful folks who commented on yesterday's blog. It would absolutely take me way longer than 3 weeks to write a novel... unless it was during NaNoWriMo and I was on a roll. :)
I already gave myself a talking to while on the treadmill. First of all, it's a first draft, which means nothing is set in stone. It's not like I'm handing it over as is (cringes at the thought). I'm letting it rest for a couple days, and plan to pick it back up Wednesday or Thursday to read it over and see how it can be polished and improved.
In the meantime, I've had an idea brewing for a couple of days for a new zombie story, and while I was on the treadmill tonight it clarified itself. So I'm gathering some research before bed and getting to know my new characters.
Overall, I feel like I had a productive weekend. Last weekend I really did not get a lot of writing done at all, and I felt the drain of it during the week. Especially considering how much I had accomplished the two weekends before that. I was on a roll there for awhile, completing a short story or memoir each week, polishing it up and workshopping it, then sending it out. I hope to get back into that routine, where I'm at least sending out one thing each week.
I'm off to get this new piece started, then a little reading, then bed. Oh, and if you're wondering why I have the glorious devil from "Legend" as my picture today, it's because the story I finished today featured that fiery fiend, the prince of darkness.
P.S. I wanted to clarify that the story I was talking about in yesterday's blog was, in fact, a short story, and not a novel, for all you wonderful folks who commented on yesterday's blog. It would absolutely take me way longer than 3 weeks to write a novel... unless it was during NaNoWriMo and I was on a roll. :)
04 April, 2009
The First Draft
The first draft of a story is always the hardest for me. It doesn't matter if I finish it with the worst ending in the world, once it's finished there is a confidence there that allows me to go back and rewrite and polish until my heart's content, even stripping out entire sections and adding in new ones.
For some reason, the story I am writing right now has been really struggling against me. I think most days I'm exhausted from writing for work, that when it's time to sit down and write for real, I'm just not in the mood. I have been writing every day, though, even if it's just 200 or so words. Today, I managed about 1100 words and I'm nearing the turning point in the story. Tomorrow, I plan to finish this first draft so I can sit on it for a few days, then come back and start the editing process.
The funny thing is how long it takes to get that first draft out. I have been working on this story for about 3 weeks. I'm not sure if it's because I have higher expectation or a little bit of outside pressure, but despite the very clear outline of the story I mapped out in my head before writing, it has been like pulling teeth to get it out.
It's coming though. I'm excited. I can't wait until this first draft is done. I have passed up on a couple other ideas, writing them down for safe keeping, just because I wanted to commit myself to finishing this project before I moved on. I will be grateful when I'm done.
Now, I'm off to bed with a handful of Horror Fest to spur on nightmares. I will be back tomorrow, the proud author of another completed first draft.
For some reason, the story I am writing right now has been really struggling against me. I think most days I'm exhausted from writing for work, that when it's time to sit down and write for real, I'm just not in the mood. I have been writing every day, though, even if it's just 200 or so words. Today, I managed about 1100 words and I'm nearing the turning point in the story. Tomorrow, I plan to finish this first draft so I can sit on it for a few days, then come back and start the editing process.
The funny thing is how long it takes to get that first draft out. I have been working on this story for about 3 weeks. I'm not sure if it's because I have higher expectation or a little bit of outside pressure, but despite the very clear outline of the story I mapped out in my head before writing, it has been like pulling teeth to get it out.
It's coming though. I'm excited. I can't wait until this first draft is done. I have passed up on a couple other ideas, writing them down for safe keeping, just because I wanted to commit myself to finishing this project before I moved on. I will be grateful when I'm done.
Now, I'm off to bed with a handful of Horror Fest to spur on nightmares. I will be back tomorrow, the proud author of another completed first draft.
02 April, 2009
The Great Communication Fail...
A couple of weeks back, I read about the twitter project, #queryfail on someone else's blog. Intrigued, since I presently don't deal with an agent but had hoped to one day, I read all about it. Needless to say, I was a little disgusted by the attitude around it, more than I was by the overall idea behind it. The woman who started it *rubbed her hands with glee* which made the whole thing sound like a witch hunt, more than an exercise designed to show writers the types of mistakes that are likely to not only make agents laugh at you, but toss your query right into file thirteen.
A lot of writers were outraged by the idea. #queryfail was cruel, many said. Even if it was done anonymously, there was still the potential for some poor author to log in and see a mockery of their own query. Anonymous or no, the humiliation of rejection is often enough to put some writers off of submitting their work. Seeing their query get torn apart right there in front of thousands of Tweeters could do some damage.
So in response, #agentfail was set up to give writers a chance to talk back and address some of the problems authors have with agents. In an anonymous forum, maybe that would be better, because though authors can pick and choose the agents they deal with using a certain degree of choosiness, agents tend to hold all the cards in the writer/agent relationship. Many writers don't want to step on proverbial toes, get caught up in some web that is going to hold them back from even getting representation.
I think the whole thing is a little sad. I thought about starting a twitter movement called #youallfail. Why? Because more and more often, it seems that people are only happy when they are making other people miserable. The whole you stepped on me, I'll break your arm mentality is so high school, and I really did believe (probably foolishly,) for a long time that adults were different; the knew how to behave and get along with each other in ways kids didn't understand. Talk about naivete.
I write because it's my passion. It is all I have ever wanted to do with my life. I don't think about things like making agents and editors giggle when I write a query letter, I think about taking the next step in my career. I think about how it takes guts to slap your soul down on a three hundred and twenty page manuscript and then put it out there to be torn apart. Then I find myself thinking that it's no wonder there are so many writers publishing and podcasting their own books. The traditional medium has been such a joke for years that soon the snooty and persnickety may find themselves out of jobs. They may tune in one morning to check the book ratings and find a manuscript they took a dump on once is now a #1 best seller on the NY Times.
It doesn't matter if you're an agent, an editor or a writer. At times in my life I have been both on the writers end and the editorial end. I've had manuscripts fly across my desk with the craziest cover letters, and have seen so many writers who didn't even know there were rules, but I took a look at their manuscript anyway. There were times I was incredibly glad I did, because if I judged every manuscript that happened across my desk, before reading it mind you, on the cover letter or query that accompanied it, I'd probably pass up the opportunity to read and publish quite a few amazing stories.
The same type of garbage goes on in the music business, and the representation are the first people to start crying when they find themselves out of work.
In the end, it boils down to how we treat each other. Not just in the publishing world and the music business, but in every day life. I'm a bitch, I won't lie. I've been mean to people both on and off the internet, but I don't walk around looking for a fight. I don't push buttons for the sake of pushing buttons. Most times it's because I feel like I'm in a position that requires me to fight back. I'd just really like to see the world change, and for the better. It'd be fantastic to wake up one day and find people more willing to help each other, rather than crush each other on the ladder to the top.
A lot of writers were outraged by the idea. #queryfail was cruel, many said. Even if it was done anonymously, there was still the potential for some poor author to log in and see a mockery of their own query. Anonymous or no, the humiliation of rejection is often enough to put some writers off of submitting their work. Seeing their query get torn apart right there in front of thousands of Tweeters could do some damage.
So in response, #agentfail was set up to give writers a chance to talk back and address some of the problems authors have with agents. In an anonymous forum, maybe that would be better, because though authors can pick and choose the agents they deal with using a certain degree of choosiness, agents tend to hold all the cards in the writer/agent relationship. Many writers don't want to step on proverbial toes, get caught up in some web that is going to hold them back from even getting representation.
I think the whole thing is a little sad. I thought about starting a twitter movement called #youallfail. Why? Because more and more often, it seems that people are only happy when they are making other people miserable. The whole you stepped on me, I'll break your arm mentality is so high school, and I really did believe (probably foolishly,) for a long time that adults were different; the knew how to behave and get along with each other in ways kids didn't understand. Talk about naivete.
I write because it's my passion. It is all I have ever wanted to do with my life. I don't think about things like making agents and editors giggle when I write a query letter, I think about taking the next step in my career. I think about how it takes guts to slap your soul down on a three hundred and twenty page manuscript and then put it out there to be torn apart. Then I find myself thinking that it's no wonder there are so many writers publishing and podcasting their own books. The traditional medium has been such a joke for years that soon the snooty and persnickety may find themselves out of jobs. They may tune in one morning to check the book ratings and find a manuscript they took a dump on once is now a #1 best seller on the NY Times.
It doesn't matter if you're an agent, an editor or a writer. At times in my life I have been both on the writers end and the editorial end. I've had manuscripts fly across my desk with the craziest cover letters, and have seen so many writers who didn't even know there were rules, but I took a look at their manuscript anyway. There were times I was incredibly glad I did, because if I judged every manuscript that happened across my desk, before reading it mind you, on the cover letter or query that accompanied it, I'd probably pass up the opportunity to read and publish quite a few amazing stories.
The same type of garbage goes on in the music business, and the representation are the first people to start crying when they find themselves out of work.
