Chanctetinyea's Blog

Coming Soon!

2010-09-09T13:15:00.001-07:00

Coming soon!

A life in verse....

Scheduled release date:
November 2, 2010

Quote For the Day

2010-08-17T10:38:00.000-07:00

"Never regret. If it's good, it's wonderful. If it's bad, it's experience."
- Victoria Holt

Finally Doing It

2010-08-15T09:09:00.000-07:00

Before me lies a seemingly endless stretch of road...and I have committed myself to conquering it.

As far back as I can remember, it seems, someone has asked me, "When are you going to write this all down?" or "When are you going to write the story of your life." Throughout my childhood, this single task loomed over me: some magnificent yet horrifying responsibility owed to the world around me. For many years, I obsessively jotted down the notes, impressions, sketches, and character analyses which were sure, in my mind, to comprise this great work.

Then...life happened.

Before I knew it, I was too swept up in living the chapters of my life to record them; still, the notes were meticulously kept. And, when nearly twenty years worth of notebooks, journals, and carefully collected research--the sum total of my identy--were forever lost, recollecting those mountains of data seemed to me an impossible task.

Just thinking about it would leave me stone-to-the-bone tired.

This past week, however, I was asked to sign a contract to publish my "memoirs." My initial reaction? Who would want to read about me? Afterwards? "That would be a whole lot of freakin' work. Am I up to it?" And finally, "Which part of my story would I tell?" In my mind, my life falls neatly into five distinct stages (not counting the present), each of which represents a distinct volume to be written. Could I, in my state of health and with all the insanity surrounding my current existence, even hope to take on such an endeavor? Especially with the constant hindrance of oxygen-deprivation to the brain, which often leaves me struggling to remember the simplest things (like why did I come into the kitchen again? or what was I just saying?)

Then--now, in fact--I found myself facing another major medical crisis. As I lay day after day struggling with the matter, the debate--to write or not to write--raged on in my head.

This morning....

I encountered a real scare.

Now I know that if I do not tackle this project now, I might not have the chance again.

So,the process of "penning" the first of five volumes of my autobiography has begun. Whether time or its ever ebbing tides will allow me to complete it, I cannot even guess. (At this point, I am not even sure if I'll sign that infernal contract!) Even so, this resolve to at least put forth my best, most concentrated effort has cemented as bullheaded determination within the walls of my iron will.

Here goes...!

I've actually included excerpts from this work as it exists thus far.

Wish me luck, ya'll!

Where The Honeysuckles Grow

(The Childhood Recollections of Chanctetinyea J.J. Ouellette)

...I have lived my life behind thick, impregnable walls, clamoring for the touch of unobstructed sun, wondering when the invisible gates would part, and I would be able to take that first tentative step outside them....

I often wondered about life beyond those unseen walls, about the people who lived unimprisoned, about the children ran freely beneath the yellow-white glare of the sun. Why were they free? And what had I done—what did I house inside my deepest self—which left me too grotesque, too evil, too distorted somehow to be let loose among them....

Most clearly, I remember the scent of honeysuckles, new-mown grass, and that strange, metallic anticipation of one day--some day--escaping them both....

Bedridden

2010-08-10T08:34:00.000-07:00

From a mound of pillows on my bed
I gaze out into the August morn.
Soft clusters of thick green needles
Lay in dense nests against the robin’s egg sky.
Though I strain to hear them,
No birds sing.
There is only the quiet that comes
From the Earth’s placid indulgence:
A patient vigil
Over mankind itself…
Its determined wait
For the collective foolishness
To at long last end.
Peace
I am alive,
Even though the gentle winds, themselves
Whisper that I should not be.
Perhaps this knowledge has evoked within me
The stoical resolve
To wait, as well.
For tomorrow…
For its meaning…
For my purpose.
Unending

Hope May Not Float, But--For the Moment--It Sure Seems To!

2010-07-16T22:35:00.000-07:00

Earlier today, during the long and tedious process of sorting through the seemingly endless emails which accumulated over those months spent in various hospitals, I stumbled across two glorious finds. The first was a message from "Ingrid" in the editorial department of Blue Mountain Arts informing me of their continued interest in greeting card verses I submitted long ago. The second was a request, in response to a past query, for a copy of one of my manuscripts. Consuming most of my day, therefore, was this process of attempting to track down these potential successes in hopes of actually, like, publishing new works...

Under my own name, ya'll!

As a result, I must say, the day has proven itself a long and exhausting one. Having lost most of my current data with my poor, overworked ibook, submitting said written work required a great deal of cutting and pasting from various sources in order to reconstruct (to the best of my ability) the complete manuscript. Still, despite the many frustrations along the way, I find myself undeniably excited.

Perhaps I am even beginning to feel like an actual writer again!

(Keep writing, everybody!)

Workshops

2010-07-14T15:03:00.000-07:00

Well, my friends, the time has come...

I must face the signs, most undeniable, of truly dire straits...and aggressively combat this impending doom with preemptive action.

In other words, it is time to organize more workshops.

It seems the dictates of my balance sheet must, invariably, overcome the conflicts of my confus-ed soul. Whether I wish to do so or not, regardless of whether I am ready to do so or not, I have no option but to (barring some unforeseen miracle, some new and wondrous career opportunity) find work within my chosen field, all the while optimistic that the need to be a fruitful, functioning member of society will counterbalance--indeed, outweigh--any lingering apprehensions curling about the fringes of battered psyche.

At least, that's the story I'm a-tellin' you all now!

So if any of you know anyone in the Colorado Springs area with a burning desire to write more picturesque prose, to more completely grasp the elements of grammar and literary style, or will merely take pity on a frazzled mother with bills, bills, and more bills preying upon her proverbial purse...

Tell 'em Chanctetinyea says, "Ya'll come on by now, ya hear!"

Back to Work

2010-07-06T12:34:00.000-07:00

As I sit here on the deck, beneath the mild sun and gentle breezes of mid-July, I find myself gazing out onto the vast panorama of green grasses and gaunt pine trees in search of motivation. A few feel below me, K.'s studio lies nestled beneath the foliage, and to it (as well as Kathy's example) I look for inspiration.

Having at long last resolved the Matter of the Lost Laptop (i.e. accepting a newer unit to replace the one which remains lost...with much my pertinent information and latest revisions on it), the time has come for me to end this hiatus from paying projects in order to get back to the business of actually paying the bills, putting food on the table and clothing on my children's backs (whether I have come to terms with my own frustrations about writing--not to mention my own capabilities as a writer--or not)!

The time has come, it seems, to resume my work facilitating workshops, teaching classes, and editing the works of others.

Time, Tide, and T-Mobile wait for no one, ya'll!

Books available on Lulu.com

2010-07-03T23:37:00.000-07:00

Four of my books are available on Lulu.com! All of them are available in paperback OR file download form.

Two Poetry Books:
When the Sun Shines in Winter
Unpainted Canvas

Two short stories:
Exile!!!!
The Stick Woman

Artists Unite!

2010-06-24T21:07:00.000-07:00

When girls and I first moved in with K., it seemed as though our every prayer had been answered.

Artistic ourselves, we found a strong sense of having slipped into the proper niche from the moment we crossed the threshold. The arrangement promised to be a good fit for all, flexible enough--in a time of upheaval--to allow us to figure out just where we planned to go from here. Truly, the opportunity might have been Heaven-sent.

Little did I recognize just a week go how completely that hackneyed, age-old term would encapsulate this rather remarkable new experience.

Living here, sharing a house with other highly creative people, editing K.'s book, and even learning a bit about the creative processes of an actual artist: herein lie the seeds of renewed fulfillment...and unexpected joy.

Good!

2010-06-22T17:20:00.000-07:00

There is much to be said for finding a place in which one truly belongs.

Here, in the Black Forest--as I work on the final edit for K. Dopita's Even If I Die, paying for my room and board "in trade" until I have fully regained my strength--life is good.

Life is very, very, very good.

Renaissance

2010-06-22T13:14:00.001-07:00

Sometimes, I wonder....

What does it mean, this term "inspiration?"

Once upon a time, there was no need to even ask such a thing. "Inspiration" (or so I thought) was some naturally occurring phenomenon which impacted upon every life, saturating anyone, any thing curious enough, impulsive enough to stand ready to absorb the magnificence of life. Like air, like light it pulsed and flashed all around me, and I had only to keep still long enough for it to rush in, to engulf me.

There was no need to define it: it was just there.

Somehow, something inside of me remained perpetually susceptible to its mesmerizing charm.

A glimpse of color, the faint vibration of some unfamiliar sound: these were enough to evoke a roar of activity, shaking the peaceful dormancy of the mind and urging me, teasing me, tempting me to uncover more, more, and more.

Life was a tale without end, unfolding before me with the flip of each new page, never failing to provide some new adventure, present some gripping fresh mystery, draw me into some completely unforeseen conflict or situation which could not possibly be ignored but, instead, absolutely had to be acknowledged.

I thought I could never be anything less than utterly engrossed in it all.

Until recently.

Before, there was no concept of spending even a moment--much less hours, weeks, months--in any state of apathy.

Now I have no concept of any other state.

The whole thing, this change in my attitude of the world and myself in it, has proven quite devastating at times.

I have no idea what to make of it....

Some integral portion of my identity has been lost: misplaced, perhaps...but maybe, I fear, wholly irretrievable.

Gone.

Forever.

Thus, the rather terrifying question for me, lately, has been, where do I go from here?

I keep running here and there, hoping for something that will grab my attention, pique my curiosity, or even cause me to stop--just for a heartbeat--and think. Additionally, I look around me, wondering how I came to be in this foreign environment, unable to understand--or even develop some interest in understanding--when and through what series of odd twists and turns I have come to be here.

Can inspiration be created?

If lost, can it ever again be found?

How, exactly, does one tap into the inmost layer of her being in order to identify the feelings, thoughts, and reactions which imbue the world around her with depth, significance, with meaning when life itself seems to no longer have purpose or merit outside the primal instinct for basic survival.

How often I have asked myself that question--especially in this last, long month, when everything that could go wrong did go wrong, and no activity seemed worth the effort of thought I would have to expend in order to take part in it.

Even writing.

Especially writing.

Time and time again, I found myself defining the hunger to write, the desire to create as a need to tangibly relay all that is inside of the deepest self into those words, images, and impressions which, somehow, resonate powerfully within others.

When, as a child, I began creating fascinating new worlds within that vast, unexplored universe of my budding imagination, it all seemed so very effortless. Human beings naturally long to explore, to learn, and writing became my vehicle for those forays into the wonderfully terrifying unknown, just as an astronaut would aim for the moon in a rocket. There was never a concept of any other pastime, no question as to whether building my image of the world through letters, syllables, and word structures could be anything less than my one true purpose in life.

Now, I find myself wondering how and why that all changed.

Perhaps we each reach a point in life when the universe within begins to feel incredibly small.

Although life itself is ever changing, the day-to-day process of merely living it becomes almost routine. It becomes easy to look without seeing, listen without hearing, devour without tasting. Beauty exists, and to view it is pleasant; yet there really is no time, no inclination, no need to actually experience it any longer.

But why?

What happens in the course of a lifetime that changes a person to such an extent that her priorities so drastically change? At what world does the surrounding world lose its allure? When do those sweet mysteries of being lose their magic?

Of late, I have founding myself drowning in confusion, carried along this sea of my own self-doubt--characterized by a constant flow of inwardly coursing pondering, reflection, and self-recrimination--on this crippling undercurrent of inexplicable doubt and dread. Have I been sucked into another realm? A separate identity? How can one simply "fall out of" love with the one companion who has remained by her side, been her lifelong obsession? And how can anyone that fickle in the first place?

I once loved to write.

No, the very thought of writing sucks the very air from my lungs.

I am left weak, shaken, and completely disoriented.

Home Again, Home Again, Jiggety-Jig

2010-06-19T13:18:00.000-07:00

Finally!!!!!!!!!!!!

The girls and I are settling in!

As can be seen from the pictures, New Hampshire was quite lovely. Despite the biting unseasonable cold, the area itself was pleasant enough. Unfortunately, however, it was not (nor could it ever be) home.

So, here we are, temporarily ensconced in lush Colorado scenery, eager to begin our lives anew. I have just been informed that although the laptop on which my written works from the past six months were kept is still LOST, a replacement will be available Monday. The prospect of writing again leaves me somewhat nervous. My mind screams at me that my former passion and creativity were lost with it. Well, that, I suppose remains to be seen. In the meantime...

I feel more hopeful, more optimistic than I have in a very, very, very long time!

Homecoming

2010-06-18T18:28:00.001-07:00

The return to Colorado Springs has reminded me of the true kindness inherent in (most) human beings.

Since the girls and I arrived at the airport, nothing has gone smoothly. Why, then, are we in such good spirits? Because nearly everyone we have encountered--from airport security personnel to overworked housekeeping staff, restaurant owners, and vendors have gone out of their way to offer support, kindness, and encouragement simply because they noticed three "women" stranded in the lobby with three-hundred enormous bags!

Today, I found myself more than a little disheartened by our situation. Here I am, the mother of these phenomenal children, the product of a background that was in many ways "privileged yet unable to provide basic stability for myself or, more importantly, my family. Because I am neither naturally negative or prone to despair, moments of gloom or melancholia are immediately apparent to my children; and, when those sweet little voiced cry out, "Mommy, don't be sad!" the sound is enough to shatter the stoniest of hearts.

Today, I was feeling worn out, worn down, and a bit overwhelmed. At the very moment I was feeling most discouraged, yet another perfect stranger walked up, asked if we were stranded, introduced himself as the cook at the Gordon Biersch restaurant, then all but insisted that we allow him to bring us drinks, "because it's hot today!"

