Balancing Act

IMG_0364It’s Sunday. My apartment is clean, and I just made myself a veggie wrap with spicy hummus, red peppers, cucumbers, spinach, arugula and avocado. It’s one of my go-to healthy meals that doesn’t require a lot of energy to make. Despite the kick, the wrap tasted a little dull this time. I forgot the tomato.

A candle crackles in the background while I write today’s blog. I look out my window, watching tree branches bend and bow to each other, participating in early fall rituals.

In a few hours, I will retrieve my dog from her father’s house. In case you need a refresher, I’m a 29 year part-time owner experiencing what I can safely say is the equivalent of a divorce. I almost married my high school sweetheart and then didn’t.

I didn’t move out by myself. My family and coworkers helped me cobble together a plan of execution. I know good people, and I am loved. But I’m responsible for my own pieces in the aftermath. Some days are better than others. Meals—nourishing myself and being creative about the food I make—is something that keeps me going. Music. But that’s always been the case. I’ve been building a fortress of playlists to come to my aid and comfort during even the most seemingly insignificant expressions of emotion.

One of my playlists is titled, “Hey you’re okay, okay?” and I like to listen to it when I’m sinking deep into my own head. There is a lot of this band called Khruangbin on this playlist. They play a lot of earthy, psychedelic tunes. My friend Alexa and I saw them live once at a music festival. Their mostly instrumental, chillax sound is easy to coast into. The bass guitar really does it for me. The bass player is this groovy broad with heavy bangs.

I often feel aimless and purposeless, despite my continuous motion. My identity feels like it’s in a constant state of flux and the best I can do is flow with it and put it into the familiar outlets that I’ve looked to for years.

Lately, all I want to do is curl up into a ball in my bathtub and cry. Or pet my dog and cry. Her reaction to tears is kind of funny, though. She tries to do the same thing to my tears that she does to bubbles or spiders. She tries to eat them. My dog can make my sadness morph into extreme joy in a matter of seconds.

There are lot of things on my to-do list today. The majority of them involve art.

I want to draw a new sketch and share it. I started an Instagram account for my sketches. I have 32 followers and not exactly counting. I guess I should be following others, commenting, and following the trail of hashtags or whatever, but I’m just more interested in getting some content out there right now. Keep moving. Connect with others who are hopefully not bots as I go along.  There are millions of bullshit accounts out there, and I’m not wasting my energy on trying to Holden Caulfield my way through Instagram.

A year ago, I took a night class for drawing. I learned that I don’t plan enough and I commit to the same areas for far too long. I want my own signature style, which avoids the detail-rich realism that requires me to take weeks and weeks to complete one single piece. I still like deep shading and accuracy, but I think I need to focus more on what I feel compelled to draw and less on what seems right.

I also have a writing group I want to submit something for. I created this group with a few of my other writer friends, and we’ve been on and off again about it for years. It certainly has turned into some great pieces from all of us. I really enjoy their feedback, and give my best back. These women have helped me grow personally, and they have even helped me produce material that I have gone on to publish in small indie mags. It’s nice to find a home for your writing.

Writing group meets once a month, and we usually talk and eat a bunch of dips and veggies together. Last group, Alexa’s table spread featured cinnamon pita chips and chocolate hummus. Dear god, if you haven’t had the pleasure, you need to get on that.

And apparently I started getting into singing and tinkering with my keyboards again, which was more of a childhood love, but it’s making a clunky comeback. I’m not sure who is louder, the 10-year-old who lives upstairs from me and sprints from one end of her apartment various times during the day. Or me, as I botch up the chorus line of a song that only has four different chords.

I want one big, fat artistic life in the meantime of trying to support myself. I know I’m not the only artistic individual who knows all too well what this balancing feels like. Maybe you have poor coordination and wobble back and forth like me.

I’ve realized that I’m fortunate because wherever I am, whatever I do, I will always try to find to way to carve out time to be in active engagement with my soul. This need will never die, so I might as well keep feeding it.