In the end, it boils down to how we treat each other. Not just in the publishing world and the music business, but in every day life. I'm a bitch, I won't lie. I've been mean to people both on and off the internet, but I don't walk around looking for a fight. I don't push buttons for the sake of pushing buttons. Most times it's because I feel like I'm in a position that requires me to fight back. I'd just really like to see the world change, and for the better. It'd be fantastic to wake up one day and find people more willing to help each other, rather than crush each other on the ladder to the top.
30 March, 2009
writing...
Despite having a rough day, I gave myself an hour to write tonight before bed because I wanted to put my mind into something besides that which is work related. I had planned to write most of the weekend, but the muse was on vacation, I guess. I sat down to write several times, but not much came out. There was a period around Saturday evening that I did manage to pump about 600 words into the short story I am working on. Oddly enough, every time I put something into it, I wind up taking it right back out. The good thing is, after spending my writing time tonight shaving things down, I finally feel like the plot is ready to move forward.
Now that taxes are out of the way, I am diving into the writing tomorrow after work. I can't wait. I am still very much in love with the idea behind this short story and am dying to see it in completion. Even first draft completion.
I'm off to bed for now. Sweet dreams full of rich plot ideas.
Now that taxes are out of the way, I am diving into the writing tomorrow after work. I can't wait. I am still very much in love with the idea behind this short story and am dying to see it in completion. Even first draft completion.
I'm off to bed for now. Sweet dreams full of rich plot ideas.
27 March, 2009
Shakespeare in Repose
Times... they are changing. While some of us sit back and shudder in fear at the horrific possibilities for what's to come, others are fearlessly paving the path into the future.
I have blogged before about my decisions in college. I went back to school at 26 with the intention of getting a "real" career education in forensic psychology, but once I was on campus and taking my first writing class, the gloves came off and I fought back against that societal voice that told me I would never be able to sustain myself or my family as writer. I was told that there were only so many great writers in the world and the chances of becoming one of those who makes enough money to survive are slim to none.
The thing is, like many writers, I have known since I was a little girl that if I didn't write, I would die. Not some lame bodily death, not suicide, but a much more dramatic, inner-death. When I entered the workforce at 21 (yeah, I tried desperately to avoid conventional work even then,) I worked nights and came home every night after work and wrote my heart out because I would not allow the shackles of convention to hold me down.
It wasn't until college that I really started to find myself and my voice as a writer. With college came the confidence I needed, the awareness and that extra push to start sending my work out. The internet has reinforced all of that, and while it seems that the conventional literary world is crumbling down around us I see a light at the end of the tunnel.
That light has come in the last couple months, as I've been fortunate to have become acquainted with some incredibly talented and creative people through the internet. As I explored the worlds they created, I realized that those people had taken all they had inside them and pushed it back out into the world where it belonged. Conventions are no longer an option, whether it is in light of publishing or music. They've exhausted all resources available to them to get their work out there, working conventional jobs by day and pushing themselves hard by night to share themselves and their vision with the world.
Because that's what you do when you're creative. You put yourself out there and you shake the world into submission. I know in my heart that we have passed the brink and a new revolution in creativity is rapidly unfolding before us. Old cities of convention crumble beneath new boots, and a new empire rises from the rubble.
For those of you I know who have stepped into the chaos of this strange new world without trepidation (coughJames Melzercough}, your bravery both inspires and compels those us of still standing on the brink. Know that I am right behind you, both as a supporter and a fellow creator, ready to join in and help in the process of building this strange, new world.
It may not be the world we expected to grow up into, or that we dreamed of as children, but I think it'll be better.
I have blogged before about my decisions in college. I went back to school at 26 with the intention of getting a "real" career education in forensic psychology, but once I was on campus and taking my first writing class, the gloves came off and I fought back against that societal voice that told me I would never be able to sustain myself or my family as writer. I was told that there were only so many great writers in the world and the chances of becoming one of those who makes enough money to survive are slim to none.
The thing is, like many writers, I have known since I was a little girl that if I didn't write, I would die. Not some lame bodily death, not suicide, but a much more dramatic, inner-death. When I entered the workforce at 21 (yeah, I tried desperately to avoid conventional work even then,) I worked nights and came home every night after work and wrote my heart out because I would not allow the shackles of convention to hold me down.
It wasn't until college that I really started to find myself and my voice as a writer. With college came the confidence I needed, the awareness and that extra push to start sending my work out. The internet has reinforced all of that, and while it seems that the conventional literary world is crumbling down around us I see a light at the end of the tunnel.
That light has come in the last couple months, as I've been fortunate to have become acquainted with some incredibly talented and creative people through the internet. As I explored the worlds they created, I realized that those people had taken all they had inside them and pushed it back out into the world where it belonged. Conventions are no longer an option, whether it is in light of publishing or music. They've exhausted all resources available to them to get their work out there, working conventional jobs by day and pushing themselves hard by night to share themselves and their vision with the world.
Because that's what you do when you're creative. You put yourself out there and you shake the world into submission. I know in my heart that we have passed the brink and a new revolution in creativity is rapidly unfolding before us. Old cities of convention crumble beneath new boots, and a new empire rises from the rubble.
For those of you I know who have stepped into the chaos of this strange new world without trepidation (coughJames Melzercough}, your bravery both inspires and compels those us of still standing on the brink. Know that I am right behind you, both as a supporter and a fellow creator, ready to join in and help in the process of building this strange, new world.
It may not be the world we expected to grow up into, or that we dreamed of as children, but I think it'll be better.
22 March, 2009
Formulating an Idea
One of the toughest things for me as a writer is getting the story out of my head. I realize that is probably a tough thing for a lot of writers. I can sit down and verbally tell an entire story from beginning to end, but when I am behind the keyboard it is extremely hard to put it down the way I originally saw it in my head. Now I know that it is all part of the process, that I need to expand on it once the original idea is out on paper, but my word! Tell my brain that, someone. I keep telling it that we will worry about expanding the details and polishing it up in the second draft, but my overactive brain keeps crying about how unfair it is that nothing comes out perfect the first time we write it down.
Does anyone else go through that? I've written entire novels in my head, all the way down to the most obscure details, but then had difficulty committing them to paper, and I really think that's why. I get upset that it doesn't come out the way I saw it in my head. But I learned while I was taking art classes in college that just because you draw something the first time and it doesn't come out like you saw it in your head, through the refining process you can mold and shape what you have produced into a masterpiece. I already know that the solution is telling my brain to chill out and just write already! My word! Worry about the details once you have a solid base to work from.
The story I am working on has an air of Romantic Horror, though I plan for it to be bloodier and somewhat more twisted than any Romantic horror I ever read in college. There will be a portrait of an Elizabeth Bathory inspired Countess, a young man with murder on his mind and the obvious hand of the devil orchestrating the goriest acts of the story. It'll be a short story, and I have special plans for it, so here's hoping it all comes together as I have seen it in my head (at least by the end of the revisions process anyway!)0
I finally got the paint I needed to do the full moon on the bedroom wall. I'm pleased with how it turned out. We will now gradually add stars to the ceiling, possibly have a few trickle down into the clouds. Pictures upcoming. I have about sixty pics I need to tinker with in photoshop since my niece just had her fourth birthday party on Thursday. Once I get a spare moment to do that, I will add the photos I took of the moon.
Lastly, I was saddened today to read that Nicholas Hughes, son of the famous poetess Sylvia Plath, committed suicide this weekend. To have lived under the weight of such a tremendous shadow, more than likely with the strange guilty burden of his mother's suicide... so sad indeed. I think I will write a poem about it later.
I'm off now to get on the treadmill after a lazy day of reading, napping and writing, and then I want to get some more writing done before bed. I hope you all had a lovely, stress-free weekend.
Does anyone else go through that? I've written entire novels in my head, all the way down to the most obscure details, but then had difficulty committing them to paper, and I really think that's why. I get upset that it doesn't come out the way I saw it in my head. But I learned while I was taking art classes in college that just because you draw something the first time and it doesn't come out like you saw it in your head, through the refining process you can mold and shape what you have produced into a masterpiece. I already know that the solution is telling my brain to chill out and just write already! My word! Worry about the details once you have a solid base to work from.
The story I am working on has an air of Romantic Horror, though I plan for it to be bloodier and somewhat more twisted than any Romantic horror I ever read in college. There will be a portrait of an Elizabeth Bathory inspired Countess, a young man with murder on his mind and the obvious hand of the devil orchestrating the goriest acts of the story. It'll be a short story, and I have special plans for it, so here's hoping it all comes together as I have seen it in my head (at least by the end of the revisions process anyway!)0
I finally got the paint I needed to do the full moon on the bedroom wall. I'm pleased with how it turned out. We will now gradually add stars to the ceiling, possibly have a few trickle down into the clouds. Pictures upcoming. I have about sixty pics I need to tinker with in photoshop since my niece just had her fourth birthday party on Thursday. Once I get a spare moment to do that, I will add the photos I took of the moon.
Lastly, I was saddened today to read that Nicholas Hughes, son of the famous poetess Sylvia Plath, committed suicide this weekend. To have lived under the weight of such a tremendous shadow, more than likely with the strange guilty burden of his mother's suicide... so sad indeed. I think I will write a poem about it later.