We are sitting beneath the air conditioning.

Nevertheless, when he--Rory--returned with our sodas (in the refillable cups from a sister restaurant) he insisted that we come and find him if we became thirsty or hungry. Of course, we did not want to take advantage of his generosity.

Less than an hour later, Rory returned with "something for you to eat," seeming somewhat embarrassed by our thanks. For the food? Most certainly. But mainly for the simple, human compassion which--when offered freely and of genuine concern for others--often provides for the recipient far more than creature comforts...

Hope.

Faith: in oneself as well as others.

That sense of not being alone in the world, or lost in those dark places to be found in the shadows of one's hardship, misfortune, or despair...!

So many pretend to believe selflessness by its very definition exists as no more than a mask, any outward acts of it carried out not altruistically but in a very self-serving need to the "good deed doer"'s hidden sanctimonious nature and only for the most selfish of motives. My time here, however, has disproved such a theory as no more than the insipid justification of that speaker's lack of basic human decency.

The true majesty of the human condition does live within the hearts and spirits of modern men and women. And, although it is easy to forget or doubt this fact, gentle acts of empathy like those my daughters and I have encountered (kind words, kind deeds, kind hearts) remind us just how remarkable we humans are at our best...and how easy it is, effortless it can be to help each other along this collection of meandering, unpredictable peregrinations we call Life.

Thanks, Rory.

(Did I mention that even as I was typing my closing thanks, yet another security guard just came over to ask if we needed cots or could think of anything we might need that the airport could provide to make us more comfortable...after congratulating my daughter with a "hi-five" for her recent graduation from Exeter?)

...People! ?!?!? (You Say This Entry Makes No Sense? Neither Do They!)

2010-06-17T19:37:00.000-07:00

I knew there was a reason why I make a point not to read other people's blogs.

Every once in a while, I find myself sitting at a computer determined to impart great wisdom, to share great thoughts, only to--instead--end up on some meaningless tirade about an event or peeve which means nothing to anyone in this world but me!

This issue is one of little significance. In fact, had I not already begun pondering the topic of People (and why I oftentimes I think we exist for no other purpose but comedy relief for the Cosmic Unknown), the situation would not have made it to print in the first place. Yet, here I sit, forcing myself to fulfill my thousand-word-per-day quota, rambling on about something which, ordinarily, I might have deemed too foolish to waste ink upon.

A very long time ago, I made the mistake of logging on to the site of one of my dozen-or-more actor friends. Now, those with whom I attended school know my position on the entertainment industry; thus there is no need for me launch into that particular rant today. Still, it has never failed to amaze me how followers of a particular "personality" conveniently forget that the individual is simply a human being doing that which he or she loves--be it dancing, acting, singing, directing, shooting hoops, or running touchdowns--and not some superhuman marvel constructed of silver and gold and mystical, magical fairy dust, the combination of which render him (or her) flawlessly perfect in every way.

Months before making this particular blunder, I made the catastrophic mistake of first directing friends (and a few prized contacts, unfortunately) to the blog of a former friend whose writing projects had truly impressed me. Yes, it was an ill-advised thing to do; however, in my own defense, I--at that time--sincerely thinking myself in a race against the imaginary clock described to me by a slew of infallible medical professionals, all of whom assured me that I was soon to kick the proverbial bucket! Convinced I had but mere hours left on this Earth, it must be understood, rendered such considerations as prudence, common sense, and inescapable regret insignificant. All I could think of was making that last-ditched effort to give what help I could while I could.

Of course, the whole thing backfired.

Quite deservedly was I read the Riot Act when those very friends and colleagues visited the site (at my insistence) only to be attacked by rabid fans, incensed by any hint that their idol--a man I had once loved then hated, respected then disdained, known then recognized to be an absolute stranger in every way that counted (in short, a wonderfully flawed human being far more interesting for his very real, distinctly imperfect personality than the images of insultingly inaccurate perfection constructed of him by strangers)--might not walk water. Frankly, those who ripped me up one side and down the other should have saturated the wounds with 91-percent isopropyl alcohol for good measure: it was such a stupid thing for me to have done! Quite literally, I cast those poor, loyal souls into a grotesque Comedy of Errors, complete with the requisite distorted masks, trick mirrors, and upside rooms; ergo, they were more than justified in coming after me with pain-inflicting, limb-cleaving weapons. Naturally, what amends I attempted to make only made them (the "masses and the multitudes," as a delightfully caustic Adonis of a boyfriend from a decade ago often referred to those lesser beings otherwise known as "mere mortals") all more furious (and, as a result, more vicious)...all of which led me to this examination of the distinct peculiarities of People in general.

Why is it that we as People so often find impossible illusions safer, easier, to embrace than the more attractive realities? As People, we tend to create alternative realities in which to hide, even when that which we most desire is right there, easily within reach. It is utterly, astoundingly stupefying. There they are--a core following of less than ten women--in the unique position of actually idolizing the kind of person who really does strive to be "gracious" (in his own words) to his fans, who would willingly enter into any conversation that piqued his interest or afforded him the opportunity to share his views...and they waste it bickering amongst themselves and bullying any and every one who comes onto the poor man's blog without first paying homage to the greatness that is his celebrity.

I remember being a little girl and wanting nothing more than the chance to make friends with "Luis" from Sesame Street. Or Captain Kangaroo. I wanted to talk to them about normal things, such as kindergarten and learning to tie my shoe, cloud pictures and the possibility of minuscule people living in teeny-tiny houses amid the blades of grass in my back yard. Certainly, such conversations could never actually take place; and on some level--even as young as I was--I understood this.

Even so, had such a thing been even remotely possible...!

Today, nevertheless, despite every instinct tingling within me, I gave in to the inexplicable, totally ridiculous impulse to see if my attempt to make right my mistake--an apology to not only the man (let us call him "Old Green Eyes") himself but the rather incensed fans who all but tarred-and-feathered the poor souls who visited the site (not to mention any "poor souls" brave enough to have held their ground in the ensuing fray)--had made any difference at all.

Imagine my surprise (and disbelief) that even the apology itself was taken as an insult against the graven image of the Great Being, Himself. Speculation abounded. Accusations flew. Nastiness beyond anything I ever could have imagined spread like some noxious form of flesh-devouring mold. No one was safe, especially those attempting to hide behind the insubstantial barrier of reason! These women were out for blood--lying in wait to shred to pieces any one or anything which stood between them and their beloved transmogrification of the man they claimed to adore. And, after I accepted the fact that the Green-Eyed One would probably kill me himself (with his bare hands) if I ever happened to cross his path, (not a scenario likely to come to pass in this lifetime or a myriad of others, thankfully) I could not help but marvel at the irony of it all. Here they all were--gifted with the very real, very opportunity to get to know the man--wasting their time snipping and sniping with each other instead of focusing on the fact that he was right there, within reach, actually offering them each a bit of insight into who he is and how he thinks!

Amazing.

Truthfully, I have no further desire to see how (or if) the whole senseless mess resolves itself. Part of me would like to think that eventually, Old Green Eyes will find himself frustrated enough to let loose that cutting wit and pithy sarcasm I grew to appreciate (with great relish, I might add.) Some people are magnificent in a temper, and--despite any lingering ill-will between us--I must admit that he was most certainly one of them. It is, therefore, oddly comforting and more than a little satisfying to envision him letting down those carefully-constructed barriers of his long enough to allow the rest of the world to see the man, the person occasionally revealed to me during those long-ago moments of unadorned spontaneity which now, after my anger has abated (though I would not for a truck filled with cash money admit that to him) for the most part, I recall with fond amusement and an affectionate (incredulous) shake of the head. Of course, such a reaction is not likely--more's the pity. Although I do not doubt he could more than stand to "let off" the steam, more than likely, he will do nothing more than step back until the smoke has cleared, then go on as if the display of fireworks had never taken place.

Regardless, I cannot help but wonder why, why, why so many People settle for iron pyrite...when pure gold lies easily within reach.

(Perhaps within this question itself lies one of the reasons I find the study of human nature so inexhaustibly fascinating.)

Headed Home

2010-06-16T07:26:00.000-07:00

One cannot help but question her own decisions--especially those which will result in the major upheaval of another.

Have I any right to drag two girls all the way across the country to a "home" that is, in many ways, completely unsettled?

Would it be better just to let things be?

Sometimes, I think, one has to simply take a breath, pinch her nostrils, and jump.

...Yet, does she have the right to ask others to take that potentially catastrophic leap of faith alongside her...?

Here's hoping I don't lead us all careening to our deaths!

Keep writing ya'll.

Hopefully, one day soon I will join you by doing the same.

Finding Our Way Home

2010-06-14T06:01:00.000-07:00

The process of rebuilding a new life with (and for) my daughters is proving far more stressful, far more humbling that one--than I before imagined.

Though our host and hostess are more than gracious, I am still not exactly comfortable taking up space in someone else's home. Call it a character flaw or some lack of faith in human nature, In my mind, though, most offers of help, support, friendship, or the like are offered with the subconscious belief that the one to whom the invitation is extended will gracefully, gratefully decline! We all want to be generous. We all want to be kind. The reality, however, is that more often than not--especially these days, in this economic climate--most cannot manage to live up to those lofty principles or ideals.

Besides, did I mention my extreme aversion to accepting anything from anyone under any circumstances...?

I must admit, part of me is extremely proud of this fact, as my independent nature dictates that I must not ever allow myself to grow accustomed to or even comfortable with reliance upon others. In dire circumstances I would place necessity above "principle," specifically in the best interests of my children. I have and I will. None of this, however, changes my complete and utter revulsion at the thought of leaning upon another for anything, any time, any where, under any circumstance.

Cynicism: how wholly unimaginative...!

The truth of the matter is, despite past criticism of my "self-sufficiency" as the ultimate manifestation of personal control, when it comes down to the barest basics, I just do not trust others enough to put my life, my comfort, my future, or the welfare of my children in their hands. Abandonment issues: such powerful deterrents against the formation of personal attachments. For some of us, the concept of another or group of others who will "always" be there is as unlikely, as inconceivable as a polar bear eating an ice-cream cone on some pink-and-purple sanded beach in Bermuda! Call it fear, call it paranoia, call it plain old insanity, but I find myself constantly looking over my shoulder to catch someone looking over my shoulder.

Suffice it to say, I don't trust, I absolutely do not trust anyone.

Not as far as I can throw that "one" while he or she is sitting in a fully loaded car.

This is probably unfair, I know. Most people, like the Thompsons--with whom we are staying--are kind and genuine, generous in nature and honest in their intentions. Experience, nevertheless, is a harsh teacher, and I have seen far too much of the worst in human nature recently to put much stock in the best of it. It is easier, in my mind, to do without a thing than to ask for it, thereby leaving oneself open to disappointment and disillusionment.

Admittedly, this is all probably quite ridiculous. The perception that others have little confidence in my abilities, see my current situation as some undeniable proof of my failures as a mother, as a person, as a human being might very well be ludicrous. After all, never once has anyone said anything to this effect directly to me. On the contrary, any and every thing I have heard has been somewhat supportive--even from individuals who are practically salivating over the prospect of the uppity know-it-all falling flat on her face!

Ah! Perhaps therein lies the problem. Those around me have been a bit too positive, a bit too eager to assure me of their confidence in me. Quite frankly, extremes of any kind tend to make me nervous. I walk away doubting the sincerity of the one ladling on the compliments. Is this some residual hangup from the past? Most assuredly! Even so, this skepticism exists alongside the mistrust and tendency to perceive criticism when none is given--mainly because I feel so guilty for having gotten myself and my family into such an unholy, untenable mess.

I simply cannot forgive myself for having gotten "sick" in the first place. Why did I not plan things out better? How did I miss all the warning signs of impending disaster? And why was I unable to somehow repair the before fragmented family structures from my past for the children's sake? How can anyone have "screwed up" this badly? And, having made such a collosal mess, why can I not fix it? What is wrong with me, what is wrong with me, what is wrong with me?

My children, of course, cannot say enough about their collective and individual confidence in my capabilities as a Good Mother. But what do they know? I trained the little suckers to think that way! The Green-Eyed One would have told me that this is a wonderful opportunity to find my heart, to explore the situation with curiosity as a part of my journey in life--as a merely a part of who I am or what I feel...but, having royally ticked him off as well, he isn't here to say it. (...which may not be a bad thing, really...?) Also, time plus experience have taught me that "this, too, shall pass." In a week--maybe a month or two in this instance--the thoughts and feelings I now voice will be long forgotten, replaced by joys and concerns of a totally new stage of living and experiencing.

We will get through this rocky period, the children and I.

Our family will emerge on the other side of this annoying little detour all the wiser, all the stronger, all the more confident for having faced it all head-on.

Dickensian times, Ecclesiastical seasons all dancing to the music of time...and all that rot, don't you know!

Still...

All this having been said...

For right now, though,"in the moment," the future is confusing, daunting, and untenable. Everything stinks. Life is a muddle...and we're all going to suffer, suffer, suffer then die in a big ol' bloody heap!

Just Thinking

2010-06-13T19:23:00.001-07:00

Life in and of itself holds such beauty...

that it is so very easy to lose track of those things which are most important...

How?

Why?

Me?

2010-06-13T19:18:00.001-07:00

Outside, the sun is shining. Its piercing light and radiant warmth--even in these earliest morning hours--slices through the gloom and chill of the last three days. As I gaze at the pale, autumnal greens of the trees and grasses beneath me, I struggle to tap into some emotion, some reaction that will link me mentally, sensually, emotionally to the still, almost somnolent view below.

