No more tapping

It's official. Attempting to meet a deadline with a completed article this morning, I realize that while I can write at my computer, I can't finish writing at my computer.  I've spent the last half hour typing, deleting, and retyping the same sentence over and over again.

While I'm sure the editor would appreciate a polished, practically perfect piece, no doubt a done and dusted piece would be appreciated more.

NaNoWriMo taught me that putting pen to paper and keeping it moving keeps the thoughts flowing as well as the ink. I'm more willing to let less than stellar sentences rest on the page, knowing I'll clean and buff them all before I hand the whole thing in. I know the aim is to lay the structure down, get the main ideas out, figure out the tone and the point I want to make. In comparison, tapping the keys is about not making any mistakes.

So I hereby resolve there shall be no more tapping 'til the writing's done.

Five sentence fiction: Ache

From Lillie McFerrin Writes

The prompt was "Ache".  The word itself doesn't appear in these five sentences, but I hope ache is present in the words below.

Ache

 

The house is quiet; still as the dusty bars of sunlight laying on the floor; as silent as the phone that doesn’t ring.  In the drive sits a car, full to the windows with memories stuffed in boxes; memories that once filled the nooks and crannies of these empty rooms. Empty as the crib in the corner. The heels of my shoes echo down the hall to the door, ghosts of other hearts beating under this roof. I watch as the memory of my palm fades from the glass until there is nothing left of me here.

 

 

Questions, writerly

My curiosity would like to ask the writers among you a few questions. Please forgive my inquisitiveness, but as writing is such a solitary pursuit, I find myself wondering what the experience is like for others.

Are you able to devote concentrated amounts of time to writing in a day, or do you cobble together stolen moments in a notebook?

Writing often looks like doing nothing. You can be writing while seemingly daydreaming or doing the dishes or baking banana bread. It can mean hours of pulling out your hair to produce one imperfect paragraph or (less likely) a half hour session can produce a fully edited page of perfection. Are the people in your life understanding of the sometimes vague, intangible, immeasurable nature of writing?

Do you have a business-like approach to writing in that you assign yourself a topic or a word count and just get 'er done -- even if you're not feelin' it? Or do you court the muse?

Do you set yourself challenges, either for the fun of it, or for the purposes of growth and skill (like tackling steampunk when you're really more of features writer)? Do you think you can produce something honest, real, and true... can it be really and truly good... if it in some way suppresses your voice?

What qualifies a person to be a writer?

**~**

Thank you for the replies!

Busted and Baileys

Let us right off the bat agree that we shall not mention how long it has been since I've written anything here.  Do we have a deal?
Excellent!

Have you ever been out and about during the course of your day, having an idea of  yourself based on how you looked before leaving your house (possibly due to some extended primping and preparation) only to come home hours later to look in the mirror and discover you were so far off the mark the story of your day could be about two entirely different people?

I had one of those days just recently, and sadly I must report that it wasn't the first, and considering who we're talking about here, it won't be the last.

An important lesson the day taught me is this: nature always wins. It wins against blow dryers and flat irons; it wins against mascara and pressed powder; it wins against carefully chosen shoes that were a compromise between the sturdy winter boots I should have worn and the cute Mary Jane pumps I wanted to wear; it wins against the loose-knit hat that did nothing to keep my nose from turning red and, err, leaking.

Importantly, and rather too tardily, I also learned to always listen to that inner voice that suggests that all might not be as it should be in the zipper region of one's slacks.

Furthermore, the first time one hears oneself making car sounds whilst driving an actual car (with a virtual stranger in the passenger seat) one should take note of how odd it is to do so, and desist immediately, and not go on to do it a second time. One wonders why one chose that precise moment to do such a things for the very first time in one's life.

(Applying the lessons to 'one' rather than to 'me' makes them easier to bear. This is a practice I may adopt permanently)

Needless to say, arriving back home limp-haired, racoon-eyed, sodden-footed, unzipped, and dripping-nosed, I was grateful to have survived the day in one piece, but withdrew from whatever fun and frolic it may yet have had on offer to console myself with my friend Bailey. On ice.

Of flip phones, disco balls, and tangerines

I miss my flip phone. It was satisfyingly final to snap it shut.  Plus, I knew for sure the thing was off when it was closed.  I don't how many times since I got a smart phone (not an entirely apt appellation) I've thought the call was disconnected, only to later hear an automated voice ask me if I'm still there.

There is always - always - a moment of 'oh good grief' in a job interview. On one occasion it was the unfortunate combination of dry mouth and nervous smile resulting in a permanent and awkward smile as my upper lip stuck to my teeth. Trying to prevent that unfortunate situation, I applied a liberal - though professional - amount of lip gloss prior to an interview this week.  There was no fixed-lip grimace this time. No, instead, the gloss clumped in the corners of my mouth, and in my imagination they became the size of ping-pong balls, and as they were glossy, like disco balls they were catching and reflecting all the light in the room, dazzling and distracting the interviewing panel.  Oh, and between the warmth of the room, my nerves, and my embarrassment at the mini disco balls on my face, my cheeks got hotter and hotter and I'm sure redder and redder as time went on.
Awesome.