Bath time with Frida Kahlo

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I’ve been thumbing through, “The Diary of Frida Kahlo: An Intimate Self-Portrait,” for the past week or so. It appeals to me that someone can use both writing and drawing at the same time, in the same place, to capture their inner world.

I knew very little about Frida. Just that she had a sweet unibrow. And I could recognize her famous self-portraits like a lot of people. A few months ago I bought a pair of bottle cap earrings with quarter-sized portraits of her painted onto them. I wore them around a music festival I attended with a friend. A lot of people were delighted at the sight of Frida dangling from my earlobes.

All but one of the drawings in this diary I’m reading never made it out. It was her space to make sense of things. I had to read the translated notes because I don’t understand Spanish, but I still found myself examining her multi-colored writing. She wrote in colored pencil and left scratch marks and scribbles, as one would do with a pen. It’s nice to know someone as regarded as she had visible second and third thoughts, could allow herself to stumble on paper.

It turns out she was quite the writer too. Here is one of my favorite letters, one of the many written to her beloved Diego:

Diego,
Truth is, so great, that I
wouldn’t like to speak, or sleep,
or listen, or love.
To feel myself trapped, with no fear
of blood, outside time and magic,
within your own fear,
and your great anguish, and
within the very beating of your heart.
All this madness, if I asked it of you,
I know, in your silence, there would be
only confusion.
I ask you for violence, in the nonsense,
and you, you give me grace, your light and
your warmth.
I’d like to paint you, but there are no colors,
because there are so many, in my
confusion, the tangible form
of my great love.

Frida suffered from a lot of physical ailments throughout her life. She beat polio in her childhood, and in her later years was in a near fatal accident that left her physically impaired for the rest of her life. She had close to 35 operations in her lifetime, and was unable to bear children. Much of her art depicts misplaced body parts, parts outside her body. And a spiritual and sexual longing to reproduce. It’s no wonder she painted so many self-portraits. Despite her immense pain, she found a way to steal her own joy and find love in her life.

Many consider her to be Mexican hero, who appealed to Mexican women and more broadly to the plights of women everywhere, but a lot of her critics thought her work was intensely self-directed and incapable of moving past self.

“I paint myself because I am so often alone and because I am the subject I know best,” the artist once said.

Essayist Sarah M Lowe wrote, “Her work was deemed so excessively personal and self-referential that it is thought incapable of expressing universal emotions or the human condition. In time, her self-portraits, though they never cease to shock, have overcome some of the prejudices against women painting their own lives.”

I started drawing women in bathtubs a few months ago. I’m not exactly sure of the reasoning behind the choice of vessel. I know that both baths and drawing calm me down when I’m feeling overwhelmed by the weight of things.

And baths are where some of my best ideas have come from.

In a college writing class I wrote a metafictional story about this woman who takes a bath and gets the idea to write the story of her life. There’s a talking shower head that is encouraging her to write and also shouting innuendos.

The woman rockets from the bath in a Eureka-like moment, water spilling all around her and plummeting to the carpet. She runs butt naked into her garage and wrenches out these old, dusty bins filled with her old journals.

She searches one of her journals frantically, dampening the pages with the water falling from her hair. She finds the passage that is supposed to help her define this moment of certainty. She realizes the passage is in fact not the missing piece she needs to solve her life story. She’s frustrated at her younger self for leaving such a poorly constructed record of her life. She scoffs and criticizes every line in that single passage then moves onto mocking some others. Finally, she flings the journal across the room.

Looking back at this piece, I realize it was about my idea process and the frustration I face in creation, particularly writing. When I have an idea, I feel that well-known mania, and I need to write. RIGHT NOW. URGENT HURRY. A lot of times I lose the feeling. Then I over complicate the idea. I rage about the hopelessness of memory. The idea vanishes as quickly as it comes.

Drawing these bathtubs was my way of coping with my issues with writing. I love these hours I spend shading, erasing, coloring. It’s obvious I don’t have formal training, but this doesn’t stop me from getting better and sharing my work. Putting my work out there has only made me feel braver.