Recently, it has become more and apparent that my latest "ordeal" has wrought certain changes within me. Far more often than not, I feel as though beneath this skin, deep within these bones lies a different person altogether. Priorities have changed. My outlook on life is drastically altered.

I sometimes wonder if some part of myself has been lost and lies irretrievable, just out of reach....

I absolutely, positively hate to write!

This, naturally, is a development I never expected. The changes in appetite, sleeping patterns, and musical tastes were alarming enough. And, I doubt I will ever grow accustomed to the inability to sit long enough to enjoy a good book. Forgetting minor things, sending the wrong e-mails to the wrong people and staring at text messages (mid-word) because I cannot recall what I had intended to say, to whom, or why: this two has nearly reduced me to a quivering mass of paranoid indecision.

Yet, to find myself unable to write, to find little (if any) enjoyment.in the crafting of sentences or the process of transforming thoughts into first syllables then sentences, imagery: such a thing is, even now, beyond comprehension. Obviously, I can force the issue. With a tremendous amount of concentration, I can muddle through the process; however, to do so is hard: the act itself mechanical: the results, lackluster. I don not know what to make of it all. Everything still feels so very foreign--no thought, no feeling, no action quite my own. This detachment from everyone and everything , moreover, no longer strikes me as out-of-place or strange. The sensations have become a normal part of my everyday existence, incorporated into my every routine. I chew without tasting, move without thinking, walk without seeing, read without retaining...

And write without enjoying.

Again, I find myself sitting here wondering if anything will ever return to normal. Will I ever in any way resemble the person I was. And, if not, if that "Chanctetinyea" is forever lost, will I ever make peace with the woman who has sprung forth to take her place?

What Now?

2010-06-12T09:27:00.000-07:00

As the rain beats unrelentingly outside my bedroom window, I recall just how incompatible the New England weather and I actually are.

I never thought I would be returning to Exeter New Hampshire. Now that I am here, I have no idea what I expected, in my planning and travels, my experience here to be. Now that I am here, however, I have no idea what to feel, to think, or even to be.

Following Ondrelique's graduation, the girls and I are staying on as house guests in Exeter, New Hampshire, . It was an unforeseen pitstop to say the least; and, being very unaccustomed to accepting hospitality of any kind, I find myself a rather poor house guest. It is odd how easily we all slip into modes of thought and behavior. For me, the objective has been the very frustrating cycle of survival-recovery-survival-recovery that basic human responses and sensations now seem...foreign. That kind of emotional and psychological detachment, I am told, is not unusual in "near death" situations. The problem is, I never felt as though death were particularly near to me: just the constant gnawing of my own perceived inadequacy.

(Chance, was it Dan Brown in your class...or his brother Chris?"

Drawing a complete blank: "Brown...Brown...I think so. I'd have to put a face to the name, though...?"

"Do you know who I'm talking about?"

"Uh...Brown...?" I mutter, still utterly lost.

"The Da Vinci Code?"

"...Oh. Yeah. Him." We were in the same general class, weren't we? Man, do I feel like a complete failure!)

Being here again has awakened sleeping ghosts--curled quietly in the dark corners of my hidden psyche--that I did not even realize existed. How odd it is that we human beings find phantasms of reality lurking behind every corner while the imaginary shadows of our most deeply-seeded insecurities take on the depths and dimensions of Unavoidable Truth. For me, the notion of myself as unforgivably lazy (rather than recovering from a severe medical setback)

Years before, when youthful confidence never allowed me to for a moment lose track of my own sense of self-worth, not once did I doubt my ability to take this world into the palm of my hand, then nonchalantly set the sucker on fire. Strength and determination lent to the illusion of invincibility which deluded me into believing that time, though of importance to everyone else, would bend to my will. Nothing would change unless I first gave it permission. Life existed to do my bidding. And if I didn't like it...well, then, life had to deal with my omnipotent wrath.

Now, as I struggle to relax and enjoy the respite so generously proffered, I wander the only semi-familiar pathways of Phillips Exeter Academy searching for traces of that fearless young girl. Where, exactly, is she...and why can I not find her (alongside those specters of my ever-growing dissatisfaction) within me? After twenty-plus years, did I truly expect to see her, some benign adumbration of my most secret longings, bopping past the Academy Building or Phillips Hall? Or, was I hoping to catch some whiff of her youthful essence--imagined or no--floating on some summer breeze as a reminder of all that I was, all that I once hoped to be?

Whatever it was that I had in mind, the fact remains that these last few years have caused a mental rift between the person I am and the person I now deem myself to be. In my mind, medical setbacks have come to represent abject failure. It was one thing, to be told that the end was unavoidable, leaving me no choice but to make peace with myself and my own failings. Now, this miraculous second (or third, maybe fourth) chance at life is...daunting. So much of my former passion for living seemed to have already passed on to the fabled Other Side: and, as such, I find myself left with no concept of who and what I now wish to be.

Do I even have a desire to write any longer? Does writing evoke in me any sense of pleasure or accomplishment any longer. Do I even care if I write Great American Novel at this stage of my life? At a time when everything I thought I knew or believed about myself and those around me has come into question?

I have no idea....

But here--now--is a great place to find out.

Onward and Upward

2010-06-11T09:41:00.000-07:00

This morning I awoke late, having actually slept the night through. The morning being a chilly one, I found myself--now unaccustomed to the biting New England weather--shivering my way quite slowly through my morning routine. So many tasks lie before me, leaving me cringing at the thought of even facing the internet...much less the silent, menacing threat of my mobile phone.

Still, I remind myself that life holds the bright promise of each new day; and positivity is, as always, more productive than its evil twin. So, onward and outward we go, learning from the mistakes of yesterday, relying upon the wisdom of life lived, preparing for the worst...

Yet expecting the best.

Changing Identities

2010-06-10T18:40:00.000-07:00

When I started this blog, I had no idea that life held such challenges in store for me. It seemed such a simple endeavor: now that my children were older and no longer needed such constant supervision and intercession, the time was ripe for making serious changes in my life. The option to make those choices, furthermore, based on my own wants, needs, and desires (within the boundaries of common sense and basic reason) had finally presented itself. And, albeit I had not regretted putting certain objectives on hold while concentrating on motherhood and raising a family, from the outset, the Master Plan had been to return to my first love (creative writing) once the children were older.

Yet, so many unanticipated obstacles have arisen.

Who could have predicted the sharp turns in the pathways ahead?

It amazes my how different the woman typing this entry is from the enthusiastic creature who embarked upon the process of chronicling this portion of life's journey an eternity ago! She is harder, less optimistic. Her faith in herself, in others, in love, in human nature, even in the basic premise of symbiotic balance in life have been ripped out of her, roots and all. What is left is a floundering of mind, body, and spirit so bewilderingly foreign that she stands bemused and disoriented, searching for familiar landmarks around her, within herself, within those she once held dear.

The most frightening thing of all?

I no longer enjoy writing.
As much as I tell myself the change in attitude is a temporary one, something deep within knows that this is not the case. Writing holds no interest for me now. It is a habit, comforting in some ways but by no means engaging or fulfilling.

It is all so terrifying.

Since childhood, the love of writing, of reading, of weaving sounds and syllables, sights and settings into intricate stories showcasing the many nuances of life--what it was, what it should be, what it asked of those who partook of it, and all that it demanded of us all--has defined me. If paper and pencil were not at hand, I scratched out lines on the soft-silted powder that dusted the summer-scorched earth. I wrote entire volumes in my head, able to mentally turn the pages and edit each individual line as easily, as concisely as my mother might have corrected her students' English papers.

It was all so vital. So very real.
Now I find myself wondering who I am, how I will spent my time, on what will I expend my energies, where will I direct my passions, what will become of me, what might I possibly do...

If I can longer write...?

Rites of Passage

2010-06-09T19:20:00.000-07:00

This past weekend, my middle daughter graduated from Phillips Exeter Academy...

It tuned out to be the worst day of my entire life.

Despite the fact that the occasion marked the first time in nearly a year my little quartet was all together, everything which possibly could go wrong...did. (Trust me, this is no exaggeration.) From broken zippers on brand new dresses to packing problems, financial fiascos, horrendous health, and domicile dilemma's, this--which promised to be one of the most pivotal moments in my daughter's life...

Ended in disaster.

It afforded, however, the opportunity to reflect upon the many facets of human existence. I found myself ranting at the inconveniences, the complications which arose from my new status: everyday nobody. Returning to Exeter as far less than the conquering hero was humiliating enough; therefore, the inability to fully celebrate this monumental achievement with my children was utterly devastating. Once again, I had failed them. Yet again, doom, despair, agony, and pestilence were sure to result. The world would end, we would all die in the oft-predicted heap, and "why-oh-why didn't I just buy it in the stupid hospice and have the whole thing over with?"

Still, bad grammar and all, the fate I expected did not and will not materialize--as I well knew, even during the dimmest moments. Challenges arise when least expected (or, most expected for we the incurably cynical), demanding of one the best she has to offer: courage, strength, resilience, perseverance, and honor. To strive for the best in oneself during the worst of life's disappointments is, perhaps, the truest reflection of inner beauty and grace. For perfectionists, the focus in life is so unwaveringly riveted upon success that the priceless nature of merely attempting the impossible (rather than achieving it) is overshadowed.

Once again I am reminded that the majesty of life lies in the living...

Not the avoidance...

Even when it comes to Graduation Days from...Hades.

Keep on livin', ya'll.

You Think Too Much!

2010-06-08T21:18:00.000-07:00

"You think too much!"

How many times have I heard that one?

(Or, its sister assertion, "You're too smart for your own good!")

Perhaps I have fallen into the trap of over-analyzing anything and everything that dares cross my path. And, even though that tendency to mentally disassemble the many, varied sections of life to understand all that lies around me feeds the creative beast within, there is something to be said for setting free the more impulsive aspects of one's nature in order to absorb life. How easy it is to forget that particular sensation!

At the moments, my thoughts are directed towards the future. And the future need not be a bleak one. Not long ago, in the throes of disillusionment, I found myself dwelling on the negatives life had to offer. Its failures seemed far more significant that any promises it might hold. Failing health, disappointments in relationships, the demise of childhood dreams: these loomed above me as the bleakest yet most concrete of all actualities...

Yet, with time and clarity have come renewed optimism. It is true, I have been ill; however the recovery which was deemed irrefutably impossible now lies within reach. Granted, financial instability is a daunting presence in my current life; but, in this economy, quite a few individuals can easily say the same. One dollar lost is identical to any future dollar gained, while the true treasures of life--joy, fulfillment, contentment, achievement, peace, satisfaction, love--are truly unique: ever-changing and irreplaceable from moment to moment. Yes, I have recently experienced heartbreak; however even this came as a result of one of the deepest, truest glimpses of friendship and kindness one could ever experience. As always, the pain of loss subsides, giving way to remembered laughter, shared confidences, and images of true happiness, all of which remind me that it certainly is better to have loved and lost to have never known that particular moment of loving at all. And, I must admit, even the desire to write--though not completely restored to me--cowers in hidden corners, daring to lift a tentative glance towards the light of inspiration.

The time has come to stop over-analyzing, to stop trying to arrange my life into neat or perfect columns and rows.

I think to much.

It is time I remembered how to again simply BE.

Updated Titles by Chanctetinyea J.J. Ouellette

2010-05-30T18:58:00.000-07:00

Additional Titles by Chanctetinyea J.J. Ouellette

Poetry

Unpainted Canvas

ISBN: 978-0-557-63112-4

(ID #9272461): http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/unpainted-canvas/9272461

When the Sun Shines in Winter

ISBN: 978-0-557-63113-1

(ID #9272496): http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/when-the-sun-shines-in-winter/9272496

(Coming Soon)

Poems Past: Collected Poems from Years Gone By

Literary Fiction

The Stick Woman

ISBN: 978-0-557-64209-0

(ID #9294338): http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/the-stick-woman/9294338

Exile!!!!

ISBN: 978-0-557-63107-0

(ID #9272431): http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/exile/9272431

Children’s

(Coming Soon)

As Far as the Mind Can Fathom: Fairy Tales for a New Generation

Recalling the Darkness

2010-05-22T17:07:00.000-07:00

The searing waves crash,
Frothing, onto the soft pink sands that steam
Beneath their fiery onslaught.
Numbing, blinding this constant pummeling,
As hard, round stones sink
To press against the moist, vulnerable lining beneath,
Crushing the bruised swells of the shore.
Relentless is the tumultuous roiling
Which pries muscle from bone,
Draining the tender marrow
So that the gelid winds
Howl
Through the achingly hollowed caverns.
Oh, but that it were merciful,
Pulverizing sense and sensation
To a jellied nothingness,
Leaving the helpless shell--
Long emptied of the soft-bodied creature
Once sheltered within--
Free to float outward
Into non-existence!
Yet, no such succor does it offer,
This unending sea of pain.
On and on it flows,
Churning,
The scarlet waters hot enough to scald,
Its foam a bitter, poisonous acid,
Slowly eroding flesh, layer by layer,
Ever bubbling,
Ever burning,
Into infinity...
For an eternity.

To Live Again

2010-05-12T16:59:00.000-07:00

How does one find her way out of the Darkness when the Light is but a distant memory?

Breathe

2010-05-01T20:28:00.000-07:00

Isn't life--with its moments of sheer beauty, its instants of tranquility, and its fearless defiance of time and tide, of anything which dares to shape or mold its boundaries to the preset dimensions of the mundane--

...far too beautiful to waste?

Wondering

2010-04-20T15:01:00.000-07:00

Years ago, when I was in high school, an English teacher introduced me to a famous writer, who was at that time one of my "idols."

"Watch this girl!" my professor warned. "She's going to be somebody."