I'm off now to get on the treadmill after a lazy day of reading, napping and writing, and then I want to get some more writing done before bed. I hope you all had a lovely, stress-free weekend.
15 March, 2009
When Ravens Crawk... er... Call?
I have had a novella length story I've literally been working on for three years and one week. I started writing it on March 6, 2006, and just finished it today. The sad part is, it spent about two years and nine months shuffling between intention, minor update and the back burner.
As the weather's been changing, of course, I've gotten to spend a lot more time outdoors. We get a lot of crows in the yard and in the field across the road, but among them is a strange imposter. A raven. Their throaty crawking call is so unique that it's not easy to dismiss when I set out in the morning with my dog to do the daily yard patrol. So every day, this raven gives us a throat full of hell as we parade the yard, and as soon as I spot it, it takes off and flies over to the field, where it disappears.
What does this have to do with my novella? Well, one of the main characters in the story is actually a raven. And for the last few weeks, I've felt as if that raven were prodding me to dive back into my story and get it finished. On Friday morning, I stepped outside to test the weather, and there it was in the massive pine tree beside the house. It squarawked at me twice, bobbing it's head, and then we both went about our business.
I came inside, brought up the document, and got to work. About twenty minutes ago I finished the first draft. Sadly, I worry that my raven friend may disappear now that I've fulfilled my part of the bargain, but I hope not. A lingering raven will make sure I get through the workshopping process, as well as second and third draft edits.
Any of my friends who might be interested in a proofread, please let me know. I'm always more than grateful for the extra feedback, even from non-writers.
As the weather's been changing, of course, I've gotten to spend a lot more time outdoors. We get a lot of crows in the yard and in the field across the road, but among them is a strange imposter. A raven. Their throaty crawking call is so unique that it's not easy to dismiss when I set out in the morning with my dog to do the daily yard patrol. So every day, this raven gives us a throat full of hell as we parade the yard, and as soon as I spot it, it takes off and flies over to the field, where it disappears.
What does this have to do with my novella? Well, one of the main characters in the story is actually a raven. And for the last few weeks, I've felt as if that raven were prodding me to dive back into my story and get it finished. On Friday morning, I stepped outside to test the weather, and there it was in the massive pine tree beside the house. It squarawked at me twice, bobbing it's head, and then we both went about our business.
I came inside, brought up the document, and got to work. About twenty minutes ago I finished the first draft. Sadly, I worry that my raven friend may disappear now that I've fulfilled my part of the bargain, but I hope not. A lingering raven will make sure I get through the workshopping process, as well as second and third draft edits.
Any of my friends who might be interested in a proofread, please let me know. I'm always more than grateful for the extra feedback, even from non-writers.
10 March, 2009
Does Clive Barker Believe in Cenobites?
How do you write convincing fiction about things you don't believe in? This is a question that has been weighing on me for a couple of years now. I have a series of stories I wrote years ago that all take place in a remote Pennsylvania town where Lucifer resides and wreaks havoc in the lives of the residents. Sounds like an interesting horror series, right? It was, and for the most part, I had fun writing it, but the problem arose in that my personal beliefs do not include "the devil." In short, I felt at the time like my portrayal of the devil would be unconvincing because I do not believe in him.
Then I got to thinking. Do those who write ghost stories necessarily believe in ghosts, or do they just do their homework very well? Do fantasy writers believe in dragons, or again, do they spend a lot of time researching and exercising their imagination? Does Clive Barker believe in Cenobites? (I dunno, he just might...)
When I told my husband I was blogging this topic, he looked at me and shook his head. "You don't have to believe in something to write about it!" he said. And maybe he's right. Enough research on any topic will definitely add an element of realism as you're writing, but is it the same believability established from genuine belief?
And I'm not just talking about horror here. If you're writing a book or short story about life after death or the existence of angels, do you personally think the book would have more credibility if you were a firm believer in the topic? I'm interested in your thoughts on this. I don't know what I think yet. I'm still thinking about it and can see how belief in something would definitely establish more strength in its portrayal. On the other hand, I think that knowing something inside and out could also provide this type of strength. I'm torn.
Thoughts? And I'd really like to know if Clive Barker believes in Cenobites.
Edited to add:
Apparently Mr. Barker does believe in "evil things" all around us.
Then I got to thinking. Do those who write ghost stories necessarily believe in ghosts, or do they just do their homework very well? Do fantasy writers believe in dragons, or again, do they spend a lot of time researching and exercising their imagination? Does Clive Barker believe in Cenobites? (I dunno, he just might...)
When I told my husband I was blogging this topic, he looked at me and shook his head. "You don't have to believe in something to write about it!" he said. And maybe he's right. Enough research on any topic will definitely add an element of realism as you're writing, but is it the same believability established from genuine belief?
And I'm not just talking about horror here. If you're writing a book or short story about life after death or the existence of angels, do you personally think the book would have more credibility if you were a firm believer in the topic? I'm interested in your thoughts on this. I don't know what I think yet. I'm still thinking about it and can see how belief in something would definitely establish more strength in its portrayal. On the other hand, I think that knowing something inside and out could also provide this type of strength. I'm torn.
Thoughts? And I'd really like to know if Clive Barker believes in Cenobites.
Edited to add:
Apparently Mr. Barker does believe in "evil things" all around us.
03 March, 2009
And so She Speaks... but He is Silent...
A couple weeks ago, my good friend and fellow writer, Jacqueline Roth, posted a blog about Heroines. In her blog she talked about her difficulty writing from a feminine perspective as a romance author. While my own writing spans over several subgenres, I realized something critical during my 2008 NaNoWriMo: I have a hard time writing from a male perspective.
I suppose I have always taken a feminine approach, even to the most dire and brutal situations. The only male character I can recall having had any kind of success with as a writer was the detective in my to-be-published in the March edition of eMuse short story, "Black Velveteen." The thing is, the detective in that story came off somewhat cliche to me, even as the writer... the dime-store bin detective with an angry ex-wife, estranged child, overzealous longing for truth and justice and a voice like Edward James Olmos. In fact, the character himself reminded me very much of Edward Olmos (ironic in a Blade Runner sense,) and that is one of the reasons I stuck by him as a character. Edward James Olmos tends to play gruff, serious characters who stand behind their moral principles no matter how bad things get.
Do you have these types of difficulties as a writer? Do you feel more comfortable creating heroines or heroes? At present I have two unfinished pieces in which the main character is a male. Both of them are less than six months old, but snagged by my present hang up over the proper portrayal of men. Tell me about your experiences, your successes and failures with characters of the opposite and same sex. Do you feel as a writer that this is completely gender related, and is there a way around it?
Now, without further ado, here is a small excerpt from my upcoming eMuse publication:
Black Velveteen
“Cybs.” Velvet’s voice wavered on that one word. “Man is not happy unless he labels everything around him. Labels give him power over things, and without that power. . .” She looked down at her hands. “Without that power he would not be Man. She would not be woman. I would not be as you call me, Cyb.”
The corner of Hank’s tightened mouth twitched toward expression, but he held back his admiration of her observation. He didn’t want her to get the wrong idea, to try and use his appreciation for her cleverness against him.
“Be that as it may,” he began, “your lack of understanding for human reason and emotion would make it difficult for you to understand violence and its implications if you had not been programmed to.”
“I am not programmed to act or react with violence. That is correct.”
“And yet you murdered a child,” Hank reminded her. “A little girl no more than seven years old.”
Hank’s voice hardened, he heard it himself. He had a daughter once—still really. Her name was Keyana and she had just graduated from college with a Bachelor’s in Philosophy. She hadn’t spoken to Hank in more than seven years because according to her mother he was a bad father and an even worse husband. His ex-wife said he didn’t care, but then he’d let so few people get close enough to tell the truth. He cared. In fact, having a daughter had fine-tuned his misery when it came to cases such as this.
I suppose I have always taken a feminine approach, even to the most dire and brutal situations. The only male character I can recall having had any kind of success with as a writer was the detective in my to-be-published in the March edition of eMuse short story, "Black Velveteen." The thing is, the detective in that story came off somewhat cliche to me, even as the writer... the dime-store bin detective with an angry ex-wife, estranged child, overzealous longing for truth and justice and a voice like Edward James Olmos. In fact, the character himself reminded me very much of Edward Olmos (ironic in a Blade Runner sense,) and that is one of the reasons I stuck by him as a character. Edward James Olmos tends to play gruff, serious characters who stand behind their moral principles no matter how bad things get.
Do you have these types of difficulties as a writer? Do you feel more comfortable creating heroines or heroes? At present I have two unfinished pieces in which the main character is a male. Both of them are less than six months old, but snagged by my present hang up over the proper portrayal of men. Tell me about your experiences, your successes and failures with characters of the opposite and same sex. Do you feel as a writer that this is completely gender related, and is there a way around it?
Now, without further ado, here is a small excerpt from my upcoming eMuse publication:
Black Velveteen
“Cybs.” Velvet’s voice wavered on that one word. “Man is not happy unless he labels everything around him. Labels give him power over things, and without that power. . .” She looked down at her hands. “Without that power he would not be Man. She would not be woman. I would not be as you call me, Cyb.”