For now, the bathtubs seem to be working. Drawing has helped me reunite with writing. I’d like the two to become friends. Like my girl Frida, I’d like a space where I can combine both worlds.

Why I blog

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So it’s been well over four years since I started this blog, and I have a confession to make: I didn’t know where I was going with it, but I’d like to know going forward.

I wrote some poems, some stories, some rants, some day recaps, some reviews. Little of this and that. Not a whole lot of themes or intent, just doing.

I’m okay admitting this. I started this blog not really knowing a whole lot about blogging and just needing an outlet. Maybe I would write things that relate to other people. Maybe not.

I enjoy literary writing, which requires a good deal of time and thought. I’m proud of a lot of those pieces and wanted them to be shared outside my blog in a collection with other strong writing. I have sent a lot of my work to small lit presses. I waited months for a response. Sometimes, I didn’t want to wait and posted on my blog.

Writers and people before me who have a thing to say or two about writing have always said this: write for yourself first. And if anything else, I’m happy that I have been able to do this in my lifetime.

Reasons I write

  1. Emotional release
  2. To know more about myself and what I think, even if it’s hard to articulate
  3. The craft of writing. Because getting better at something I like is fun.
  4. To connect with other people
  5. To create a name for myself

Emotional release

Writing for emotional release and understanding is a well-known use of the trade. Emotions are complex, beautiful beasts and if you don’t spend getting time to know them and how you use them, life can get pretty hazy. Not saying writing is the only way to get intimate with your emotions, but it’s my way of doing so.

To know myself

I want to know what I think and why I think that. Being authentic, no matter how painful it is and what I learn about myself, has always been one of my life goals.

It’s so easy to get caught up in what other people think, especially when we’re connected to each other’s opinions and thoughts more than ever before. This blog was supposed to be a spot where my thoughts could free fall. I say “supposed to” because I think I went through a few big life phases during this blog, but was unable to fully capture this experience openly. Because I was afraid of what other people think about me.

Along the way I also learned about “boundaries” and have grown to appreciate my privacy. I allowed myself to go through these changes on the other side of this blog. I write very personal things, and sometimes I’m not always aware of how this information can open myself up in vulnerable ways that some people may try to take advantage of. People who are not actively trying to understand their emotions tend to do this, and are not always aware of or care about how their emotional responses affect other people.

That being said, I’d like to continue to write what I mean in the best way possible, regardless of how others use their emotions.

The craft

I’ve spent more time and energy on writing than I have on any other passion or skill in my life. Why stop now? I’m not a perfect writer, and I don’t intend to be, but I’m not done learning. Do you see the headings I’m using in this blog? I more recently learned why that’s important for a reading experience. Learning about writing and implementing what I learn is very rewarding to me.

Don’t get me wrong: writing is still pure agony. But then the agony is also plain fun. And maybe that’s sadistic, but there are worse things.

To connect with other people

Notice that “to connect with other people” is fourth. Especially for writers trying to figure out their groove and niches, writing for people before knowing what interests you is not something I and others who write recommend.

That being said, I care about my work being read. A few months ago a woman commented on my blog about combatting anxiety. I appreciated her comment and thought about it a lot.

To make a name for myself

I still struggle with this one just as a lot of writers and people who want to be known for something they put a lot of heart and time into something do. Because I care about the artistic experience, I don’t want to come out with quick, easy material that isn’t accomplishing my emotional and self-awareness needs in writing for the sake of being provocative and being known.

However, marketing myself and being confident about my talents needs to be on this list. I want people to know me, and I think it can be accomplished since I require a lot of honesty with myself.

What I dig

Since starting this blog, here is what I learned that I like to write:

  1. Poetry
  2. What I’m reading or watching
  3. Current events
  4. Travel logs
  5. Stories
  6. First hand accounts

I have always been overwhelmed by my amount of creative interests, which is why I tried not to limit the types of content on this experimental platform I created for myself. I even started putting my sketches on this site, which is another creative interest I tacked onto my interest load.