Even though the words were spoken with an combination of obvious pride, unabashed sarcasm, and the unspoken admonishment against letting the words go to my head, it was the highest compliment I had ever received--primarily because I so completely admired the "giver," who was a renowned poet in her own right. Over the years, I have treasured it close to my heart, secretly vowing to fully earn that praise, to "make my mentor proud".

Over the years, I have heard similar words. I have been complimented, encouraged, praised, and even dubbed "the best writer ever" by what has to be the harshest critic ever. Still, I often find myself wondering why that isn't enough. Time and time again, I have found myself facing an individual who easily boasts that he or she is the greatest writer of all time, bar none. As a developmental editor, I have marveled at the confidence displayed by those who have had no more talent than a five-year-old drawing indecipherable doodles on construction, paper, been astounded by the humility of others who have rivaled the greats, and completely baffled by works which--without any apparent style or form whatsoever--somehow manage to so completely capture the unique tones and timbres of the writer's voice that they draw in the reader as no other could. Still, the longer I write, the more I surround myself with truly exceptional writing, the more convinced I am that no greater glory exists than composing something of true literary value, regardless of its notoriety among men or its acceptance by the so-called experts of the time.

Could any praise, any approbation, any amount of affirmation or success rival the simple knowledge that one has, in a lifetime, completed that one piece he or she was born to write?

And does any artist, any writer ever recognize that defining moment if and when she reaches it?

"Questions, No Answers"....YET!

2010-04-12T03:09:00.000-07:00

Since March, it seems, every word I have written has been dipped in poison!

What is it about heart aches and heart breaks that bring out the worst in people?

For hours now, I have found myself pondering that very question. Why was it, I ask, not enough to have slowly regained a significant portion of my health? Why have I not, I went on to question, taken more time to dwell on the positives of life rather than the negatives? Is it not enough to have three healthy children, wonderful memories, and a wealth of rather rich and varied experiences for which many would give a right arm (or at least a left foot)?

For weeks now, I have been "fumigatin'" over a number of issues: the inevitable disappointments of life. Anger over the demise of what I thought to be a lifelong friendship, resentment over the changing attitudes born of the change in socioeconomic status (from semi-successful editor to gravely ill "nobody"), frustration over the added stresses my children have been forced to endure, and a complete lack of enthusiasm for everything which once lent beauty and purpose to life have all but eroded the luster of vitality from my usually bright outlook on life.

And why?

Because I survived what was thought to be certain death?

Because the return to the Land of the Living was not the triumphant reentry I had imagined?

Because I got my lil ol' heart broken?

Because a friendship I never could have anticipated, never in my fondest imaginings could have conceived, ended in disillusionment?

Because my children are healthy and happy, just not rolling in the dough I was so sure I had kneaded for them?

Because love "done let me down"?

All these things should be reason to pick up the pen and cover paper with enough doodles and curlicues to fill several volumes.

So why haven't they been?

So many questions!

And not a single answer...

YET.

Comtemplating

2010-03-22T20:00:00.000-07:00

"Perspective" can be a bewildering and frustrating concept.

The moment one is all but certain she has reached a firm and specific decision about someone or something, the focus shifts--thus changing the perspective--rendering everything she thought she had seen or hear, felt or decided, sensed or reasoned...

Insignificant.

Confusing?

My point exactly!

Nevertheless, as my world tilts and spins on its ever-jerking axis--and I find myself struggling to function in a time outside of time, in an environment in which nothing is as I before assumed it to be--I am learning so much that I did not before know...

And am not sure I want to know now.

Arrogance

2010-03-13T15:05:00.000-08:00

One of the accusations I most treasure is this one: "You are arrogant!"

Why?

Because usually, it means one has spoken sense.

All my life, I have admired The Greats. Why? Because they did not fancy themselves special in any way. They did not focus on the future acclaim they would (but had not yet) earned. For the most part, those writers, thinkers, philosophers, and artists who most completely changed the scope and depth of reality as we know it...did so out of the simple need to record all that echoed in and around them. And it is they I hope to in some way emulate.

Anyone can write or paint. Anyone can act, sing, dance, construct and design. Many will make a great deal of money from it for no other reason than that they are willing to do whatever it takes, whatever is asked of them in order to attain notoriety or commercial success. Perhaps that is enough for them. Maybe that should be enough for anyone.

Yet, I want more.

For myself and those who have true talent, I hunger for more.

In every discipline, in every area of life, there are those who have some fire burning within them--something far beyond themselves--which demands to be stoked, often whether they like it or not. For some, it is as simple as the drive to build sleek, functional structures that, although not flamboyant, will stand the ages. For others, the need to create from cloth and patterns the shapes and forms which will define an era can and will never be sated. I suppose, for many of us out there, we were born with some tiny, snarling demon inside determined to be set free. And those who do not have it do not understand its demands.

That, strangely enough, has never bothered me.

I would rather be the woman who never reaches that moment in life in which she feels worthy to call herself a writer than those who add to the thousands of worthless volumes which clutter the libraries.

Maybe I will never be A Writer.

Yes, my written words fill the pages of many a thesis and dissertation by academic powerhouses who lacked the love for or even the interest in the written word necessary to bring their ideas to life. And, maybe that should mean something to me. Perhaps it would mean a great deal to others.

But in my mind.

I will not be a writer until I have penned that which no one else could have conceived or written. Do I have it in me to achieve the goal? I would like to think so. One would like to think that her own insistent demon exists for that very purpose. Further, I would like to believe that had I not been somehow gifted with the capacity to reach that objective, the little devil never would have been entrusted to me in the first place. The truth of the matter is, even if I do somehow manage to take all that I am, all that I have learned, all that I am capable of being and somehow weave from those elements the one great work of a lifetime, I would probably not recognize it for what it truly was, even if it jumped up and bit me on the butt.

For me, it is just enough to know that the mere possibility exists, just as it has for others before me, for others who will live long after I am forgotten, and even a few magnificent souls who have wondered onto my pathway just long enough for me to play a small part in helping them accomplish what I have not--possibly will not.

If that constitutes arrogance,

"'Play on Macbreath'"!

Keep writing ya"ll!

Ultimately

2010-03-12T17:05:00.000-08:00

Ultimately
The future--
Not the past--
Fades to black
Until all
That can be distinguished
Are the faintly-moving
Shadows
Of that
Which in a life
Was meant
To be.

Disillusioned

2010-03-09T20:03:00.000-08:00

What was it first I saw
In those clear blue waters
Of your hastily clothed
Vulnerability?
Perhaps the wayfarer in me,
Seeking the refreshment of an unpolluted soul,
Gazed into the verbal liquidity
Which served, at that time, as your eyes
And imagined concatenation.
So intoxicating:
Those smoothly rippling lies.
Oh, how they pleased, tingled...
Deceived both mind and tongue
As the cool dancing circles burst
Into the sweet, smoky flavor of remembered trust!
How completely thirsts for acceptance,
Roaming Loneliness's desert,
Directionless...in search of friendship.
I drank and thought I saw
Mirrored in that instant
Before I gulped you in
My own bewildered face
Staring up at me in wonder.
Now in the aftermath, my spirit recovering
From the bitter toxins of delusion,
My mind escaping a dense fog,
The heaviness of comprehension
Settles in around me,
And I see no beauty,
Taste no lingering ambrosial joy
But am left with dizzying self- recrimination,
My heart and mind spinning
Into the dark, sucking abyss
Of quicksand:
Disillusionment.
Thy name was Sunshine.

*All materials (including photographs, original written works, printed commentaries, etc.) herein contained are (unless expressly noted to the contrary) the property of Chanctetinyea J.J. Ouellette (and/or "Chance & Opportunity"). As such, they are not to be to any degree or in any form copied, reprinted, by any means duplicated and/or privately used or distributed without her express permission. All rights reserved.

Open Journal: On Human Nature...and Human Beings

2010-03-09T16:10:00.000-08:00

Human beings truly discourage me...

What is it about human nature that compels men and women to gravitate--in their thoughts, attitudes, and actions--towards the worst in one another? Many would grasp hold of the obvious answer: control. To believe that the hunger for some sense of control over one's destiny, of the power to orchestrate, even manipulate, the lives of is, however, far to convenient, as is the tendency to attribute human failings to helplessness or fear.

No, I fervently believe human beings celebrate the worst of themselves for no other reason than it is, at least at present, easier and less time-consuming than nurturing the best they might have to offer. Let's face it: if reaching and maintaining the pinnacle of personal excellence were the current societal norm, if to be found lacking in compassion, kindness, generosity, patience, integrity, and love guaranteed the instant stigma of "social taboo," how many of us would run to the local therapist, psychoanalyst, psychiatrist, or counselor confident that our lists of excuses, justifications, and qualifications would invariably be rewarded with a "Get Out of Being Human Free" card?

Sometimes, as a am taking my morning walk, contemplating the seamless continuity of the past, present, and future inherent in all existence, I find myself profoundly saddened by the juxtaposition of what we as human creatures were meant to be...and what we allow ourselves to be. Such vast potential for living and loving, for learning and gaining wisdom lies lost upon the ever growing mound of injustice and discontent comprised of the detritus of the daily acts of selfishness committed in the name of survival! Just what would it take to detoxify human nature? To cleanse it of the addiction to easy lies as opposed to hard truths, the habit of clinging to all the reasons it is acceptable to be less than we should rather than fueling ourselves to step out, to reach out, stimulated by the images of the best we each--and all--might be? And when will we stop hiding behind the delusion that the past, present, and future endure as separate--almost disconnected--entities rather than a continuity of collective and individual actuality-- circles upon circles of ever-expanding reality (building upon one another as do the rippling patterns of disturbance upon before-stilled waters), of cause and effect, of action turning onto itself to become equal and opposite reaction--which, defined by the choices we make, either limit or expand into limitlessness all that is brightest, boldest, most brilliant and most beautiful in not only human behavior...

But Human Beings?

Fumagatin

2010-03-08T18:22:00.000-08:00

Why is it that every mindless, spineless pusillanimous object capable of grasping hold of a pen or pencil deems itself a writer?

People might practice hour upon diligent hour at the piano for untold decades yet dare not deem themselves "pianists." No matter how many years of vocal coaching the aspiring soprano spends toiling to perfect her craft, she is not considered a "singer" until she can sing the song well. A mother who lovingly places a band-aid upon the abraded knee of a child does not think herself a doctor, no matter how miraculously she transforms tears to giggles...nor does the father who waltzes his daughter across the floor, her iny feet balanced upon his, declare himself a dancer, even if each step is perfectly synchronized.

Why is it, then, that everyone who keeps a journal or scribbles thoughts on paper announces to the world that he or she is a great artiste, ready at any moment to challenge poor Willie for his title of "The Bard"? Could it be that most people do not understand what "writing" truly is? Because they see so many volumes (most of questionable quality)by so many different authors lining so many shelves, others assume that anyone capable of thinking up a halfway decent metaphor has talent?

I think that the deception lies in the seamless lyrical uniformity that pulses the vibrant cadence of harmonized theme, place, personalities, and poesy of a truly great work. Like every talented artist, the true writer makes it all seem so easy. The hours, the years spend perfecting the craft (Maybe one day, I'll get there, huh!?) Take place behind closed doors, in secret, quiet corners, or in the odd oasis of color and sound tucked away in some hidden alcove of nature. Few really see the work that takes place or comprehend the slowly smoldering passion to create which fuels a writer on and on and on, even when she fervently prays for the ability to just walk away and be done with it.

For so many of us poor, unfortunate souls, to write is not a choice: it is an irrefutable facet of our underlying quintessence. To not write is to hold one's breath. There is only so long one can do so before instinct, nature, that person's general makeup forces him or her to inhale; and so it is with those who were "born" writers.

So many people just don't understand that.

What set off today's tirade?

A blog, of course.

An associate of mine has written two young adult books while completing at least one other novel and a screenplay. Though best known in the entertainment industry, he is (after many decades) publishing his first work. Does this bother me? No. Albeit he and I have parted company (repeatedly) on acrimonious (at least, on my part!) terms, the pieces themselves are viable works, unique in their vividly conceived settings and gripping senses of "place." Besides, even he does not pretend to be The Great Literary Find. He has always presented himself as a person who enjoys writing and has several interesting stories to tell: not the next Dickens.

The participants in his blog, however, are quite a different matter. I have read, cringing in horror, the attempts to outshine one another in hackneyed, grammatically and syntactically abhorrent prose. Each one is working on that novel. Offerings my fifteen-year-old would be mortified to turn in as rough drafts in an English class are presented with great relish and to the immediate cacophony of praise lavished by counterparts (usually fellow poetasters) grateful for the excuse to submit equally horrific casualties of the pen in kind. (Am I a literary snob? Heck yes! You should hear what I call my own "stuff," ya'll!) And, as always, part of me is fascinated.

Who told these poor, misguided fools they could write?

There are writers and there are storytellers. Not all talented writers are necessarily adept at the art of storytelling; and not all good storytellers are capable of quality writing. Still, there is a place for each; moreover, I think each can retain a degree of respect for the other.

But the screwed-up scribblings I encountered today?

Well,

They'll all be available at Amazon before long!

Keep writing ya'll!

Cave Canem

2010-03-05T10:39:00.000-08:00

From this moment on, I never again want to see, hear, speak, or even think the name Paul Glaser as long as I live!

H&H levels be d--d.

I refuse to die.

I won't give him the satisfaction.

(Now watch me write, ya'll.)

Suffering Through the Moment

2010-03-02T17:09:00.000-08:00

"Words have little meaning, their resonance in ideas."