The corner of Hank’s tightened mouth twitched toward expression, but he held back his admiration of her observation. He didn’t want her to get the wrong idea, to try and use his appreciation for her cleverness against him.
“Be that as it may,” he began, “your lack of understanding for human reason and emotion would make it difficult for you to understand violence and its implications if you had not been programmed to.”
“I am not programmed to act or react with violence. That is correct.”
“And yet you murdered a child,” Hank reminded her. “A little girl no more than seven years old.”
Hank’s voice hardened, he heard it himself. He had a daughter once—still really. Her name was Keyana and she had just graduated from college with a Bachelor’s in Philosophy. She hadn’t spoken to Hank in more than seven years because according to her mother he was a bad father and an even worse husband. His ex-wife said he didn’t care, but then he’d let so few people get close enough to tell the truth. He cared. In fact, having a daughter had fine-tuned his misery when it came to cases such as this.
25 February, 2009
What's your motivation?
As writers it is imperative that we devote time to our craft every single day. Whether you have a strict daily regimen that you follow or a basic routine that motivates you to write each and every day, holding that motivation in check is so important. For me personally, if I go for any great length of time (more than a couple of days,) without writing, I get very depressed. On the other hand there are days like today that no matter how I try to motivate myself to write it's just not there.
What do you do on days that the motivation just isn't there?
The wise are prone to saying that motivations isn't enough and that you can't rely on motivation to get you buy. You have to take action. That even when you don't feel like writing that you should sit down at your computer or your desk and write anyway. Just write whatever comes out until it feels right. Some people can do this, while others cannot.
There are a lot of writers who operate under a strict regimen of special rituals whenever they write. Perhaps they require use of a special pen, or maybe they need to light a certain number of candles before they start. For me it's best if I'm alone. I can listen to music, write with the television on, but if there are any people within a fifty foot radius of me that want to talk, I will forgo writing and chatter like teeth at ten-below. So timing is often a motivator on how much writing I get done. If it's early and the morning and everyone's asleep or at school/work, I can sit down and write entire short story drafts and full-length chapters without looking back. It's just as easy to do this at night, but when the house is full of people, even people doing their own thing, writing is just not an option.
I'd love to hear about some of your motivations. What pushes you to sit down in the chair and get things done. Do you need a deadline? Do you have routines you need to follow in order to write? Special pens or a candle fetish? Talk to me about your experiences.
What do you do on days that the motivation just isn't there?
The wise are prone to saying that motivations isn't enough and that you can't rely on motivation to get you buy. You have to take action. That even when you don't feel like writing that you should sit down at your computer or your desk and write anyway. Just write whatever comes out until it feels right. Some people can do this, while others cannot.
There are a lot of writers who operate under a strict regimen of special rituals whenever they write. Perhaps they require use of a special pen, or maybe they need to light a certain number of candles before they start. For me it's best if I'm alone. I can listen to music, write with the television on, but if there are any people within a fifty foot radius of me that want to talk, I will forgo writing and chatter like teeth at ten-below. So timing is often a motivator on how much writing I get done. If it's early and the morning and everyone's asleep or at school/work, I can sit down and write entire short story drafts and full-length chapters without looking back. It's just as easy to do this at night, but when the house is full of people, even people doing their own thing, writing is just not an option.
I'd love to hear about some of your motivations. What pushes you to sit down in the chair and get things done. Do you need a deadline? Do you have routines you need to follow in order to write? Special pens or a candle fetish? Talk to me about your experiences.
23 February, 2009
When the Universe Speaks...
...Perk up your ears and have a listen. You'd be surprised how much you might be missing simply because you aren't paying attention to the signs. Yesterday I blogged about characters and their relationships to us writers, and for the last week or so my fabulously creative musician husband and I have been talking rather deeply about where inspiration comes from. We've also been talking about synchronicity. Of course, yesterday as I finished posting my blog on our relationships with our characters, I checked my blog roll to see what my fellow bloggers had to say. I was drawn immediately to a post by Matt Selznick, author, blogger and podcaster extraordinaire titled, All Creators Please Take Twenty Minutes to Watch.
So I did. And I called in my husband to watch it with me, because frankly we both felt like we could use a little creative advice from the universe right now. And it was exactly what I needed to hear. So now I want to share it with you, because I think that as creators we all come from this weird place that the so-called normal world can't identity with. We've all gotten the complimentary eye-rolls when we mention that we're writer or artists or musicians. You tell someone you're a painter and automatically they want you to help them coat the outside of their house. You mention that you're a writer and automatically everyone wants to know if they've read your novel. Musicians must come from famous bands or orchestras, otherwise how could they classify themselves as musicians.
Elizabeth Gilbert, author of Eat, Pray, Love spoke at the TED conference earlier this month, and she put into words a lot of how many of us have felt for years. She also spoke at great length on the magic of the creative process. It was such an inspiration that I want to share that speech with you now. I hope you will take twenty minutes out of your day. I know sometimes it's hard to find twenty minutes to do half of the things we want in the span of a day, but this speech is well worth the listen.
We get so wrapped up in the daily motions of the world, in the rat race and that longing to simply belong that we sometimes forget to celebrate our creativity. I strongly believe that we all have a little genius in us. I hope your genius is doing its job, and I hope that you all continue to show up and do yours!
Please stop over and subscribe to Matt Selznick's blog. He's always got something interesting to say and you won't regret it.
So I did. And I called in my husband to watch it with me, because frankly we both felt like we could use a little creative advice from the universe right now. And it was exactly what I needed to hear. So now I want to share it with you, because I think that as creators we all come from this weird place that the so-called normal world can't identity with. We've all gotten the complimentary eye-rolls when we mention that we're writer or artists or musicians. You tell someone you're a painter and automatically they want you to help them coat the outside of their house. You mention that you're a writer and automatically everyone wants to know if they've read your novel. Musicians must come from famous bands or orchestras, otherwise how could they classify themselves as musicians.
Elizabeth Gilbert, author of Eat, Pray, Love spoke at the TED conference earlier this month, and she put into words a lot of how many of us have felt for years. She also spoke at great length on the magic of the creative process. It was such an inspiration that I want to share that speech with you now. I hope you will take twenty minutes out of your day. I know sometimes it's hard to find twenty minutes to do half of the things we want in the span of a day, but this speech is well worth the listen.
We get so wrapped up in the daily motions of the world, in the rat race and that longing to simply belong that we sometimes forget to celebrate our creativity. I strongly believe that we all have a little genius in us. I hope your genius is doing its job, and I hope that you all continue to show up and do yours!
Please stop over and subscribe to Matt Selznick's blog. He's always got something interesting to say and you won't regret it.
18 February, 2009
Writerly Readings... The 4 A.M. Breakthrough
I am a lover of books. You almost have to be to want to write them. Even before college, however, I was always fascinated by what other writers had to say. The advice they have on writing, publishing, beating back writer's block and sharing their secret rendezvous with the muse. It's like sitting in on a secret conference with someone you admire, listening to their methods and exploring their techniques. The most inspiring writers who have delved into the "How to..." market have not approached the genre with holier than though professorial pomp, but often incorporated stories of their darker days as writers.
One story that touches me every time I read is Stephen King's memories of writing Carrie. He was so frustrated and agitated with the script that he wanted to throw it away, and probably would have had it not been for the insistence of his wife Tabitha that it was some of the most brilliant fiction she had ever read. On her encouragement, he finished the story and went on to become the master of horror we know and love today. He has often spoken of the rejection letter nail on the wall so thick with rejection that he didn't think he would ever hear the encouraging words, "We're pleased to inform you that..." Imagine if his wife hadn't pushed. If she hadn't seen in him that which he was most afraid to see in himself: success.
I am a sucker for books about writing. I think that no matter what your level of education is there is always something you can learn from others in your craft. There are techniques you would never have imagined, scenarios you may not have come up with without a little nudge. Many writing books come complete with instructions, tips and writing exercises, which is what the book I am reading now is all about.
Follow-up to his The 3 A.M. Epiphany, Brian Kiteley released The 4 A.M. Breakthrough: Unconventional Writing Exercises that Transform Your Fiction. Kiteley's intent with the book is to teach writers to make creation itself a more organic, automatic process. I am only on the first exercise, titled Parataxis, a 500 word prompt with two options. One of the things I like about Kiteley's book is that he draws references from other well-known source material to show not only example but how it works and the usefulness of the techniques.
There are two hundred exercises in the book overall. That's two hundred prompts that offer you the opportunity to explore a side of your creativity you may not have even known was there. It's a great tool to get you off of the excuse wagon and into the writer's seat. I highly recommend that you check this book out. As I said above, even as a master craftsman or published writer, you should never stop learning about your craft. There is always something to discover.
Brian Kiteley is a creative writing professor at the University of Denver. You can learn more about him by checking out his home page: Brian Kiteley. The site has information about his other books, including an upcoming fiction novel scheduled to release in the fall of 2009.