This has made planning and consistency for this blog highly problematic. The amount of times I overthought form and ended up with no blog at all is very frustrating to me. And looking at this blog as a whole entity is also very interesting and confusing to me.

Blogs you liked the most

Writers are nothing without their readers. And that’s where I’d like to improve this year. I renewed this blog because I’d like to be more consistent, open and aware of my audience.

Here are the blogs you viewed/liked the most:

What this list tells me is that people tend to click and engage with posts about my family, sex, life goals, best tips and relationships the most. This makes sense because they are the most articulate and often openly emotional.

Based off the stats I have on this blog, I also learned that 2015 was my best year. I posted only 15 blogs that year, but received the most amount of views. It would appear that in my case quality over quantity makes a big difference.

I’m sure I could spend a lot longer on analytics. I’m telling you about them because I want you to know that I care about what both you and I like and want to create more of it. In reorganizing this blog and strategizing from this point forward, I will be more consciousness of what content works and doesn’t.

In the end, this stuff does come from the crevices of my heart, so it means a great deal that you would choose to spend time on it. Life is short and your time is important. Thank you for reading!

My favorite spot is your favorite spot

35267152_10217184344425649_608698351625437184_nThe mountains are calling, and I must go. Cool, but when I can’t make it to the mountains, I’ll happily settle for my favorite nature spot, which is ten measly minutes away from my house.

It’s a grove that’s tucked behind a woodsy, unincorporated community. It features a dusty, gravel trail wrapped around a man-made pond people enjoy fishing in. There’s a grassy knoll I sometimes force myself to scale. I call it Three Trees Hill even though there’s way more than three trees that greet you at the top of it. I’m super lazy with titles.

I like this spot because there’s no more than four to five people there at a time. And everyone winks at each other like we’re all in on some big secret about being there.

Today I sported my new favorite shirt (this blog has a few of my favorite things). I bought this shirt from a street cart in Boston. It’s royal blue with white lettering. It says: WICKED SMAHT.

I know, how touristy.

But there’s brilliance in running in a shirt like this if you’re particularly self-conscious about your body. People will judge your form the second it appears in their plain view. Because that’s what we do. We’re trained from the womb to assess each other’s sacks of flesh and bone. How much control we have over it and how much work we put into it.

Here’s the fun part: when people assess my body and assign a term to it while I’m wearing this shirt, they’re distracted by the terminology I’ve thrown out at them without any introduction, without vocality.

WICKED SMAHT.

I catch three walkers and a cyclist scanning the words with their eyes. They seem to accept my projection, offering me sly smirks in return as I run toward them, breathing in heavy, inconsistent breaths.

After I get over myself and my total win of a shirt, I focus on the residue of the day. Today was a good one but a hard one. At work, I received the most amount of feedback I’ve received in a while. I felt the full weight of it still sitting on my shoulders and wrapped around my neck like an itchy scarf.

I just started a new job, and I’m relearning the way I’ve been doing things for the past four years. My new job calls for me to be free-falling, fun, inventive. It’s what I wanted, but in starting off, I realize I’m unsure what to do with all the white space that clashes with the constraints of time.

I’m a writer. I can make magic when I put my mind to it, when my mind isn’t trying to unravel me and wear me down. I’m one of those fortunate souls who has known what I’m good at and what I like to do. But when I’m writing about a brand new topic I’m unfamiliar with, I can feel myself scraping around in the dark for information. When words leave my fingers they feel clownish, contrived. I don’t want my reader to think I don’t give a fuck.

Because dear reader, I give a fuck.

So here I am running and thinking about writing and readers, and this deer pops its head out of a patch of pussy willows, or what I’m calling pussy willows because it’s fun to say. The deer flicks its ears and pretends not to exist. My stomach backflips at the sight of this doe-eyed discovery. 35329201_10217184348265745_1398846757835636736_nThis is the part where I try to concentrate real hard on the stress I’m clenching in my body’s tightest sections. This is the part where I give myself away to the deer. My favorite spot is your favorite spot. You can see deer anywhere if you look closely.