A friend of mine wrote these words not long ago, when I was at a low point: enduring what seemed, at the time, unendurable pain. As I tried to put into perspective all that was happening to and around me, it was difficult not to ponder the significance of suffering in our world. Be it physical, mental, emotional, or psychological, the pain which can infiltrate mind, body, or soul is very real. And, at this very moment, as I concentrate on the carefully honed process of separating my mind--my Self--from the agony now (once again)wracking my body, I find myself praying that he was right: that if I am able to, as he advised, place myself apart from or outside of my discomfort, and "foster more curiosity than [I] ever thought [I]had," I might actually catch that glimmer of light or understanding, hope, Truth, or insight which will transform what seems to be needless physical suffering into some state, some place in which it is no longer some viciously, gnawing thing I have to endure...but rather that Being I can become, venturing into these sensations and then finding those spaces within myself that are not comprised of, consumed by the ravages of pain but defined by the very act of knowing that there is something to be learned, discovered by having explored the deeper implications of just recognizing how this has all defined me, in this moment, as this entity I am now but will never again be.

(Or maybe I'll just find out the Green-Eyed, Silver-Tongued Con Artist didn't know what the devil he was talking about!)

A Thought For the Day

2010-02-17T11:00:00.000-08:00

Every Age will develop the language of apathy; every age will attempt to transcend that terminology in pursuit of enlightenment.

Thinking Thoreau

2010-02-13T18:27:00.000-08:00

"The millions are awake from physical labor; but only one in a million is awake for effective intellectual exertion, only one in a hundred million to a poetic and divine life. To be awake is to be alive. I have never yet met a man who was quite awake."-- Henry David Thoreau

My middle daughter Ondrelique posted this quote on her Facebook profile;

How appropriate! How much more life is than this; the endless scramble for a roof over one’s head, a shinier new vehicle to drive, or a few more coins in one’s pocket! It is in essence about experiencing the sights, and scents, sounds and sensations around us—learning from and about ourselves and others, reveling in the surrounding beauty, even finding the significance of the “ugliness” we encounter in order to grow stronger, even wiser, from the lessons it all teaches us. Life is about love and joy. Laughter. Appreciating all that we discover. Reveling not only in sunshine, but taking hedonistic pleasure in the rain. This world, this universe was put together as a series of balances; plants emit the oxygen that human beings need as we exhale carbon dioxide for them; herbivores are nourished by the grass yet they are gone their decomposing shells are nourished by the grass. On and off we go in this marvelously delicate symbiosis which is far more valuable, far more wondrous than anything that we as human beings might obtain, reshape, or create by our own hands.

When did we lose it…

The joy and awe that results from beholding, in this being apart from this glorious spectacle we call existence? None of us can be certain of what lies beyond this dimension, this tier of supervening beings known as human life. In many cases, we think we know. We share notions or ideas which may or may not be correct; however, it is both arrogant and foolhardy to believe that within this finite scope of our current perceptions we can conceptualize “accurately” the Infinite.

Thus, what we have are the wonders abounding here and now; and those should be enough to feed the ravenous minds, to pique even the most sluggish imagination, and to sustain even the most battered of souls....

Why can’t we, as human beings, recognize that????

Rude Awakening

2010-02-12T13:50:00.000-08:00

The delivery man from Schryver (a medical supply company) showed up unexpectedly at my room this morning to retrieve the oxygen equipment—equipment that I happened to be using at the time.

Naturally, no one from the hospice bothered to warn me.

Surprise surprise. This entire introduction to the “hospice system” has been an eye-opening one. From the outset it was made plain to me that I was not the typical patient. This was dpone in a rather accusatory fashion almost as though I had somehow offended them by not opting to die as they thought I should. Apparently I did not look sick, act sick, or respond to my sickness as was expected. It made the staff and administration quite unhappy.

Rather than a suitable alternative to traditional hospital care—as advertised—it is little more than a less comprehensive extension. Since my enrollment I have encountered the exact same bullying, the same condescension, the same arrogant disregard for the patient , prevalent, unfortunately, in the modern “medical” world (or health care arena), only within the hospice system these platitudes are couched within the myth of catering to the express desires of the patient. It is an oppressive world; one which those entrusted to serve and care for others instead seek n to control, manipulate or in some way to exercise dominance over them.

One never thinks about the preconceived notions applied to the sick and the dying. We each assume that the end of life will be treated with reverence, tenderness, and infinite care. I suppose the concept of another expecting one to die cooperatively and on terms acceptable to the caregiver is so abhorrent that it is never even considered; nonetheless, what I have, much to my outrage, bewilderment and frustration.

But then I stop to think about it….

Those who are terminally ill are usually the elderly or those too incapacitated to make decisions regarding their treatment and/or care. If not utterly alone, they are generally under the guardianship of harried loved ones struggling to not only come to terms with the death of someone dear to them but also with those pressures and stresses which result from providing daily care; that’s, in the typical “hospice situation”, the recipient of their services are usually all too willing to allow the “system” to dictate any and all procedures and decisions for them. Few question. Few complain. The administrators (and staff) maintain absolute autonomy with regards to every aspect of the patient’s final days.

Until someone raises an objection….

Then the delicate balance topples. The reins of power are no longer firmly in hand. Allowances must be made, questions addressed, suggestions heard, alternatives entertained, requests considered, needs met, and invariably, routines broken. And this is a situation that does not conform to the day-to-day process of providing “hospice services.” One can no longer--as an administrator, nurse, volunteer, or caregiver—operate under welcome familiarity of autopilot; and this is utterly unacceptable.

What a sad yet evocative statement regarding not only our society, but also our current health care system.

Would I be receiving my quietus at 3 this afternoon had I not questioned the before undisputed authority? Had I not pointed out the ways in which the actual system failed to conform to those standards and ideals promised, would now the same guidelines under which I initially qualified for hospice care suddenly exclude me? Had I just shut up and been a good, docile patient—unthinkingly, unequivocally, surrendering to the methods, procedures, and treatments prescribed me regardless of their effectiveness, without considering the specific needs and challenges of my individual situation, no matter how inappropriate they were under the circumstances—would Pike’s Peak Hospice (or other facilities like it) be quite so eager to “give me the beach.”

Would I still be “hospice qualified” or “a perfect fit” if “I only had [no] brain.”

Perhaps…

I shall never know.

Yet, for all intents and purposes, from all that I have seen, heard, and endured, it most certainly seems so!

Another Aubade

2010-02-04T17:04:00.000-08:00

If but a single shaft of light
Pierces the blue-rinsed shadows of dawn
Is therein not cradled
Enough hope,
Enough beauty,
Enough radiant promise,
To see the solemnly suffering soul
Through the bleakest,
Blackest
Darkness?

This Day

2010-01-27T17:02:00.000-08:00

This day I awoke to the realization that my mind and body had broken through this new level of physical pain. Mentally, something within me grew placid and still, leading me to also conclude that no matter what happens, I will be alright.

I no longer believe this is the end for me; however, I am not completely convinced that this "faith" is based in anything more tangible than the desire to cling to the impossible. Regardless, something indefinable has shifted within me...letting me know that I'm going to be okay.

In Death There's Truth

2010-01-24T12:24:00.000-08:00

Developing within me is an absolute obsession with the fledgling blog of an acquaintance (a veteran entertainer-cum-writer whom I once considered a friend). It is humiliating to have one’s delusions shattered. Nonetheless I could not believe the superficiality of the pseudo-intellectual claptrap spread across my “screen” like cyber-manure, befouling everything I thought I knew about this individual. Not to mention they things for which I thought he stood. The part of me in the foolish hope that he will protest the nonsense-making it clear that he does not appreciate the blatant pandering, flattering, sycophant condescension, and general artifice—continues to log on in an almost desperate manifestation of naiveté. Something in me welcomes the sight for any indication that this person who once held my unshaken belief and admiration is not so vainly self-absorbed (so narcissistic) as to not only accept such sickeningly, transparent toadying but to encourage it, perhaps even prefer it as well.

To my dismay however, no such evidence have, as yet, materialized. The sobering, even crushing truth, I find I must face is that someone I once respected and admired is not the person I thought him to be. Such a reality is devastating for anyone to face; therefore at this point in my life—when I am facing perhaps the most daunting challenge any human being can or will encounter—it is annihilating. My biggest problem—the trap into which I fall—as a human being is the snare of getting swept away by my ability (one might even call it a propensity) to identify the “good” or the “best´ in others. Having seen even the faintest glimmering of beauty or majesty, kindness or generosity, compassion or any indication of deeper dimension on some quintessential level in an individual, my tendency is to expect the aspects to—for the most part—define that person (other than simply represent qualities present or visible when he or she is operating at his or her best). As such, my expectations sway towards that “best” and/or their “finest”…

Only to be pulverized when faced with the sledgehammer force of the truth; that what I have celebrated in that person are the aberrations, not the norm.

For Micah

2010-01-15T01:57:00.000-08:00

A friend recently asked what my room here at Pikes Peak Hospice looked like, expecting--no doubt--my usual visual pictures painted by the many nuances of my voice and mood as a distraction (to us both) from this odd reality of my heading to an actual hospice...where I am being shipped to actually and really die. Well, this night, I wasn't quite up to that; thus, I thought I would just take a few pictures (It is, after all, the least I could do after the lovely bouquet he had delivered to me...along with his friendship, patience, and "love".)

First, allow me to post a picture of what I am told will be the last bed in which I will ever sleep. Such an odd concept...yet, one that does not alarm me as much as one might think. The prospect of death is neither frightening nor upsetting: simply strange. In this bed I am expected to take my last breath, which makes it, in my mind, worth a quick snapshot.

!!!!!
On a lighter note, above rests my Entertainment Center. Stunning it is, especially considering I have yet to flip on the television even once. (So much for tee-vee one simply must see!)

Sad.
Here sits the ugly red chair (mentioned in past conversations with my dear friend)...slightly obscured from view by piles of food I will probably never eat...even though the ever-hopeful nursing staff keeps pushing it my way, optimistic that the sight and smell might somehow tempt my non-existent appetite into being.

Here we see the bedside table from the second hospice room, upon which rests the phone, that foul instrument that allows me to pester said Micah at all hours of the day and night, whether he appreciates the constant "chatting" or not. Also, tissues for my ever-increasing
"weepy" moments...and last (but not least) the flowers (sent by that same dark-haired angel masquerading as a long-suffering close friend) which brighten my days...and nights.

This is the living area. (Notice the tightly shut drapery, which cause the hospice staff no end of vexation. "Don't you want those open?" they ask at least six times a day (corresponding with each shift change, no doubt).

On those rare days when my head is not pounding from red-blood-cell-and/or oxygen-deprivation, they are thrown open to reveal this surprisingly soothing view.

Below is the view from my bed, complete with recently painted toe-nails. (Vanity, thy name is Chanctetinyea...or would that be boredom? I've never been good at sitting still...or waiting.

And, it must be admitted, I spend as a result far too many hours contemplating the twenty-year-old scar on my right knee!)

Still in all, things are going far better than one might expect, given the circumstances. Yes, I am looking rather green of late; however, the pain is minimal. Furthermore, my energy levels--though not spectacular--do not seem to be diminishing...even though my skin tone is obviously green. (Yes, I snatched off the oxygen tubing long enough to take this rather looooverly snapshot on the Blackberry--now fully charged thanks to the long-distance purchase of a new AC adapter from Radio Shack...provided by Micah.)

What an absolutely hideous shot! (I would respectfully ask that the state of the arms and abs be forgiven, ya'll. The musculature melts to flab at an alarming rate when one is confined to a hospital bed for hours on end!)

I guess I shall never write that great work of literary brilliance to withstand the harsh trials and demands of this wisp of illusion we call "time."

Ah well...!

All in all, this whole matter of facing one's Final Days is not nearly as traumatic as one might expect. My children are safe, my best friend is but a phone call away, and Pikes Peak is not the worst place one might find herself interred to die.

Death does not, I find, scare me...

The prospect of leaving a life only partially lived, on the other hand, does. In those heavily silent hours of the morning--those unending strings of minutes, seconds, and heartbeats pregnant with both infinite promise and burgeoning loss--I wonder if somehow, on the other side of some great chasm between the dimensions of life and death, some part of me might be aware--cognizant--of the needs and sufferings of those I love (specifically my children...and, less so, my best friend) though physically unable to in any way intervene on their behalves. To me, this would be the very definition of Hades: to "see" them in danger, neglect, misery, or want...with no means to rush to aid them.

Perhaps, this is the one fear we all must face: the prospect of leaving behind "messes" to be cleaned up by those we hold dear.

In any event, for now, things are...okay. (Albeit it has taken me nearly three hours to complete this entry on my borrowed laptop.)

Whew!

Time for yet another nap!

In the meantime, however, I would like to once again thank you for the flowers, Glaser my boy. They really made (and make) my stay--here as in Memorial--more bearable.

Good night, all.

Dead Chance Walking

2010-01-14T12:34:00.000-08:00

Since my last entry, my life has changed dramatically.

Last week I was in the hospital, where I was pronounced terminally ill. After being sent to the hospice, they said my terminal illness was not "acute enough" to warrant taking up a bed and a room. Now, I'm facing homelessness.

Nevertheless...I can't escape the urge to write...

Thank You, Sunshine

2010-01-12T16:40:00.000-08:00

When my mother died in February of 2006, I spent many a night asking myself if all that she was--all that she had the potential to be--had died with her. A few months later, I found myself discussing a similar topic with someone who would later become a very dear friend indeed. He and I spoke about our individual longings, pondering the question of whether one truly could "follow his [or her] heart. Of late, I have found myself lying in bed tormented by the question of whether my mother, Ms. Katie, was aware of the impact she made upon this world in her brief seventy-four year occupation upon it...and if my own four decades have by any means impacted upon this same world in any positive way.