One story that touches me every time I read is Stephen King's memories of writing Carrie. He was so frustrated and agitated with the script that he wanted to throw it away, and probably would have had it not been for the insistence of his wife Tabitha that it was some of the most brilliant fiction she had ever read. On her encouragement, he finished the story and went on to become the master of horror we know and love today. He has often spoken of the rejection letter nail on the wall so thick with rejection that he didn't think he would ever hear the encouraging words, "We're pleased to inform you that..." Imagine if his wife hadn't pushed. If she hadn't seen in him that which he was most afraid to see in himself: success.
I am a sucker for books about writing. I think that no matter what your level of education is there is always something you can learn from others in your craft. There are techniques you would never have imagined, scenarios you may not have come up with without a little nudge. Many writing books come complete with instructions, tips and writing exercises, which is what the book I am reading now is all about.
Follow-up to his The 3 A.M. Epiphany, Brian Kiteley released The 4 A.M. Breakthrough: Unconventional Writing Exercises that Transform Your Fiction. Kiteley's intent with the book is to teach writers to make creation itself a more organic, automatic process. I am only on the first exercise, titled Parataxis, a 500 word prompt with two options. One of the things I like about Kiteley's book is that he draws references from other well-known source material to show not only example but how it works and the usefulness of the techniques.
There are two hundred exercises in the book overall. That's two hundred prompts that offer you the opportunity to explore a side of your creativity you may not have even known was there. It's a great tool to get you off of the excuse wagon and into the writer's seat. I highly recommend that you check this book out. As I said above, even as a master craftsman or published writer, you should never stop learning about your craft. There is always something to discover.
Brian Kiteley is a creative writing professor at the University of Denver. You can learn more about him by checking out his home page: Brian Kiteley. The site has information about his other books, including an upcoming fiction novel scheduled to release in the fall of 2009.
17 February, 2009
Tiny Dream in Swan Dive (sounds like a poem...)
So this afternoon, my friend and colleague, the lovely and talented author, Jacqueline Roth, and I were talking about the difficulty of making a living as a writer these days because of the economy when Jae gave me some very disheartening news. Realms of Fantasy Magazine, of which I have been a lowly reader only (despite several attempts to sell them my brilliance,) for the last ten years or so, is going under. Their final publication is at the printer now, and will hit the shelves next month. Woe is me. That hit me pretty hard, considering one of my goals in life was to have a story published in that magazine, preferably in an issue that mentioned Neil Gaiman's name at least four times.
Now it will be gone, and one little dream will wither to ash. Lo, tho, I do digress... My disappointment is more sympathetic than anything, sympathetic to the other aspiring fantasy and sci-fi writers who will never see their name on the cover or their works in her pages.
I enjoyed the magazine overall, and it was still one of my goals to be published in its pages one day, but in truth the editorial choices for a lot of the stories printed these last few years have not really been that memorable, which is incredibly sad since I know there are literally thousands of talented sci-fi and fantasy authors out there submitting like mad. In fact, the last issue I purchased was only because my aforementioned brilliant author friend Jacqueline Roth's book was going to be advertised in its pages, and the stories in that issue... I think I remember one.
The thing that does make me incredibly sad is that there are already so few beautiful and glossy fantasy and sci-fi magazines as it is. Asimovs, Fantasy and Science Fiction and Analog often have better quality stories, but not near as many pretty pictures. It really is like watching a giant fall, and as I sat by last week and mentioned to my husband that I really didn't like many of the stories in "that magazine," I know I'm going to miss it when it disappears from the newsstand.
Times are changing. Coinciding with yesterday's epublishing post, with more and more people looking to the internet to publish their work, or actual magazines and papers moving to an internet audience to cut back on costs, it's only a matter of time before just about everything is electronic, and long gone are the days of hiking into the bathroom with a brand new issue of your favorite rag.
In more positive news today, I managed to send a poem out to Strange Horizons. Here's crossing my fingers. It's been 2 years since I had a poem published with them, and would very much like to end the poetry dryspell with a publication. I've made some progress on my novel, but have come into the tangled web of rewrite hell that warrants me to pick it apart like a quilter with a stitch-ripper tearing out a crooked patch. I know that in the end it will be worth it, but the process itself can be stressful.
So, as an outro to the demise of Realms of Fantasy, here is a guy on YouTube playing Cradle of Filth's "Swansong for a Raven" on piano. Anyone who ever said Cradle of Filth was untalented trash, as far as I'm concerned this is just testament to their incredible deity-like talent. No one makes music this melodic or complex anymore. NO ONE! And this guy does an outstanding job on the cover.
Now it will be gone, and one little dream will wither to ash. Lo, tho, I do digress... My disappointment is more sympathetic than anything, sympathetic to the other aspiring fantasy and sci-fi writers who will never see their name on the cover or their works in her pages.
I enjoyed the magazine overall, and it was still one of my goals to be published in its pages one day, but in truth the editorial choices for a lot of the stories printed these last few years have not really been that memorable, which is incredibly sad since I know there are literally thousands of talented sci-fi and fantasy authors out there submitting like mad. In fact, the last issue I purchased was only because my aforementioned brilliant author friend Jacqueline Roth's book was going to be advertised in its pages, and the stories in that issue... I think I remember one.
The thing that does make me incredibly sad is that there are already so few beautiful and glossy fantasy and sci-fi magazines as it is. Asimovs, Fantasy and Science Fiction and Analog often have better quality stories, but not near as many pretty pictures. It really is like watching a giant fall, and as I sat by last week and mentioned to my husband that I really didn't like many of the stories in "that magazine," I know I'm going to miss it when it disappears from the newsstand.
Times are changing. Coinciding with yesterday's epublishing post, with more and more people looking to the internet to publish their work, or actual magazines and papers moving to an internet audience to cut back on costs, it's only a matter of time before just about everything is electronic, and long gone are the days of hiking into the bathroom with a brand new issue of your favorite rag.
In more positive news today, I managed to send a poem out to Strange Horizons. Here's crossing my fingers. It's been 2 years since I had a poem published with them, and would very much like to end the poetry dryspell with a publication. I've made some progress on my novel, but have come into the tangled web of rewrite hell that warrants me to pick it apart like a quilter with a stitch-ripper tearing out a crooked patch. I know that in the end it will be worth it, but the process itself can be stressful.
So, as an outro to the demise of Realms of Fantasy, here is a guy on YouTube playing Cradle of Filth's "Swansong for a Raven" on piano. Anyone who ever said Cradle of Filth was untalented trash, as far as I'm concerned this is just testament to their incredible deity-like talent. No one makes music this melodic or complex anymore. NO ONE! And this guy does an outstanding job on the cover.
15 February, 2009
Write What You Know
I have heard this my entire life, "Write what you know," and it will be the truest form of your gift. Whether it's poetry or prose, writing from the heart and soul is the fastest way to reach out to an appreciative audience, but what counts as "what you know?"
I love to use Stephen King and Anne Rice as examples, even as they are both fading out of the limelight and into the annals of literary history these days. Now I know you're asking yourself, "So what are you saying, Beans, that Stephen King is in league with the devil, and that's where all those dark and terrifying ideas come from? Or that Anne Rice really is the secret head of a vampire coven located somewhere in New Orleans?"
Silly, silly, that's exactly what I'm saying. Stephen King and Anne Rice write from experience. And not with the dark and demonic, though a great deal of Rice's inspiration is obviously the result of her Roman Catholic upbringing, but with their region. You can't read a Stephen King story without venturing off to Maine as he sees it, and it's a rare thing to wander too far from Louisiana in one of Anne Rice's stories. These two authors have taken their hometowns and run with them like Olympic torch carriers.
Whether we're travelers, or we've spent the last thirty years of our lives living in the same town, that which surrounds us often the perfect muse. All I have to do is walk down one of the main streets in the neighboring towns surrounding me, and I can literally find dozens of short stories just waiting to be written--from the macabre to the sweet to the romantic.
The reason I am blogging about this today is because I'm currently polishing off the second draft of a novel I'm working on. The novel actually takes place in an imaginary town nestled mysteriously into Pennsylvania county I grew up in. It draws from the atmosphere, the region and heavily relies on the fact that this is farm country. I grew up with people who lived on farms, my family's house smack-dab in the middle of dairy farm central. The interesting thing is, I hated that when I was growing up. I hated being a bumpkin, being stuck in this small town atmosphere where everyone no only knew your business, but more often than not, knew it before you did. I grew up in a small neighborhood where we often joked that our neighbor's mom was a super spy, and if she was around, there was no getting away with anything!
What better plot than a character resistant to this environment, a character who managed to get away, but finds herself drawn back home after a tragedy? I felt that way myself. I hated this place I grew up in. The minute I turned eighteen, I was in the backseat of my friend John's Rabbit, hightailing it to the nearest city. Even after tragedy and circumstance brought me back to to my hometown, I promised myself for years I wouldn't stay. One day I would get out of here, but then it snaked in around me, showed its appeal. Time passed and the urge to escape didn't feel as strong as it once was, and eventually, I felt like this was where I was supposed to be.