And if you look deep enough into the eyes of a red-winged blackbird you’ll find murder. Because they’re crazy this time of year. Trust me on this one. You’re probably interrupting their bone session if you’re anywhere near them right now. In flight, they look as burly as football players, with fiery red shoulder pads. Don’t mess with these bad to the bone birds.

I run. The wetness on my back is soothing, reassuring. Maybe I can outrun the mosquitos’ thirst. Maybe I’ll see my work the way I see the flutter of wings, rotted bark, or insect eggs on leaves. I’m waiting to catch my breath, and then it floods my lungs. I’m a blur, whirling through curls of green.

I have to stop running at some point. There’s a cotton candy pink sunset sitting on the horizon like the ultimate dessert of the day. I thank it, think of it as a reward for working my problems out here. The water and sky accept my honesty. They pat me on the back with their long, wisps of arms.35296111_10217184344225644_7128660158099488768_n (2)The four other trailblazers and I stand still as deer in our respective places along the trail, wordlessly uttering our silences. Together, we eat the sunset.

Someone

“Someone” needs to unplug my brain
or allow me to be in a space
where I can play with it
like a cat with yarn.

But I’ve never been much of a cat person.
I like dogs for their bliss
and birds for their flight and paranoia.

It’s true what they say, a job,
at least any old job is a trap,
and 9 to 5 is man made
and wrapped in barbed,
electrified strings
that zap you awake
but not wide enough.

And sometimes you forget the way
your throat tends to move
when it’s fed words.

And that “someone” is me, right?

Except that someone seems so strange
to me right now.
So hidden, creepy-crawly,
rag-dolly.

I never thought words
could make an enemy of me.

They were supposed to be
flutters of light.

Dandelion-like.

This was supposed to come with sprinkles,
and the icing is dry.

And sure, I have secrets that paralyze me,
play me dead,
but it’s the open-ended questions
that consume me.

The lose-yourself-in-the-music
kind of symptoms that come
with hearty pep talks.

But not only music.
Everything.

Lose yourself in everything?
What kind of advice is that
for people who choose to be planted
in perfectly pleasant pleasantries?

Oh, but there’s so much more,
they say with their dewy eyes
that are so easy to get lost in.

You know the flower children I speak of,
they grab your hand and drag you
through a row of sunflowers
drinking sun in the wind.

You tell them it’s getting late,
and you have to get back.

I love and hate them
for clasping the galaxies
swimming around their heads
and daring them to jump.

Annie Dillard in present time: Thoughts on “The Abundance”

I started reading “The Abundance,” a compilation of some of Annie Dillard’s best, most badass, or as editor Geoff Dyer puts it, “genre-resistant” essays.

Overall, I like to write about traveling, so I find this work inspiring and stimulating so far. I appreciate Dillard’s tendency to sidetrack, to run away with something, and turn an observation on its head.

The first story is about Annie’s travels to Yakima, Washington to watch a total eclipse with her husband.

The first sentence that punched me in the gut was about how when we see something in nature so stupefyingly beautiful, we don’t know how to speak up for ourselves. It’s like those questions we get when we’re in the midst of kissing someone we’re beyond excited to kiss: what am I supposed to do with my hands? Oh yeah, and which way to Earth?

I remember driving through Sequoia National Park with Sean. Climbing and climbing and all those hairpin turns. The green valley sinking beneath the weight of mountains. Mountains shrouded in clouds. I shivered, taking them in. But I couldn’t for the life of me come up with a damn thing to say. I was practically drooling. A dog with her head out the window, overwhelmed by the blur of smell and sight. Dillard described this failing of words as something quite endearingly foolish. She also breaks down the “I could hardly breathe” cliché to illustrate the experience we have when we are overcome by awe.

“I watched the landscape innocently, like a fool, like a diver in the rapture of the deep who plays on the bottom while his air runs out.”

It’s interesting that the beginning of the story starts out in a hotel, where Dillard is preparing herself for her adventure in the sky. She sees a creepy painting of a clown hanging on the wall in the hotel lobby. Only, the clown’s features are made up of vegetables.