This past week, I have been fortunate enough to have had the encouragement of someone I both admire and trust. And, he has assured me that my presence--as a person and a writer--made some small difference in his life. Realistically, it is more than feasible that he would only say as much to bring succor to me during this time, when my fate is uncertain and my future, ultimately, bleak. (After all, I have had the sinking suspicion on more than one occasion that this particular "friend" is more than capable of telling a whopper of a tall tale when it suits his purposes!) Even so, the fact that I now sit furiously scribbling the words forming in my hazy recesses of my oxygen-starved brain tells me that I have been given at least the hope that if I do depart from this Earth in the near future, my time here was not completely wasted.

My mother may not have had that assurance.

For that very reason, I am all the more grateful that someone took the time to make sure that I have.

2010

2010-01-01T10:16:00.000-08:00

Does anyone else remember those last years in the 1990's, when the whole world seemed convinced that the second 1999 ended, the Earth would rock on its axis (tipping, in the process, California into the Pacific), the planes would fall from the sky, the nuclear weapons would simultaneously activate themselves, and we would all die in a heap?

Okay, it is pretty clear in hindsight that we were all a bit naive in those fears. Even so, the sensations they evoked, the hunger to live, the building excitement which coexisted with that streak of realism (the inner voice that jeered at us every time the question, "What if...?" popped into our heads regarding that whole Careening California thing) which kept each of us fixedly pointed towards the future despite even the most dire predictions...thrived. We all wanted to LIVE, to believe in the magic of the future--eager to see what "Y2K" would yield....

This morning, I awoke to new confidence and determination. For a while now, I have battled my own doubts as a writer, as an editor, as a human being with something vital or unique to contribute to the "literary" world. Perhaps everyone who puts "pen to paper" does, regardless of commercial success (or failure). Yet today--even though the changing of years has not had much of an impact, quite frankly, on my attitudes or "psyche" in quite some time--I was honestly swept away on a tide of frenetic anticipation, unable to sit or stand, move or remain still, sleep or fully awaken in my utter conviction that something new, something startling, something significant awaited me.

Thus, here I sit, beginning yet another short story, entering yet another contest, jotting down yet another idea for another literary "piece," and it feels good!

It feels right.

Here's wishing anyone who stops by my disorganized little thought pool the best and brightest 2010. New beginnings await us all...and I would like to believe that piece, prosperity, and the fulfillment of a wealth of our desires lie just beyond that compelling new horizon.

2009-12-27T09:39:00.000-08:00

Christmas and the holidays have proven indescribably horrendous this year; however, the determination to continue writing through it all--despite it all--has remained (for the most part) undiminished. Having entered a few very bad poetry "chapbooks" in various contests, the objective is to work as long, as diligently, and as consistently now that my laptop has been repaired and restored. Though progress is hard to measure at this point, my hope centers on that well-used adage "even a broken clock is right twice a day."

Something has to turn up.

In the meantime, tomorrow is gone and cannot be changed. The future is beyond my present comprehension. All that is left for me--indeed, for any of us--to do is learn from the former, strive for the most favorable results with regards to the later...and keep doing the best that can be done with that which is known at the time.

But, y'know what?

'Tain't always easy, ya'll!!!!

(Keep writing, everyone.)

By the way,

If you are ever in Colorado Springs and in need of a little TLC for your Mac, top in the Macstore and ask for "Phil." He's really a great guy!

Taking a Long, Deep, Cleansing Breath

2009-12-23T20:31:00.000-08:00

When my beleaguered iBook died last month (probably from over-use and exhaustion), my initial reaction was to take this momentous event as yet another sign from God and the Heavens above that this little black duck was simply not meant to write. How, after all, could I make the money to repair or replace the thing when I did not have it as a means to make the money?

At times, it was a dark, dark place.

All the same, a wonderful group of individuals stepped in and bolstered my dwindling reserves of optimism at a time when such support was--well--vital. Now, "new" laptop in hand (with, I might add, the majority of my information in tact) I am forcing myself to take just a moment to relax and "reset". Even though I have been virtually out-of-work for a month, despite the bills piling up on my tables and floors, even with the holidays peeking over the fence into my back yard (not to mention my middle daughter's eighteenth birthday the day after Christmas), I have convinced myself to stop, take a long, deep, cleansing breath, then again grasp hold of the fervid belief that I can, will, and must retain my faith in myself, my dream, my "talents," and my love for my "craft" in order to continue on...

And on...

And on...

And on...

Until my work is "done."

Keep writin' ya'll!

A Christmas Essay

2009-12-20T15:44:00.000-08:00

At this time of year, many people quote the line, Jesus is the reason for the season: yet this is not entirely accurate. The "Savior" featured in the New Testament was not evident that Earth-changing day long ago: only a tiny newborn baby. Upon Its birth, that baby spouted no profound parables , preached no sermons, uttered no great truths. Further, He had saved no lives, performed no miracles...known no suffering, or made any sacrificed on this Earth--great or small; and in truth, there was no guarantee--at the time--that It would. Those choices, as listed in the Bible and recorded in the annals of collective spiritual history, came much later--the operative word being choices.

At that time, at the time of birth, nevertheless, none of this had taken place. Moreover, none of the oft-remembered attendants of this celebration had any inkling that it would. They gathered together in anticipation of what would be, not what was.

It seems to me that individuals become so engrossed in forcing their beliefs upon others that they, in doing so, lose sight of the basics of those ideals themselves. At Christmastime, it is not His future which we commemorate but the simple, glorious promise inherent in that single, quiet miracle of birth. We, like those animals, those shepherds, kings and wise men gathered around the manger, celebrate hope and faith; limitless joy: the innocence of trust; that childlike awe experienced when encountering that which is new and breathtaking--never before seen, of which we had never before conceived. We are reminded of the incontrovertible values of selfless giving, of embracing hope of peace...and of that purest form of goodwill which both transcends the boundaries of nationality, social status, and economic standing in order to draw us--as human beings--across those meaningless divides so that we might share in what is truly important, not to mention infinitely more magnificent than anything we have or had in our lives before imagined:

Promise.

The Promise of (indeed, the birth of) a limitless Love.

...So, I suppose it is my hope that during this season of lights and marvels, of beauty and majesty, of childhood and optimism, of exultant spirits and joyous giving none of us forget that in truth, for not only the believers in the Divinity of Christ but for every human being--young or old, of every race, creed, color, nationality, or religion--the True "reason for the season" is Love. It is Love which should be, is, and always has been the basis for honoring this magnificent day we call Christmas. How wrong it is, therefore, to accuse "the powers that be" of diminishing that message when it is those who attach to it self-righteous, often sanctimonious qualifications who are most often guilty of forgetting this fact!

The only differentiation between the "believer" and the "non-believer" is that one faction maintains that Jesus is Love. And, in all candor, if the objective is honestly to illustrate to others that this is the case, the means to accomplish this can never be anything less than offering love to others...rather than criticism and condemnation.

If one truly "believes," then the expectation should be that--having done this--Someone Greater can and will easily step in to do the rest!

My wish for this and every other Christmas is that every single human being who comes into contact with its concept remembers--in fact revels in the recollection--that the one thing we must never forget at this time of year

Is to love one another.

Another Day

2009-12-01T15:16:00.000-08:00

As usual, finding significant work (in term of size, responsibility, and the ever-present pay) during the holidays is proving something of a challenge. Still in all, despite the invariable setbacks which typify "writing" as a career, there is nothing I would rather do with my time, no other way in which I would ever chose to make my living.

Still, a nice, big fascinating assignment would make my holidays a little happier, ya'll!

Redefining a Love Affair

2009-11-20T12:03:00.000-08:00

When months ago I made the decision to again viewing my writing as--instead of a commercial endeavor--an enduring passion, I did so with the same drive and determination as I have faced most important decision in my life. In the beginning, the enthusiasm was as potent as any drug, I suppose. Nothing was more thrilling to me than pouring over my research, playing those sly little love gaames with words and punctuation, and delving into the cobweb-filled corridors of my long-unused imagination.

And I loved it.

When it happened that my body could not keep up with the frantic pace of my frenetically racing mind, my love affair with the written word was soured by my constant exhaustion. There is so much one wanted to give: in time, in care, in terms of quality and simple, basic respect. And "art," I was reminded, is any form, a demanding "lover." It settles for nothing less than complete and concentrated devotion, its expectations deeming unimportant the practical constraints of time. (Did I mention that at the time, I loved it?)

Now.

I sit at a loss.

What next?

How, exactly, do I progress, now that there is not doubt in my mind (or any one else's) that I am no longer up to giving to this relationship all that it asks...

And deserves?

Freelance Heartaches

2009-11-07T18:06:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, I accessed my voice mail to be greeted by this message from a relative in Denver:

"I just called to see if your fat butt got a job!"

It is odd to me that there are those who do not consider freelance projects to be actual work. (Then again, I have a sibling who swears I have "never done a day's work" in my life, which calls into question, I guess, the judge rather than the one being judged.) to work from home amid the daily distractions of everyday living requires a special kind of discipline. It is imperative to enjoy the work being done, to find fulfillment in it--otherwise, the insidious beckoning of those dishes piled up in the dishwasher, the three loads of laundry waiting to be tackled, or that favorite rerun of Masterpiece Theatre or The Gilmore Girls prove impossible to ignore.

Truly, this is not the best option for everyone. Many need the structure of a "typical nine-to-five". I have one long-time acquaintance who actually rents office space on a busy downtown street because, "I just can't spend all that time alone in front of the computer. I need to be able to see and hear that rat race as I type."

To each his own....

Still, the selling point for choosing the freelance option (at least for me) is the flexibility it affords. The truth is, I am probably a more grueling (and critical) taskmaster than any boss or supervisor ever could be. The constant reminders of the mundane projects baked up behind me provide the incentive necessary to keep me on track and progressing at a brisk pace. Being, furthermore, one of those irksome perfectionists who needs to get everything done ahead of time, working independently does not pose a problem for me.

Knowing when to call it a day, however, does.

As much as I love Colorado, my body has yet to bounce back from the transition. This last week, I must say, has been--as a result--an absolute killer! If one can picture a near-forty woman huddled beneath a coverlet banging away at her laptop as she all but convulses with chills, he (or she) has a pretty doggone good mental image of me. In some ways, much was accomplished: in other ways, I feel as though I am falling steadily behind. All the same, I have adored every minute of it. Working on such a wide range of different projects (spanning so many different literary forms and disciplines) is never boring. In fact, it thrills me. And, being at the mercy of no one's schedule but one's own (for the most part) is to me a beautiful thing.

Even if it means that others think my "fat butt" (all the better to sit at my computer with, my dear) isn't holding down an actual "job."

So, for all you freelance writers, editors, and ghostwriters out there, never let anyone compel you to feel as though your work, your time, your efforts are of any less value than anyone else's just because you chose to meet your deadlines in a baby-doll nightie and fuzzy Eeyore slippers. The quality of written work stands, regardless of the conditions under which that work was completed; thus and therefore, my friends...

Just keep writing, ya'll.

Solitude, Attitude, Fortitude

2009-10-19T12:11:00.000-07:00

Who would have thought that this simple business of freelance work could become so very frustrating--not to mention complicated?!?!?

When I first mentioned the intention to "work from home," the response was usually, "You'll never get anything done: too many distractions." According to the general consensus, I would find myself--rather than knuckling under and focusing on the task at hand--flipping on the television, meandering to the kitchen for tea, finishing up that never-ending list of household chores (which always seems much easier to tackle in solitude). I would never, I was warned, get any real work accomplished.

Little did I suspect that the opposite would be the case! All too often, I find myself up at three p.m. still tapping away at the keys, certain that were I to put even the simplest thing off, it would somehow fail to get done. Perhaps this would not be so bad, if one does not happen to be one of those infuriatingly perfection-driven souls who cannot settle for a good job...or even a great job...but must always strive to surpass even The Best.

(For the record, compulsive people don't have any sense of moderation, ya'll.)

Yes, the freedom to earn my daily bread barefoot, stretched out on the carpet in a tank top in shorts is definite thrill. Alright: to be blunt, it is downright additive. At this point when a client suggest Skype, addtional face-to-face meetings, or other scenarios which require putting an actual brush to my hair and donning adult attire, every cell within my body has a tendency to actually CRINGE.

Yes, I'm utterly spoiled, people.

Even so, the casual environment tends to urge me to be more fastidious rather than less so. With the work staring at me constantly, the temptation to "just push through" is nearly impossible to escape; thus, I finding myself working longer hours, obsessing over finer details than I would were I putting in the traditional 9 to 5 in someone else's office.

This is my name on the line, after all!

My reputation is at stake.

And, there is no one to take the blame for that un-dotted "i" or uncrossed "t" but ME!

Additionally, with the children away, there are few (if any) diversions from the lure of the computer screen. Left on my own, it is easy to forgo such inconveniences as...say...eating, sleeping, or taking a breather in the interest of "just getting this one LAST paragraph edited."

Even now, as I find myself taking on the task of "writing coach" (or, as somewhat facetiously retitled by the client) "developmental editor" to an individual whose solemn belief is that the "more the merrier" (as opposed to my staunch, heartfelt position that "too many cooks spoil the soup) with regards to the number of editors, coaches, and contributors invited "on board," I catch myself putting in more work, more effort, more time than the project (and pay for the project) should entail.

The writer in me is so fiercely protective of the artist's "voice" that I find myself examining then re-examining elements of style in order to make sure--in my corrections, suggestions, and general notations--that I am not imposing my own will upon the client, injecting my own literary preferences and tendencies into another person's work.