The one consolation to this season of apples and pears, and apples and pears (how I miss the berries and peaches!) is the Christmas tangerine.  I've been known to eat them like candy - as many as 12 a day. However, it is not possible to eat twelve tangerines a day every day for long. Eventually the little cuties sit in the fruit bowl for so long they begin to shrink in on themselves inside the peel. What's a girl to do with a bowl of nearly dried up tangerines?  (The really good ones are not sold individually but in crates or plastic nets in large quantities. Once the festive visiting season is over, what seemed a reasonable pile of tangerines now seems mountainous) Well, what this girl did is add a goodly amount of tangerine juice to gelatin, a splash of rum, and some condensed milk. Once refrigerated, it was a cool and creamy, light and tangy dessert.  Yum!  Of course anything with a splash of rum must be good, no?

Of words, and Alf, and balls of yarn.

Any artist or craftsman can tell you how revealing it is at times to lay your work out for public consumption. I think any work of art or craftsmanship contains something of its creator. Perhaps the better the work, the more of the creator there is to be found.

I've experienced that as a writer. There have been pieces I've written that have me fairly squirming in discomfort to know that the words are out there for other eyes to see; that my construction of thoughts and sentences were then vulnerable to criticism, judgement, or even worse: disregard.

To my great surprise, I am now experiencing that vulnerability in reverse. I have been asked to proof a dissertation. Because the stakes are so high, and because I'm being paid which makes it a professional necessity, I am reading this document with more focused attention than I have with anything else in a long time. Not merely reading - it is scrupulous scrutiny.  It isn't my place to question the thesis, doubt the research, or judge the conclusion, but it is my job to ask every comma to justify itself, to test the construction of each sentence, to evaluate the structure of all quotations.

I read and reread every paragraph, and there are many of them. I have spent over 12 hours on this paper so far. That time and attention has lead me into the mind of its creator I now feel acquainted with the author on a level not achieved in all our personal dealings in real life, now stretching over several years. That intimacy is almost... too intimate.

There is a book I enjoy reading again and again, a trilogy actually, by Judith Tarr called The Hound and the Falcon. One of the characters, Alf, is able to see a person's mind. He sees them as tapestries or tangled skeins of yarn, or clear pathways.  I often wonder what Alf would think of my mind when I'm trying to untangle my thoughts.  A friend of mine, Father A, has a beautifully clear, organized and disciplined mind. Alf would delight in it.  I feel a little like Alf in this dissertation situation.  Not that I have any insight into the writer's being, but I feel I have been granted a glimpse of his mind, and that is something we usually guard from other people. I know I like to keep my tangled yarn to myself, which is why it is a disconcerting experience to share my 'true' writing (rather than the stuff that doesn't really mean anything.)

I don't know how to end this, or even why I'm sharing it.  I'm feeling somewhat abashed, or even a little embarrassed. Have you ever experienced something like this?

Prosit Neujahr

Hello Dear Reader!  Happy New Year.  Can you believe it is 2014?  Two thousand and fourteen!  As recently as the 90s I was sure that the two thousand and teens were so far in the future that I'd be too ancient to have anything in common with who I was back then. Yet here we are, with not a hint of flying cars (though some can park themselves, which is a nifty trick) and - thankfully - we're not wearing Star Trek jumpsuits. I feel like the same person I was in the last millennium, but I know there are some differences: I can no longer sleep on the floor, I don't much like modern music (the exceptions I consider to be 'real' music rather than modern), I no longer feel guilty for not finishing every book I begin, I'm better at saying no, and I've learned I'm capable of more than I thought. I know that I'm ok on my own, and I like who I'm becoming - though I annoy the snot out of myself at times.

There hasn't been much going on here at The Lighthouse for a month or more. I'm still not sure what I'm going to do here, as it is no longer a chronicle of my life with The Peanuts (I sure do miss CTKS) and I'm not sure this is the place to work out my inner demons. I'm feeling the itch to take it up again, whatever it is. I guess it will be what it will be.

I've managed to do some writing, getting a really good start on a novel I'm calling Caroline... or Stained Glass. I'm looking for a new job, as the old one comes to an end in 23 days. I'm journeying through the Old Testament and still managing to lose track of who begat whom and just how big is a cubit, anyway? I've been hired to proofread a dissertation - for actual money! I've decided to carry on with many of my Advent observances, notably spending more time in creative pursuits and less in passive entertainment. I'm contemplating getting a cat.  Just one... I know that's a slippery slope. The Great Reading Project still plods on, with many a distraction such as the new Adriana Trigiani book - heaven!

I want to publish something this year - article, story... heck, a book!

I have become very aware of death. Not in a gruesome, gothy way, but because two family members and a close friend died this year, several friends have been touched by death, and two other family members are dueling with cancer. It's foolish to pretend that death doesn't exist or that we have all the time in the world, and that preparing for death entails only making sure someone knows where the important papers are. I've seen it up close and personal, how death is a battle. The soul struggles, even in the devout. The scales weighing our lives become real and loom large. Now is the time to settle accounts, those fiscal, personal, and spiritual. Read Dante is you think otherwise.

I want to be more patient, more kind, and more aware of how blessed I am. I want to stop drifting, and be more fully alive.

Let's make 2014 truly spectacular!