“The crinkled shadows around his eyes were string beans. His eyebrows were parsley. Each of his ears was a broad bean. His thin, joyful lips were red chili peppers; between his lips were wet rows of human teeth and a suggestion of real tongue. The clown print was framed in gilt and glassed.”

This is obviously not a usual way to depict a clown, which is perhaps why it sticks in her memory so clearly. We’ve seen them depicted the same way for so long; we don’t question the red nose, the frazzled, rainbow wig, the chalky face paint. What about a clown made of vegetables? Is funnier? Is it sadder? Is it a more pronounced distortion of meaning? It is those unruly and juxtaposed things in nature that stick with us, maybe even change us. It is up to us to describe the indescribable. This is what Dillard seems to say when we encounter something that is beyond the confines of language.

When Dillard actually sees the eclipse, she describes its alien-like appearance, its fleeting definition. She and a bunch of other observers who have gathered to watch don’t know how to take it. They scream. She screams. It’s terrifying because it doesn’t make sense to see the world in this way.

“From all the hills came screams. A piece of sky beside the crescent sun was detaching, a loosened circle of evening sky, suddenly lighted from the back. It was an abrupt black body out of nowhere; it was a flat disk; it was almost over the sun. That’s when the screams began.”

It’s suddenly dark, like the sky closed a lid. It’s soundless and unsettling. Like there’s nothing, “no world at all.” It feels like death; like they’re all dead and floating, Dillard describes.

“Abruptly it was a dark night, on the land and in the sky. In the night sky was a tiny ring of light. For the hole where the sun belongs is very small. Just a thin ring of light marked its place. There was no sound. The eyes dried, the arteries drained, the lungs hushed. There was no world. We were the world’s dead people rotating and orbiting around and around, embedded in the planet’s crust, while the earth tolled down.”

She grabs for a definition, but realizes that it isn’t within the common vocab of the human experience. Those especially who lack an understanding of astronomy, she says, will not be able to understand its magnitude in these more tangible terms. But then she goes on to point out scientific theory fallibility, which can’t account for all the sheer wonder found within a firsthand account, an unknowing eyewitness. You don’t have to know numbers and figures to experience the fullness of such a phenomenon. The knowledge you have may actually get in the way, or “blind you” to experiencing something in a new light. With any given experience we have to make sure that we ourselves don’t become eclipsed, she seems to say here.

“What you see in a total eclipse is entirely different from what you know. It is especially different for those of us whose grasp of astronomy is so frail that, given a flashlight, a grapefruit, two oranges, and fifteen years, we still could not figure out which way to set the clocks for daylight saving time. Usually it is a bit of a trick to keep your knowledge from blinding you. But during an eclipse it is easy. What you see is much more convincing than any wild-eyed theory you may know.”

I also just read “The Deer at Providencia,” which is about Dillard’s travels through the village of Providencia in Ecuador. This section focuses on one overarching image — a deer that has been captured and tied to a tree. It desperately tries to escape, cutting itself on the ropes. It’s a violent scene that made me want to stop reading.

“Its neck was no thicker than my wrist; it had been rubbed open on the rope, and gashed. Trying to get itself free of the rope, the deer had cut its own neck with its hooves. The raw underside of its neck showed red stripes and some bruises bleeding inside the skin. Now three of its feet were hooked in the rope under its jaw.”

She watches the deer tire itself. It goes on for 15 minutes. During this time, Dillard’s unfazed expression at the flailing deer is also noted.

Dillard’s travel companions, who were all from big cities, were taken aback by her detachment of the scene of suffering they all witnessed.

She asks them, “Gentleman of the city, what surprises you? That there is suffering here, or that I know of it?”

One man explains, “If it had been my wife … she wouldn’t have cared what was going on; she would have dropped everything right at that moment and gone in the village from here to there, she would not have stopped until that animal was out of its suffering one way or another. She couldn’t bear to see a creature in agony like that.”