Even when taking a project I dislike...

.

Such as this one.

It isn't that I lack faith in the manuscript itself. The individual has taken a timely, undeniably pertinent topic and examined it in such a way that would be (and will be) of particular interest, given the times. The problem, unfortunately, is that I am not, when it comes to writing and/or editing, a team player, by any means; nor do I like the constant contradiction of my work by others. In my mind, I'm pretty doggone good at what I do; as such, the repeated interjection of seemingly less qualified influences--quite frankly--sets my blood t'boilin'!

I can't work that way.

Better to make my contributions then step away as the finished piece is reformed, refinished, and re-evaluated by some unknown entity I shall never meet offering opinions I shall never hear!

Why, then, am I working so diligently on a project from which I have already disassociated myself.

Yes, even after explaining to the writer my position--making it clear that after the agreed-upon trial read-through, it seemed advantageous to all concerned if we parted company--I cannot, somehow, let the whole thing go. Having signed on, even if under false notions of the capacity in which my services would be required, the perfectionist in me just can't leave a task--any task--undone.

Ergo, the only course of action is to--in my solitude--adopt a no-nonsense attitude summon up the fortitude to strike that ever-elusive balance between a job well-done...and a job overdone.

Any suggestions??????????????????

Branching Out

2009-10-13T22:30:00.000-07:00

This week finds me taking on several new projects in an effort to break free of the restrictive confines of ghostwriting, with its soul-draining demands for unqualified anonymity. Admittedly, I have found myself offered my services at ridiculously reduced rates for no other reason than to establish a client base here in Colorado; yet the independence is exhilarating. Certainly, once the volume of work "picks up," I won't be able to be as adventurous in my selections (after all, it is not the quality of my work which is in any way diminished by the lowering of fees but rather the amount of extra time and extra attention to detail) but until then...

Anyone in need of a good writing coach, people?

Happenstance?

2009-10-12T08:46:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, I learned my father quite possibly--indeed, most probably--has cancerous matter within his colon...

Today would have been my mother's seventy-eighth birthday.

My father's surgery is, at present, scheduled for the twenty-second of October...

Right between the birthdays of his youngest (the twenty-first) and eldest (the twenty-third) sons.

Life is just filled with little ironies...isn't it?

One Life to Live

2009-10-11T10:56:00.000-07:00

These last two days have been quite eventful ones for me. First of all, the first broadcast of my son's fledgling talk radio show aired last evening. It was both exhilarating and nerve-racking to sit back as my "baby" took up the microphone and boldly expressed his views. I suppose a mother never quite gets it into her head or her heart that her children are no longer children; thus, even as one bites the lip, sits on the hands, and resolves herself to let them spread their wings and soar to heights unknown, the urge to snatch any available limb and drag them back into childhood grows ever-stronger, ever more compelling each day.

Still, had I not wanted him to voice his views, I should not have crusaded, "soapboxed," and preached the importance of social change and personal ethics (like a crazy woman, ya'll) all these years. Thus, I can only sit back, be proud, and let him-- indeed, let all three of them, break through the stratosphere--trusting that somehow I managed to provide them each with the tools, the knowledge, and the advice necessary to help them develop into the best people they can possibly be...

(But t'ain't easy, ya'll!)

Another odd development involved my father, of all people. my relationship with the Hill family can be described as contentious at best, with my assuming the role of the rebellious, hard-headed, trouble-making outcast destined to pose an ever-present threat of embarrassment for the others. This I have accepted over the years--sometimes with amusement, others with chagrin: in anger, resentment, exasperation, indifference, curiosity, and even resolve. Still, through it all, my connection with my biological father has remained a tenuous one at best.

Certainly, I could easily devote an hour to my rantings and ravings on the subject of my father--his mistakes, his (probably unintentional) cruelty, the deplorable way he treated my mother: the list goes on and on. How does one develop or even harbor the faintest glimmer of hope for healthy interaction with someone who has for eight-five years remained so totally self-absorbed as to have no real concept of the needs, feeling, or emotions of others? Over the years, I have found my attitude oscillating between tearful animosity and bone-melting pity towards the man.

Then, this morning, in a rare e-mail from my oldest sister, I learned that my father had received the results of a test he mentioned to me in passing earlier this week. In his latest barrage of tests, the doctors apparently found within his colon definite cause for alarm, necessitating surgery on the 22nd. In truth, I had no idea how I felt about the matter. My father has not, to any significant degree, been a real parent to me, although there have been the odd bright moments here and there. So busy was the man attempting to control everything and everyone around him that he robbed himself and those around him of the opportunity to enjoy healthy, happy, productive lives. Now, at eighty-five, with a lifetime of regrets behind him, he sits alone in a prison he unknowingly constructed for himself--his wife gone, his children at the distance for which he alone is responsible--facing the end of his existence on this Earth; and one cannot help but feel a tinge of sadness for all that he did not and will never know.

It is odd, after years of being the "bad" one and the "misfit" to find myself identified as "the only one who calls regularly" (even though this particular moniker was also bestowed upon me by my mother in the years before she died). All my life, it has seemed to me, my father and I have been at loggerheads--my accusing and demanding "satisfaction" and his criticizing and hiding behind "plausible deniability." Any girlish dreams of sappy Hallmark moments, of tenderness and cathartic revelation were abandoned so long ago that I can not, at present, recall them--even though, realistically, I know they must have once existed. Does not every young girl long to be "Daddy's little girl," swept up into strong, protective arms then swung high and with exuberant affection towards the awaiting heavens? Last year, in fact, the oft-mentioned "best friend" urged me to "make a demand and expect it to be met" because he was sure "there was fruit there" (between my father and myself) and felt that "every little girl needs her father". At the time, with everything else going on in my life, my response was one of annoyance at being asked to revisit something so obscure and inconsequential in the course of my being; nevertheless, looking back, I suppose the points made were valid ones. The connection between father and daughter should be a self-affirming one, filled with all the elements of elation, satisfaction, continuity, and stability which provide one with the foundation of a full and fulfilling life.

For some of us, however, such is not the case.,

At this point, I have been without the love and support of a father for so long that I honestly don't think I miss it. If asked, I do not think I love him...or even had the opportunity to do so. In hindsight, it is apparent that he, in making the decisions that he did, hurt himself more than anyone else--save my mother; thus, any anger, animosity, or resentment would be lost on him. How can one harbor animosity towards someone who has done far more damage to himself than any hatred by another could even begin to match? He has missed out on every milestone in my life as well as the lives of my children; when I needed him, he was not there; he and I share precious few memories with the possibility of making new ones virtually nonexistent; there have been few shared confidences, few meaningful conversations, little affection, and no depth of feeling whatsoever...plus, sadly enough, this reality, this truth is one that characterizes his relationships (or, rather, non-relationships) with all eight of his other remaining children (more, if one counts the unacknowledged "halves" that are floating about).

Having spoken to him, having heard the regret in many of his statements, having felt the loss that comes from knowing that one's deeds are irrevocable--the best years of his life far behind him, I cannot help but look around me in awe of all that life has afforded me, all that I have for which to be grateful. Yes, I sit in an empty apartment, sure that with each passing day my brother has made a bonfire of my belongings back in Connecticut. It is true that materialistically, my children and I have comparatively little. There have been more than out share of struggles, hardships, miseries, and catastrophes; nevertheless, we have operated under the belief that life is to be lived, to be enjoyed...not simply endured, drawing our small quartet close in a way that defies the obstacles of time and circumstance. I am happy here in Colorado Springs. The prospect of a successful writing career looms ahead of me despite the temporary obstacles. My children are contented, for the most part, with themselves and their lives. The future stretches before us--with all tis love, laughter, tears, accomplishments, failures, experiences, lessons, celebrations, twists, turns, and eventualities--in a glorious panorama of possibility; and we are not afraid to face it.

My father is not, was not so fortunate.

To quote his own words, "...but I was afraid to take the chance...."

It really is true, people...

It is not a cliche:

We truly do have only one life to live...and the trick of it is living that life in such a way that the good times overshadow the bad, the triumphs outnumber the regrets, the fond memories outshine the sad ones, the accomplishments minimize the failures, and the laughter drowns out the tears.

My father, unfortunately, failed to understand that, which--seems to me--is the greatest tragedy of all.

How I hope and pray, regardless of all that has come before, that somehow, some way, to some extend he finds some peace of mind in these last days and weeks, months and years he has left on this Earth.

Renewals

2009-10-07T08:53:00.000-07:00

Well, I officially moved into my new apartment last Saturday. Despite a few unforeseen detours, familial diversions, and utter exhaustion (yesterday, the activity, the stress, the excitement, and all the running about finally caught up to me, leaving me curled up on my lonely little borrowed mattress, struggling to breathe and popping aspirin to relieve the dizzying pain of my over-taxed heart), I must admit that I am far happier, far more contented, far more optimistic than I have been in years.

Hmmmmm...

Renewals....

In less than half-an-hour, I will find myself face-to-face with a friend from Middlebury (a fellow freelance writer) whom I have not seen in over twenty years.

Where has the time gone?

As daunting as the prospect of such a reunion is in so many ways, I find myself too excited to even sit still. New beginnings, new prospects, new adventures: these are all so compelling, so enchanting...so intriguing. I can't wait to learn
what will happen next...and learn about myself in the process.

(Ah! Grist for the mill...or in this case, ideas for the word processor, ya'll!)

Renewals:

They present themselves in so many strange and wonderful forms, don't they?

Stumped

2009-09-27T05:30:00.000-07:00

Well, here comes another tale of misery and woe: doom, despair and agony on me. (Don't you love it?) So, sit back, get out your handkerchief, and carefully tune those violins!

Outside, the rain falls in a steady, melodic tattoo. I close my eyes, attempting to sink into the bliss of the dark, stillness, willing it to beckon to me as usual.

No such luck.

Peace, tranquility, serenity: these are not to be my companions this day. This day, the rain serves only to exacerbate a sense of dread. Though such weather usually leaves me shivering with delight, today it strikes me as lonesome and dreary.

Believe it or not, I find myself facing even more setbacks in this oft-discussed move. (Sometimes I feel like the Boy Who Cried, "Wolf!") Yesterday, I had to cancel the movers (albeit, I like to think of the decision as "rescheduling"). Naturally, a van was dispatched anyway, despite assurances that the date had been firmly and without incident changed. Verbal sparring with a cuttingly polite dispatcher who emitted his impatience through clenched teeth was not exactly the best way to begin the day.

It was one of the hardest things I have ever had to do.

In that single act of altering my plans, I put myself in the position of having to face what a truly staggering endeavor this all is. Here I am, a single mother with no outside help--not to mention three teenagers boarding at their schools) attempting to pack up and move across country with questionable health and amid "friends" whose answers to my fears,setbacks, and hardships tend to be, "Oh, if anyone can do it you can," or "It'll all be worth it once you get to Colorado!"

The question is: will I ever get there?

Most devastating about this setback is the stark truth that I have convinced myself the transition itself will somehow replace that which is now missing within me. Somehow, the detachment from healthy human contact, light and optimism developed here has festered into a disinterest in life, in living, in writing. Although I was told repeatedly that, having been as ill as I had been, mentally, psychologically, and even physically, there could be "re-entry" pangs in returning to the land of the living. I was told to be patient, not to panic, and to accept it as a reasonable manifestation of the trauma and damage my body had sustained due to nearly three years of critical anemia (as a result of g6pd and/or MDS) in conjunction with the significant head injury sustained from my very lovely car accident under two years earlier. Logically, I suppose, this all made a degree of sense; nevertheless, with the deepening disinterest in all things once "Chance," the desire to write, to connect with others, to even participate in the daily activities of life waned alarmingly. Frankly, my childhood left me adept as putting on the big smile and plodding through the hard times; nevertheless, no amount of mental cheerleading could resurrect in me the enthusiasm for life which had, there-to-fore, always sustained me and enriched my life.

Maybe, then, I placed too much significance in this single--though monumental--act of "change." It is as if I had tied all my ambitions, all my longings, far too much hope in the recuperative properties of physical change. Because life in New Haven has proven so very miserable in so many ways, the simple concept of relocating to a place of my choice under my terms was enticing, even intoxicating. In my enthusiasm, I found myself again jotting down phrases and images, making hasty entries into the journal which had for many weeks gone untouched.

Then the complications began.

And with every new problem, every new glitch, every new development, that lovely glow of anticipation diminished.

Now I find myself benumbed, overwhelmed, and quite weary. How does one carry out such a tremendous undertaking alone? Certainly, I--myself--don't know. Do I continue on to Colorado, leaving our belongings here, in the belief that somehow, someway I will find some way to "PPT" things to rights once I get there? Do I give up and stay here, feeling the very life's force drain from me day by day? Do I take up needlepoint? Gameboy? Drink?

Right now, I haven't a clue.

I know only that when I call anyone for help or that extra "push" in any direction, the result is usually the same: "I'm sure it's not as bad as you think...If anyone can get through this, you can."

Perhaps I shall one day learn the secret of asking for and accepting help rather than plowing through life expecting to do all, overcome all, accomplish all on my own. I often wonder how many others out there encounter a similar dilemma--having proven themselves so capable and resilient that they are often left to do the superhuman with little or no practical understanding. On one hand, it is a great compliment. To know that others assume you capable of mastering any task, reaching any goal, or transforming any hope, dream, or aspiration into reality is, at times, a tremendous motivator. In short, you can't fail: failing is not an option; therefire, you take a deep breath, plaster on a winning smile, and pray that somehow , you can manage to pull the thing (whatever it may be at the moment) off with at least a modicum of dignity.