No matter where you live, your region, your neighborhood, your weather patterns are unique to you, and they are the perfect fodder for inspiration. As I mentioned above, today I need only walk down the street in my area to find short stories and poems just waiting to be written.
So the next time you're wracking your brain for something to write, step outside and listen to the voice of your neighborhood. You might be surprised by the unique whispers of that area, and how well you can personally put those whispers into scenarios that appeal to the world. And if you're a memoir writer, you know exactly what I'm talking about. Places soak up memory, withhold the past, and as a writer you can unlock those secrets for all the world to hear.
On another note, writing what you know doesn't mean just sticking to your area, it also refers to your personal experiences. Whether you've been a soldier, a mother, a sister, a teacher, a student, a postal worker... you name it, every experience you've ever had is simply asking to be related through your work. There are characters inside all of our experiences simply begging to have their stories told. Maybe you once worked with someone who claimed they spoke with the dead, or there was an old lady that walked her cat into the post office every day to get her mail... All of these things are stories simply begging to be told.
I guess one of the reasons I'm feeling so passionate about this lately is because with all of the Hollywood film remakes, it starts to feel like there really is nothing new under the sun. The thing is, I don't buy that. I think all of our experiences in life are unique because of our unique perspectives (the same logic the movie remakers are using, I'm sure...) so even if we all lived through the same experience, our stories would be unique based on our regional upbringing, our experiences and our personality. So the next time someone says there's nothing new under the sun, look out your window. You'll see it there. I can almost guarantee it.
I love to use Stephen King and Anne Rice as examples, even as they are both fading out of the limelight and into the annals of literary history these days. Now I know you're asking yourself, "So what are you saying, Beans, that Stephen King is in league with the devil, and that's where all those dark and terrifying ideas come from? Or that Anne Rice really is the secret head of a vampire coven located somewhere in New Orleans?"
Silly, silly, that's exactly what I'm saying. Stephen King and Anne Rice write from experience. And not with the dark and demonic, though a great deal of Rice's inspiration is obviously the result of her Roman Catholic upbringing, but with their region. You can't read a Stephen King story without venturing off to Maine as he sees it, and it's a rare thing to wander too far from Louisiana in one of Anne Rice's stories. These two authors have taken their hometowns and run with them like Olympic torch carriers.
Whether we're travelers, or we've spent the last thirty years of our lives living in the same town, that which surrounds us often the perfect muse. All I have to do is walk down one of the main streets in the neighboring towns surrounding me, and I can literally find dozens of short stories just waiting to be written--from the macabre to the sweet to the romantic.
The reason I am blogging about this today is because I'm currently polishing off the second draft of a novel I'm working on. The novel actually takes place in an imaginary town nestled mysteriously into Pennsylvania county I grew up in. It draws from the atmosphere, the region and heavily relies on the fact that this is farm country. I grew up with people who lived on farms, my family's house smack-dab in the middle of dairy farm central. The interesting thing is, I hated that when I was growing up. I hated being a bumpkin, being stuck in this small town atmosphere where everyone no only knew your business, but more often than not, knew it before you did. I grew up in a small neighborhood where we often joked that our neighbor's mom was a super spy, and if she was around, there was no getting away with anything!
What better plot than a character resistant to this environment, a character who managed to get away, but finds herself drawn back home after a tragedy? I felt that way myself. I hated this place I grew up in. The minute I turned eighteen, I was in the backseat of my friend John's Rabbit, hightailing it to the nearest city. Even after tragedy and circumstance brought me back to to my hometown, I promised myself for years I wouldn't stay. One day I would get out of here, but then it snaked in around me, showed its appeal. Time passed and the urge to escape didn't feel as strong as it once was, and eventually, I felt like this was where I was supposed to be.
No matter where you live, your region, your neighborhood, your weather patterns are unique to you, and they are the perfect fodder for inspiration. As I mentioned above, today I need only walk down the street in my area to find short stories and poems just waiting to be written.
So the next time you're wracking your brain for something to write, step outside and listen to the voice of your neighborhood. You might be surprised by the unique whispers of that area, and how well you can personally put those whispers into scenarios that appeal to the world. And if you're a memoir writer, you know exactly what I'm talking about. Places soak up memory, withhold the past, and as a writer you can unlock those secrets for all the world to hear.
On another note, writing what you know doesn't mean just sticking to your area, it also refers to your personal experiences. Whether you've been a soldier, a mother, a sister, a teacher, a student, a postal worker... you name it, every experience you've ever had is simply asking to be related through your work. There are characters inside all of our experiences simply begging to have their stories told. Maybe you once worked with someone who claimed they spoke with the dead, or there was an old lady that walked her cat into the post office every day to get her mail... All of these things are stories simply begging to be told.
I guess one of the reasons I'm feeling so passionate about this lately is because with all of the Hollywood film remakes, it starts to feel like there really is nothing new under the sun. The thing is, I don't buy that. I think all of our experiences in life are unique because of our unique perspectives (the same logic the movie remakers are using, I'm sure...) so even if we all lived through the same experience, our stories would be unique based on our regional upbringing, our experiences and our personality. So the next time someone says there's nothing new under the sun, look out your window. You'll see it there. I can almost guarantee it.
14 February, 2009
I Pick Up My Books, I Read Bukowski
I've been reading a lot of Bukowski again, lately. It comes and goes. Sometimes when you feel like you've descended into a new place dirtier and grimier than any other place you've ever been, it's best to have Bukowski in your pocket. He's like a tour guide through Hell.
Not that I'm in Hell, or anything like that. It's just a dark state of mind to sink into when you're carrying old Buk with you everywhere you go. I think that so much of his work can be likened to this time we're having now, this endless depression, where all the stakes are changing once again... There are experts saying we won't ever recover from this if we collapse... that unlike Soviet Russia we have all tasted too much wealth to ever recover if our economy falls apart.
Well here's the thing. I grew up in a house with two brothers and a sister. We were only four children, but during the eighteen years I lived at home with my family, my parents were always on the verge of losing everything they had. That was why mother stressed the importance of not only dreaming, but standing on the tips of your toes until they break to reach those dreams. So that is what I do. That is what I will do all the days of my life.
Believe it or not, I've been places, seen things I hope to never be exposed to again in this lifetime. The first year we lived together, my husband and I shared a house with three other roommates. We spent an entire winter without heat and we rarely had enough food to get us by. We literally lived off of rice and ramen noodles for days and days on end, until some miracle presented itself and we were able to buy food. We spent a week on a bus going out to Arizona, where we couldn't get jobs because we had no place to live, and despite having enough money for an entire year's worth of rent, we couldn't get a place to live because we had no jobs. I was pregnant at the time, and desperately afraid of the kind of life I would provide for my child. In Arizona less than a month, we felt like we had failed, so we headed back to our hometown, and wound up living in squalor for about a month with my husband's friend.
It was the most disgusting place I had ever lived in my life. I should have known it would be bad. The guy's car had always been a virtual nightmare-you know, the kind when half a bag of garbage came rolling out whenever you opened a door. You had to arrange the garbage to make yourself comfortable in the back seat. Imagine how his apartment looked. He had a cat. An old Tom he'd found inside a car or something, but never got him neutered. The cat walked around and pissed on everything. Furniture, clothes, blankets, food.... anything he could lift his leg on, he did. And the guy we lived with chewed tobacco, so all over the apartment were cups, bottles and cans filled with putrid brown ooze.
I cleaned the apartment from top to bottom because I was not raised that way. How anyone could live like that and think it was normal, I never understood. Even after I cleaned it, he worked very hard to mess it up again. I remember an instance shortly after I had sterilized the apartment from top to bottom that another guy who was staying with us woke up because he felt something crawling on him... it was a maggot. Talk about never wanting to close your eyes again.
Shortly thereafter, my parents found out what kind of conditions we were living in and came to the rescue. Sometimes I think it was a miracle that we had their help, but we sacrificed a lot of what we believed in by going to stay with them. It was a year and a half that we stayed with them, and in that eighteen months, spirits were crushed, dreams were lost and our small family was nearly torn apart. But we made it through. We finally moved out into our own apartment, and while it wasn't exactly the Ritz Carlton, we made it into a home, and there we stayed for nine years.
During that time we struggled to maintain that which we felt was important to both of us, while also trying to keep up with our financial obligations. In order to provide the best family atmosphere for our daughter, we worked opposite shifts, so someone was always home with her. It wasn't until she started school that I actually got a day job so we could all be home at nights together.
After September 11, 2001, I felt like I'd been hit with a reality check. I was twenty-six, and still hadn't gotten any closer to achieving any of the goals I had set for myself throughout the years. I had no success with publishing, and even worse, had no idea where to start. Within weeks of September 11, I had decided to go to college. And I did.
The thing is, the quality of our life improved dramatically during the time I was going to college. Our finances were looking good, we had gotten rid of past debts and had finally started to save enough money to buy a house. Eight months before graduating, we bought our house. I had the promise of a college education behind me to help me get a better job, and it looked like some of the things we wanted in life were finally going to pay off.