Later when Dillard arrives home, she looks in her mirror. Taped to the corner of her mirror, is a newspaper clipping of a severely burned man, someone who had experienced devastating burn not for the first, but for the second time in his life. Every day, the clipping explains, he lies awake in pain wanting to die. Dillard reads this same story every day so she knows that pain like his exists.

“I read the whole clipping again every morning. This is the Big Time here, every minute of it. Will someone please explain to Alan McDonald in his dignity, to the deer at Providencia in his dignity, what is going on? And copy me on it.”

It’s an interesting take on suffering that I think a lot of people disagree with. Is it enough to know? Is it enough to read the newspaper? Shouldn’t we alleviate? Many of us would argue, yes. A lot of us (especially women, as the city gentleman seems to hint) would go running toward the deer or at least squirm in anguish at the sight of something so horrific and sad.

But I think Dillard makes an interesting statement that not a lot of us can accept for some reason or the other. Suffering happens, and the majority of it goes on with our input or non-input. She seems to say no being (animal or non-animal) has more or less dignity than the next, but also seems to remind us that their suffering is a part of nature. That there is no full-proof explanation for why one suffers and why one does not.

The world is never entirely cured of some things. This is the way it functions. Mothers suffer from autoimmune diseases. People are burned in accidents. Deer die in sad ways. Etc. This is a difficult concept to face. Dillard argues that we need to face it, be present, and understand it the best we can.

What I like most about Dillard’s travel log style, is her presentness, and that she does not have a “conqueror” complex. She does not demand something of her environment. She lets it speak to her and through her. With both stories I’ve read so far, from her point of view, it is not in her interest to control the experience while she is experiencing it. Rather, she is there to simply experience and see where her presentness of the moment carries her later on the page. When there is a gap in memory or capability she injects her own special brand of wildness. These are the parts of her stories where the bottom suddenly drops out, where everything seems the same, yet inverted.

Flipping off my baby

I wrote one personal essay that was published in a small online publication for emerging writers. This was my first. I’m moderately happy about it. I guess. Let’s pretend I didn’t forget how to walk and royally fuck up my knee on the third flight of stairs leading to my apartment after I read the acceptance email. Let’s pretend I didn’t dance in my living room in my sports bra and granny panties when I read it a second time.

After months and months of shooting in the dark as a writer without a name, getting someone to notice you at all is kind of hard. Maybe you know exactly what I mean. But someone did, and I’m very grateful for it. If you’re so interested in reading my piece (I swear I will only do this self-promotion once) you can find it here: http://birdsthumb.org/july-2015/2015/7/1/whoopie-pie

Anyway this piece really worked for me. I was proud of it enough to send it off somewhere. It’s my baby, but it’s also the bane of my existence at this point in time.

I’m looking to tackle writing from this kind of lens again, but I’m kind of left scratching my butt right now. How did I do that? I keep asking myself. Do it again. Yeah, just like that, I say. Like it’s algebra. And when I try to write in the same sort of fashion, it falls a part in my pan like a poorly made omelet. Too much milk? I wonder. I should have probably sprayed the pan first, huh? The truth is it was one of those unicorn pieces a writer has that happens on paper without very much constipated thought. It just kind of happened, and I ran with it.

I recently saw this photo collage on Facebook or something of a mother flipping off her newborn child. She made it clear she absolutely loves her new baby, but that she doesn’t appreciate when her baby doesn’t let her sleep more than one hour every night. So she flips her sleeping baby the bird. And the baby is none the wiser. My experience with my piece is kind of like that. I love my baby, but my baby is kind of tormenting me.

6 word narratives

I have been writing a lot, but not posting to my blog because I’m kind of confused about what to do with my content. I’ve been submitting a few things to contests and literary magazines, and deleting various things off my blog to avoid the “no previous publishing, including blogs” rule that seems to reside in most submission guidelines. This is totally understandable, but I kind of miss my blog. I’ve been seeing a lot of these 6 word (10 etc) narratives floating around lately. I wrote them for submission, but now I’m deciding I just kind of want to share them here.

If you have any ideas or your own experience on how to separate (or don’t) your blog content from what you want to see in print, I’d most definitely appreciate hearing about it.