Then the housing market took a dive. Our very first winter here was difficult, as my husband struggled to maintain his job. It wasn't until June that he went back to work full time, but come December he was right back on the same boat. The next year he didn't go back to work full time until July, and by the time September hit in 2008, they were already back to working three day weeks. He's been laid off since the second week in January.
Sob story? Not really, but after everything we've been through it's a real motivator, let me tell you. Not to go out and work nine jobs to maintain material happiness, but to step up our game and start doing some of the things we hesitated on in the past out of fear. Fear of failure, fear of loss, fear of whatever.
I know that so many of my friends are in this same boat. So many of us struggle from day to day to make sure there is food on our table, while our big bosses go on elaborate trips around the world, deny their employees security, claiming that the economy is bad. How bad can it be when they are out living it up like celebrities while the rest of us worry from day to day whether or not we're even going to get our next pay check. My husband's employer has sent the salesmen group every year on a week long cruise to the Bahamas as a reward for work well done... Well guess what, the salesmen haven't sold anything in months, but they leave to go on their cruise at the end of next week.
I very rarely talk politics, and I certainly don't like to blog about them because differences of opinion often tear friendships apart, but this bailout garbage is like trying to stuff a wad of chewing gum into a dam already about to burst. The same people who have always had it easy get another leg up while the world crumbles underneath them, while we're left down here at the bottom wondering NOT where our cruise to the Bahamas or our full-sponsored trip to Pokerfest 2009 is, but whether or not we're going to lose our home or have enough money after paying our mortgage to feed our family. Our jobs, which were propositioned to us as full-time employment just a year ago, waver in the balance, thin as spiderwebs about to break.
The thing is, and I know you're wondering what the hell does any of this have to do with Bukowski, Charles Bukowski defied odds during the depression, World War II, after the War... He painted accurate portraits of the world around him that we can look back on today. If you are a writer, a poet, an artist or a musician of any kind, now is your time. Catalog these days. Paint portraits of the world as it falls apart and rebuilds itself again. There is more than enough inspiration right now to go around. Draw on the misery around you and turn it into something pure, something beautiful.
I know that this blog was probably one of the more depressing blogs I've penned this week, but don't miss the underlying thread of hope glimmering within the darkness. We write our own future, our own destiny, and right now, as it seems like sky is falling, there's a pen or a paintbrush or a guitar waiting for you to pick it up and show the world what you've seen.
The Aliens, by Charles Bukowski
you may not believe it
but there are people
who go through life with
very little
friction of distress.
they dress well, sleep well.
they are contented with
their family
life.
they are undisturbed
and often feel
very good.
and when they die
it is an easy death, usually in their
sleep.
you may not believe
it
but such people do
exist.
but i am not one of
them.
oh no, I am not one of them,
I am not even near
to being
one of
them.
but they
are there
and I am
here.
Not that I'm in Hell, or anything like that. It's just a dark state of mind to sink into when you're carrying old Buk with you everywhere you go. I think that so much of his work can be likened to this time we're having now, this endless depression, where all the stakes are changing once again... There are experts saying we won't ever recover from this if we collapse... that unlike Soviet Russia we have all tasted too much wealth to ever recover if our economy falls apart.
Well here's the thing. I grew up in a house with two brothers and a sister. We were only four children, but during the eighteen years I lived at home with my family, my parents were always on the verge of losing everything they had. That was why mother stressed the importance of not only dreaming, but standing on the tips of your toes until they break to reach those dreams. So that is what I do. That is what I will do all the days of my life.
Believe it or not, I've been places, seen things I hope to never be exposed to again in this lifetime. The first year we lived together, my husband and I shared a house with three other roommates. We spent an entire winter without heat and we rarely had enough food to get us by. We literally lived off of rice and ramen noodles for days and days on end, until some miracle presented itself and we were able to buy food. We spent a week on a bus going out to Arizona, where we couldn't get jobs because we had no place to live, and despite having enough money for an entire year's worth of rent, we couldn't get a place to live because we had no jobs. I was pregnant at the time, and desperately afraid of the kind of life I would provide for my child. In Arizona less than a month, we felt like we had failed, so we headed back to our hometown, and wound up living in squalor for about a month with my husband's friend.
It was the most disgusting place I had ever lived in my life. I should have known it would be bad. The guy's car had always been a virtual nightmare-you know, the kind when half a bag of garbage came rolling out whenever you opened a door. You had to arrange the garbage to make yourself comfortable in the back seat. Imagine how his apartment looked. He had a cat. An old Tom he'd found inside a car or something, but never got him neutered. The cat walked around and pissed on everything. Furniture, clothes, blankets, food.... anything he could lift his leg on, he did. And the guy we lived with chewed tobacco, so all over the apartment were cups, bottles and cans filled with putrid brown ooze.
I cleaned the apartment from top to bottom because I was not raised that way. How anyone could live like that and think it was normal, I never understood. Even after I cleaned it, he worked very hard to mess it up again. I remember an instance shortly after I had sterilized the apartment from top to bottom that another guy who was staying with us woke up because he felt something crawling on him... it was a maggot. Talk about never wanting to close your eyes again.
Shortly thereafter, my parents found out what kind of conditions we were living in and came to the rescue. Sometimes I think it was a miracle that we had their help, but we sacrificed a lot of what we believed in by going to stay with them. It was a year and a half that we stayed with them, and in that eighteen months, spirits were crushed, dreams were lost and our small family was nearly torn apart. But we made it through. We finally moved out into our own apartment, and while it wasn't exactly the Ritz Carlton, we made it into a home, and there we stayed for nine years.
During that time we struggled to maintain that which we felt was important to both of us, while also trying to keep up with our financial obligations. In order to provide the best family atmosphere for our daughter, we worked opposite shifts, so someone was always home with her. It wasn't until she started school that I actually got a day job so we could all be home at nights together.
After September 11, 2001, I felt like I'd been hit with a reality check. I was twenty-six, and still hadn't gotten any closer to achieving any of the goals I had set for myself throughout the years. I had no success with publishing, and even worse, had no idea where to start. Within weeks of September 11, I had decided to go to college. And I did.
The thing is, the quality of our life improved dramatically during the time I was going to college. Our finances were looking good, we had gotten rid of past debts and had finally started to save enough money to buy a house. Eight months before graduating, we bought our house. I had the promise of a college education behind me to help me get a better job, and it looked like some of the things we wanted in life were finally going to pay off.
Then the housing market took a dive. Our very first winter here was difficult, as my husband struggled to maintain his job. It wasn't until June that he went back to work full time, but come December he was right back on the same boat. The next year he didn't go back to work full time until July, and by the time September hit in 2008, they were already back to working three day weeks. He's been laid off since the second week in January.
Sob story? Not really, but after everything we've been through it's a real motivator, let me tell you. Not to go out and work nine jobs to maintain material happiness, but to step up our game and start doing some of the things we hesitated on in the past out of fear. Fear of failure, fear of loss, fear of whatever.
I know that so many of my friends are in this same boat. So many of us struggle from day to day to make sure there is food on our table, while our big bosses go on elaborate trips around the world, deny their employees security, claiming that the economy is bad. How bad can it be when they are out living it up like celebrities while the rest of us worry from day to day whether or not we're even going to get our next pay check. My husband's employer has sent the salesmen group every year on a week long cruise to the Bahamas as a reward for work well done... Well guess what, the salesmen haven't sold anything in months, but they leave to go on their cruise at the end of next week.
I very rarely talk politics, and I certainly don't like to blog about them because differences of opinion often tear friendships apart, but this bailout garbage is like trying to stuff a wad of chewing gum into a dam already about to burst. The same people who have always had it easy get another leg up while the world crumbles underneath them, while we're left down here at the bottom wondering NOT where our cruise to the Bahamas or our full-sponsored trip to Pokerfest 2009 is, but whether or not we're going to lose our home or have enough money after paying our mortgage to feed our family. Our jobs, which were propositioned to us as full-time employment just a year ago, waver in the balance, thin as spiderwebs about to break.
The thing is, and I know you're wondering what the hell does any of this have to do with Bukowski, Charles Bukowski defied odds during the depression, World War II, after the War... He painted accurate portraits of the world around him that we can look back on today. If you are a writer, a poet, an artist or a musician of any kind, now is your time. Catalog these days. Paint portraits of the world as it falls apart and rebuilds itself again. There is more than enough inspiration right now to go around. Draw on the misery around you and turn it into something pure, something beautiful.
I know that this blog was probably one of the more depressing blogs I've penned this week, but don't miss the underlying thread of hope glimmering within the darkness. We write our own future, our own destiny, and right now, as it seems like sky is falling, there's a pen or a paintbrush or a guitar waiting for you to pick it up and show the world what you've seen.
you may not believe it
but there are people
who go through life with
very little
friction of distress.
they dress well, sleep well.
they are contented with
their family
life.
they are undisturbed
and often feel
very good.
and when they die
it is an easy death, usually in their
sleep.
you may not believe
it
but such people do
exist.
but i am not one of
them.
oh no, I am not one of them,
I am not even near
to being
one of
them.
but they
are there
and I am
here.