In other news, here is my attempt at 6 word narratives. I realize some of them paint a larger story while some read like punchlines, and wish to improve those. Feedback is most welcome. This was an awesome exercise that I’m planning on doing again. Next time, I will probably end up with less, but that’s okay. You will have fun too, I’m sure.

Bathroom love
Bathroom stalls tell me I’m beautiful.

Passerby
Lock your doors! Black man!
No.

Bully
I’ll teach that cyberbully a lesson.

One and only
The man for me is dead.

After work relaxation
I hear oceans in wine glasses.

Coming and going
My boyfriend pulls out…the driveway.

Grocery shopping
NEW! Soap Paper Towels are unnecessary.

Inner child
My shrink is a little boy.

School’s out forever
I will pay attention this time.

Baby
Childless. A baby can mean anything.

Nine to five
Co-workers talk about weather. The end.

Gravedigger
Grandma’s body is in Grandpa’s grave.

It’s a date
The automated voice message called back.

Hired
New hire was fired years ago.

Snap
Customer snaps his fingers. Waitress snaps.

The order
Blowjob with fries, please. Thank you.

Breaking news
6 word stories read like headlines.

How to reach an audience
Writers somewhere between confidence and humility.

Friday night

Friday = a half glass of some cheap red blend that I keep losing.

I read somewhere on one of those annoying listicles that one of the unspoken rules is not to be on social media while intoxicated.

Pssssh. Well, I’m not.

I will say some listicles are better than others. Just like how some horoscopes seem to fit.

I can hear Sean playing Mortal Kombat through the walls. FINISH HIM. Some bloody maneuver. A severed head, a spine cracked in two.

I’m writing. I’ve got about a half page. It’s shitty shit, but I suppose I’ll keep going just in case it’s not tomorrow.

Peer-to-peer inspiration

I have the privilege to review a screenplay. And it’s really good, too. I won’t talk too much about it. 1. I’m only 10 pages into it. 2. The writer is still at work. Not being sexist, ( let’s be real, most of my favorite writers are pissed off hermit white dudes), but I’m doubly excited because it’s written by a chick. She is someone I would have never thought of approaching in my younger days, but here we are connecting over our craving for writing, connecting over finally connecting to who we are becoming. I’m excited to keep reading.

Taking a long time to warm up to smart people who also inspire me is a pattern with me. But when I do, I’m hard to shake.

My friends and I started a writing group not that long ago. It’s all I want to think about most days. They all have their own thing going — metafiction, fables, a day in the life. I get to live through many eyes and backspacing fingers. I get to see writing planted. We write, it rains, and then there are little buds poking from the soil. I get to see stories alive and growing. I see my friends, and they’re writers in motion. For a lack of prettified language because it’s getting late: it’s freaking fantastic.

Just recently, one of my group members came up with an assignment. We were to make a list of all the things we’ve written thus far. It’s something to see. Everyone has a little list — bits and pieces of ourselves that we’ve shown to each other in different lights. So far I have a quarter of a book, several poems and essays, and three short stories. I had never written a short story prior to joining this group, but now I have nine versions of the same short story. It was better after I made every round of edits, and my group members fixed their beady eyes in between the lines. I’ve gotten really good with criticism. I take most of what people throw at me, but then at times I defend what I really want to savor for my own.

But you know what’s awesome? Finally getting to that point in your life where you can be surrounded by talented people, learn from them, and cheer them on. And in turn, having that come back to you.

“You” who was intimidated by smart, talented people because you didn’t feel like you measured up, that maybe you were just an open mouth, that maybe you were unrefined, classless. That maybe people didn’t want to listen because you spit your gritty words in their faces. But then you changed your tune. You found a way to love through the holes of yourself and reached the other side. You couldn’t see, only feel your way around. Someone was there. Someone reached back. Sometimes loving in the dark overtook you. You were mistaken for fickle, fucked up, emotional, and loose. Sometimes you let yourself believe that you were only these things.

And when I say YOU I mean me, but maybe you can relate.