08 February, 2009
There are No Fair Weather Dreams
I am not a winter girl. I have never been about winter. Born in the second half of May, there is a great longing that begins inside me right around the end of December that is not quelled until I can open the windows for an hour or so each day to start airing out my house. This doesn't usually start in Pennsylvania until the end of March, sometimes the end of April, but these last two days the weather has actually been mild. After spending the last three weeks on edge over temperatures borderlining the negative, yesterday's rising temperatures inspired a bit of hope in this winter weary heart.
My husband thinks I'm crazy. I can't imagine leaving this side of the country because I would feel empty without the change of seasons, but winter weather wears on me so quickly. For years now I've joked that in another life I was a bear because I hibernate the long winter months away, preferring to stay indoors in my comfy clothes, rather than venturing out into the ice and snow. My temper is also just a tad bit higher during the winter months, like a mama bear just daring someone to push her too hard.
The thing is, winter has been a tough time for my family for as long as I can remember. My husband took on a job in the same field as my father because it paid well at the time, but even as a child the housing industry lulled during the winter months. I remember my dad getting laid off from his job, the long months of unemployment barely enough to get our family through. Now my own family struggles through winter under the same pretenses. It's been worse this year than it has been in the entire time my husband's been employed there. For the previous three years he was working half weeks, three day weeks and collecting partial unemployment. This year, he's only worked three days since the New Year dawned.
Despite the financial lag, I enjoy having him around. We get to spend a lot of time together, something that is tough under the strain of his job. During the summer he often worked ten hour days and was required to work at least four on Saturdays. I miss the money, the stability that comes with it, but on the other hand I am reminded of how much he never wanted to take that job in the first place. He is an artist and musician. Plagued by the calling of his craft to create, not being able to answer the muse's whim can be somewhat devastating to one's creativity. Now that he's home, he's been juggling creative projects slowly, trying to regain a sense of what was lost during those long years of slaving for something he really didn't even believe in.
We all do it, and of course I have heard it said, "What else can you do?" I disagree, even though I've been in this situation myself. Suffered through the wrath of disappointments, the hardship of struggling financially through the winter months when work was slow for both of us, but to sacrifice so much of one's self for material gain seems a shame. While I was in college I worked two very flexible jobs, one on campus and one in a restaurant and bar I had worked in on and off for about five years. It was still not enough.
It got me to thinking about all of the gurus out there that talk about doing what you love. There is even a book titled, "Do What You Love and the Money Will Follow." How many of us sacrifice that which we know in our hearts we are meant to do out of fear of failure? Even as we know that if we put our hearts into our dreams, anything is possible. I realize it's difficult to keep that frame of mind when times get tough... even now as the news touts the economic disaster that is our time, there is still possibility. We just refuse to grasp for it out of fear. The thing is, as long as mankind has been recording his history, there has been art, music, stories and even sports.
Sure, we need manufacturers, farmers, computer technicians, teachers... and there are people who are born with that passion in them as well. My mother, for instance, has said for the last fifteen years that all she ever wanted was to be a teacher. So she went back to college, got her degree, became a teacher... And it wasn't easy. Sometimes it's still difficult for her, especially now as it's so hard to find permanent work in our area, but there is potential, and she knows it. My own history hasn't been easy. Since I was ten years old, all I ever wanted was to be a writer. It's how I express myself, how I communicate. I can say things so much more eloquently if I type or write them out, but my own mouth is like a curse, often spewing forth things that don't make sense at all compared to the thoughts I have inside my head. So I've written... I've had my share of minor successes and continue to have them even now. I went to college thinking maybe I should study something that might actually bring me a job, but halfway through my first semester I knew that I was lying to myself. I declared English/Creative Writing as my major despite the hesitation of my advisers.
Why would you want to get an education that isn't going to serve you? That was what one adviser asked me. He told me stories about another girl who majored in art, but worked at Wendy's fast food restaurant now because who was going to hire an art major. But the thing is, my education does serve me. It serves my soul. I know in my heart that despite struggling from time to time, I've made the right choices. I have been true to myself, and I hope you have to. If you haven't, maybe it's time to start listening to your calling. There will always be a need for people to step into places they don't belong, but even greater is the need for people to step into who they are meant to be.
Be yourself. Be true to yourself, and even as the winter months are long, and you find yourself feeling like a bear trapped in a hibernation stupor, remember that the spring will come again. The sun renews the soul and your dreams are waiting for you to remember them.
Believe in yourself
To the depth of your being
Nourish the talents
Your spirit is freeing
Know in your heart
When the going gets slow
That your faith in yourself
Will continue to grow
Don't forfeit ambition
When others may doubt
It's your life to live
You must live it throughout
Learn from your errors
Don't dwell in the past
Never withdraw
From a world that is vast
Believe in yourself
Find the best that is you
Let your spirit prevail
Steer a course that is true
--Author Unknown
My husband thinks I'm crazy. I can't imagine leaving this side of the country because I would feel empty without the change of seasons, but winter weather wears on me so quickly. For years now I've joked that in another life I was a bear because I hibernate the long winter months away, preferring to stay indoors in my comfy clothes, rather than venturing out into the ice and snow. My temper is also just a tad bit higher during the winter months, like a mama bear just daring someone to push her too hard.
The thing is, winter has been a tough time for my family for as long as I can remember. My husband took on a job in the same field as my father because it paid well at the time, but even as a child the housing industry lulled during the winter months. I remember my dad getting laid off from his job, the long months of unemployment barely enough to get our family through. Now my own family struggles through winter under the same pretenses. It's been worse this year than it has been in the entire time my husband's been employed there. For the previous three years he was working half weeks, three day weeks and collecting partial unemployment. This year, he's only worked three days since the New Year dawned.
Despite the financial lag, I enjoy having him around. We get to spend a lot of time together, something that is tough under the strain of his job. During the summer he often worked ten hour days and was required to work at least four on Saturdays. I miss the money, the stability that comes with it, but on the other hand I am reminded of how much he never wanted to take that job in the first place. He is an artist and musician. Plagued by the calling of his craft to create, not being able to answer the muse's whim can be somewhat devastating to one's creativity. Now that he's home, he's been juggling creative projects slowly, trying to regain a sense of what was lost during those long years of slaving for something he really didn't even believe in.
We all do it, and of course I have heard it said, "What else can you do?" I disagree, even though I've been in this situation myself. Suffered through the wrath of disappointments, the hardship of struggling financially through the winter months when work was slow for both of us, but to sacrifice so much of one's self for material gain seems a shame. While I was in college I worked two very flexible jobs, one on campus and one in a restaurant and bar I had worked in on and off for about five years. It was still not enough.
It got me to thinking about all of the gurus out there that talk about doing what you love. There is even a book titled, "Do What You Love and the Money Will Follow." How many of us sacrifice that which we know in our hearts we are meant to do out of fear of failure? Even as we know that if we put our hearts into our dreams, anything is possible. I realize it's difficult to keep that frame of mind when times get tough... even now as the news touts the economic disaster that is our time, there is still possibility. We just refuse to grasp for it out of fear. The thing is, as long as mankind has been recording his history, there has been art, music, stories and even sports.
Sure, we need manufacturers, farmers, computer technicians, teachers... and there are people who are born with that passion in them as well. My mother, for instance, has said for the last fifteen years that all she ever wanted was to be a teacher. So she went back to college, got her degree, became a teacher... And it wasn't easy. Sometimes it's still difficult for her, especially now as it's so hard to find permanent work in our area, but there is potential, and she knows it. My own history hasn't been easy. Since I was ten years old, all I ever wanted was to be a writer. It's how I express myself, how I communicate. I can say things so much more eloquently if I type or write them out, but my own mouth is like a curse, often spewing forth things that don't make sense at all compared to the thoughts I have inside my head. So I've written... I've had my share of minor successes and continue to have them even now. I went to college thinking maybe I should study something that might actually bring me a job, but halfway through my first semester I knew that I was lying to myself. I declared English/Creative Writing as my major despite the hesitation of my advisers.
Why would you want to get an education that isn't going to serve you? That was what one adviser asked me. He told me stories about another girl who majored in art, but worked at Wendy's fast food restaurant now because who was going to hire an art major. But the thing is, my education does serve me. It serves my soul. I know in my heart that despite struggling from time to time, I've made the right choices. I have been true to myself, and I hope you have to. If you haven't, maybe it's time to start listening to your calling. There will always be a need for people to step into places they don't belong, but even greater is the need for people to step into who they are meant to be.
Be yourself. Be true to yourself, and even as the winter months are long, and you find yourself feeling like a bear trapped in a hibernation stupor, remember that the spring will come again. The sun renews the soul and your dreams are waiting for you to remember them.
Believe in yourself
To the depth of your being
Nourish the talents
Your spirit is freeing
Know in your heart
When the going gets slow
That your faith in yourself
Will continue to grow
Don't forfeit ambition
When others may doubt
It's your life to live
You must live it throughout
Learn from your errors
Don't dwell in the past
Never withdraw
From a world that is vast
Believe in yourself
Find the best that is you
Let your spirit prevail
Steer a course that is true
--Author Unknown
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