Yet,on the other hand, there are always those "panic attack" moments in which one gravitates from abject hopelessness to a sense of injustice and indignation. I ask myself, why must I expect myself to forever achieve the unachievable? Why am I never allowed to be scared or discouraged or overwhelmed? Why is it that the problems of others are considered significant while mine are brushed aside as inconsequential simply because it is perceived that I always "find a way"?

I have to admit, I spent the entire day in bed in my underwear huddled beneath my covers praying for the world to end!

I, in fact, slept for hours after completing my requisite morning walk (which the chronically anemic must take in order to maintain the metabolism), trying to take comfort from the assurances from a woman I met that morning (having stopped in at a church on impulse) that this move was right for me, that I had to make it to Colorado, that there was nothing for me in New Haven...yet offered me no clue as to how I was to accomplish this other than, "Ask for help." Only vaguely did I notice the strains of "Any Day Now" wafting from my Blackberry (indicating that someone, somewhere wanted to reach me); yet, when I did stir myself enough to check the call logs, the calls were from wrong numbers, the moving company (calling to confirm my dates, naturally) and the one person I probably should not have spoken to (a classmate from prep school). Why I took the call, I cannot say, for it seemed tinged with one part glee in my stress, one part dismissal of my concerns, and--at last--the recurring theme of "don't complain to me: you're moving to Colorado!"

It's been a rough day

Still in all, there is no one to whom I can turn:this is a fact. No fairy godmother will materialize from thin air (though I have asked several people if they have one to spare). No knight in shining armor will ride to my rescue. No one is going to delve into the old bank account or run to my side to hold my hand. If this New Beginning is to happen, it will happen because I found a way to somehow struggle through, over, and past the series of rather daunting obstacles all by my little lonesome...even if that means leaving my belongings here for heaven-only-knows how long while I struggle to find the last bit of the first month's rent, a "day" job (until I establish contacts in the area), and some way to make at least the semblance of a home for my children.

Whatever it takes, I have to make this work.

(If anyone out there knows what "whatever" might be, do me a favor: please tell me!!!!!!)

"Bye"

2009-09-26T22:04:00.000-07:00

Why did you lack the courage to send me on my way,
To give me what was needed: to say what you had to say.
I knew you did not trust me, sensing all the while
That most of all you resented my ability to make you smile.
Never shall I be the woman fresh from that much-desired mold.
You see, I'm much too mouthy, too expectant, even too old
To settle for less than all that you and I could give
Or ignore the glaring differences in the lives we each must live.
I know that seeking friendship engendered sure and certain risks:
That each of us would face the inner fears that even time could not dismiss.
Still, foolishly I believed you'd see that such deep emotion could hold no lie,
That something truly precious sealed that entity "You and I".
How could you, after winning over my own doubts so tenderly
Imply I cared not for you but for your celebrity?
Perhaps with that same fear which you so often claim to face
The chance at friendship, love, and laughter you stubbornly replace!
Easier by far to hide behind the hurts of long ago,
To accuse me of the very things you knew, in your heart, weren't so.
Thus, for all your cool talk and suave reasoning, this you cannot deny:
You were too afraid to take a chance...and too cruel to just say, "Bye."

Going Home

2009-09-17T16:52:00.000-07:00

As of this afternoon, we have an official home in Colorado Springs. The prospect of the move has actually lifted my spirits in ways that I truly did not expect. Having met new people, touched base with a fellow writer or two, and generally had the creative juices churned by the energy surrounding this transition, I feel optimistic for the first times in months.

Forward Movement

2009-09-15T14:40:00.001-07:00

This day finds all three of my children settling into individual routines away from home: making new friends and re-establishing old connections; unpacking; rearranging; relearning how and when and where to tackle homework assignments; for my son, switching roles from that of the advisee to the all-knowing advisor. Here, on the Home Front, I struggle to--amid tentative anticipation--scrape together the remnants of hope, health, and happiness that somehow survived this New Haven purgatory and carry them with me into this very different life in Colorado. It is as though with the transforming of the seasons--summer into autumn--an equally astonishing alteration of existence came slowly, subtly into being. All about us the world swirls and changes, forcing us to reshape our own thoughts, attitudes, habits, and preconceived notions in order to accommodate those constant changes.

Despite it all, our little Quartet is moving forward. Somehow we have survived that which seemed insurmountable, too horrendous (at times) to be endured; and now it is as if the past traumas never existed, as though the wonder unfolding before us is all there ever was.

A friend of mine asked, "So, do you think you'll be able to write again? Now that you're finally getting away from the craziness?" The truth is, I have no idea. Ideally, I should have been able to sculpt words into distinct, delicately shaped images whether in the midst of insanity or tranquility. Talent should reveal itself despite the intrinsic interference of environmental forces, should it not?

I suppose only time will tell.

Still, one cannot help but--in the midst of it all--ponder the notion of New Beginnings...and how vital to existence they really are.

With the positive changes now taking place in life, I am aware of tiny, electric jolts of vitality which are quite invigorating. Last night, my hands reached for journal and pen, scratching out the sentences before my mind even registered the significance of it all.

So, maybe--just maybe--these changes, this transition (more than anything else) was what I, as a "writer" needed. Perhaps in a new environment surrounded by fresh energy, new faces, different stimuli, it will be possible to knock down this oft-lamented "block" and actually create again.

Am I banking on that?

Let's put it this way:

My son's expression says it all.

A Breakthrough...????

2009-09-12T05:23:00.000-07:00

I actually posted an entry in my journal today after nearly two months? Dare one be optimistic, ya'll?

Fall Term Begins

2009-09-10T12:55:00.000-07:00

The girls have arrived safely at Exeter.

All things considered, even if it is September 10th, it hasn't been too bad of a day...

Happy Birthday to me.

The Countdown Continues

2009-09-08T09:18:00.000-07:00

The girls and I have picked up the last of the odds and ends for their return to Exeter on Thursday. Yesterday having nearly ended in a literal nervous breakdown, we are all just glad to have gotten through the morning.

(I think two decades of insanity hovering about me has finally taken its toll, ya'll.)

No great literary offerings have flowed from my fingertips since the last entry: moving has consumed my every waking minute. As for the former best friend, his book is due "out" this month. I hope it will be met with the enthusiasm he both expects and (grammatical helplessness aside) deserves.

He and I are no longer talking, but such is beside the point.

What matters, I suppose, is that a writer will see his work in print. Regardless of anything that may passed between us, I wish him every success.

After all...

One of us should make a mark with this writing thing!

Counting Down the Days

2009-09-03T07:58:00.001-07:00

Yesterday, I saw my son onto his train. He is now safely, happily ensconced in Little dorm at Dartmouth College, where he will begin his sophomore year...as well as his first as an Undergraduate Advisor. At present, I find myself seated in the waiting area of the Westfield Mall Sears, watching the fashion show put on by my daughters, preparing myself mentally and psychologically for their departure for Exeter (ironically on my birthday) in a week.

Still do I avoid actual writing--like the bubonic plague, in fact. Disillusionment (?)...perhaps lack of inspiration, and maybe plain fatigue have literally drained the desire from me; nevertheless, I am resolved not to fly into a full-fledged, heart-stopping panic. Photography stands in the interim as my diversion of choice as I prepare to move to Colorado Springs--

(Brief pause. Ondrelique just emerged from the fitting room wearing an electric green jacket!!!!! Shocking.)

I often wonder if I will ever write again. After years of "fighting the good fight," I now find myself thinking maybe I was never meant to do this in the first place...what if I never possessed any talent...what if I have been deluding myself all these years...? Even so, as I rifle through my deepest thoughts and inclinations, there is nothing I would rather do, nothing else that I can envision myself doing with my life.

Time will tell.

In the mean time, I'm just hoping to survive the Mall!

On the Two-Year "Anniversary" Of....

2009-08-16T12:40:00.000-07:00

Today brings with it few surprises: still packing, still not writing. The undeniable pressure of urgency allows not a moment's respite; yet unexpectedly, the first stirrings of optimism have arisen. Just maybe the kids and I can pull this off after all...?!

Go West, Young(ish) Woman!

2009-08-15T13:25:00.000-07:00

The past month has held more than its share of challenges...and, no, I have not written anything more. As my children and I concluded, the stress and strain of life in New Haven has taken a greater toll (this particular summer) than ever before. Fortunately, the long-awaited, much discussed move "out West" is underway; and with it, we are all optimistic, should come some peace of mind.

I certainly hope so.

Never before have I gone so long without even the desire to write.

Denouement (?)

2009-07-20T16:51:00.000-07:00

It has occurred to me that not everyone who enjoys writing is, indeed, a writer. Some of us are grammarians, perhaps even star English students...yet not writers.

This past week has found me searching within the very depths of my own longings and ambitions hoping to find within myself that one element, that one trait which would elevate me from a mere English major to the level of the potential writer.

I have yet to discover it.

Maybe the last bout with illness has simply left me temporarily drained. Perhaps the conflict with my former (?) friend has struck a blow to my confidence...Or, possibly, the time has come to finally face facts.

Those who can...write.

Those who can't...shouldn't.

Saturday Morning

2009-07-11T05:52:00.000-07:00

My friend's response to yesterday's well-meaning but admittedly unsolicited advice was, "Thanks all the same, but it works for me." Though alarmed and somewhat dismayed, I know that my reaction to editorial input is often less than...gracious; therefore, I can only move on--comforted somewhat by the knowledge that I at least attempted to honestly and constructively be of help--in the hopes that all will go well for him in his self-publishing endeavor.

In the meantime, this autumnally cool Saturday morning in July finds me resolutely recording another rejection letter, even as I mentally cheer on the creative process. My health slowly but surely improves. The constant press-and-pull of the upcoming move to Colorado adds significantly to the sense of impending change; nevertheless, it is change to which I look eagerly forward.

The time has come to move on.

(But first, I need to get my rear in gear and work on my fairy tales!)

Waiting

2009-07-10T15:55:00.000-07:00

One of the most difficult aspects of what I do--at least to my way of thinking--is the waiting. I wait for my computer to boot up, wait for inspiration, wait for rejection or acceptance letters, wait for clients to either call me or return my calls, wait for responses to my comments or corrections (when editing), and then...wait for my paycheck!

Grrrrrrrr!!!!

This day finds me waiting a response to an e-mail I quite hesitantly posted earlier this afternoon. A very dear friend is making his first foray into the world of published writing after years in the public eye. When I took on (or,more accurately: wheedled, cajoled,pestered, and demanded) the wondrous and fulfilling task of completing an "unofficial" pre-edit (my term for a process--my personal specialty--I often implement when dealing with many clients, by which the content of the work itself goes untouched while the grammatical, syntactical, and other structural aspects of the writing are corrected, after which, the client to opt for the next stage of the editorial process), I found myself absolutely enchanted by not only the manuscripts themselves but his unique style of writing: so much so, in fact, that I threw myself into the project, adding advice and services that I had not before intended to offer. As life would have it,unfortunately, circumstances led to a long silence between us, and I held no place in his life for several months. Only yesterday did he present me with the "final -final" edit of his young adult manuscript...

And I was faced with a moral, personal and professional dilemma.

As always, the writing itself was breathtaking, as were the ideas and imagery conveyed within this imaginative and unique story he had woven.

The grammar, in places was horrible.

Having gone into this matter with my eyes open--convinced that my personal feelings would indubitably diminish my objectivity with regards to the work--I had always accepted (and, indeed, preferred) to view the project as a favor for a friend, encouraging him--as such--at every juncture to consult (but not sacrifice his creative voice to) his own editor or literary agent. Because of this "hands off" approach, I have no idea who is assisting him in this venture...or to what degree. My concern, however,is that he might, by those without his best interests at heart, be steered into very troubling directions.

Then again, what right do I have--having kept a decided and deliberate distance from the creative process--to bulldoze my way into it now?

(On the other hand, as a friend and fellow writer, under what obligation am I to do everything in my power to make sure his project is the best it can be, the he has the best chance for success possible?)

It's all too much for this little Louisiana/Cherokee girl to handle.

So here I sit...

Waiting...

To see what course of action he will or not take, if my advice will wreck an already precarious relationship, to hear his response, for that bolt from the blue which will impart upon me some great--and before unknown--wisdom and discernment...

Waiting, essentially, for his response to my response....

Where does friendship end and professionalism begin?

And, for once in my life, should I simply keep my big mouth shut?

Dauriauna's Birthday/Writer's Wanted

2009-06-29T11:42:00.000-07:00

Today, my youngest child celebrates her fifteenth birthday. In my mind, she remains the "tiny" one, ever The Baby. Even so, with all the chaos and confusion surrounding our lives, there is a degree of satisfaction in finding my little Quartet together for such a milestone, especially as this may be our last summer together as a foursome for some time to come. As far as writing goes, I have good news and bad news. The good news is, I have regained enough strength to begin to write daily again: the bad news is, I am writing not nearly enough. Even so, the day finds me strong enough to venture out to face my writers' group this afternoon, even though it seems that most will not be in attendance. The notion of holding such meetings at the library in this area is proving a colossal failure; nevertheless, the experience should be quite helpful once the family has relocated out West. The important thing to remember is that the attempt was made. Perhaps such ideas are not viable in New Haven, Connecticut; yet, I am sure that somewhere there exist the desire and enthusiasm for such an assembly. The key is to try, try again!

In the interim, children's stories shall remain my focus--for the present. Telling myself I will not obsess over the progress being (or not being) made by my "best friend" with regards to his own first venture, assuring myself that health issues notwithstanding I can--indeed--produce something of quality, all insecurities, doubts, worries, and financial concerns aside, I will churn out at least one additional tale this week.

From there?

The world...?

Out and About

2009-06-27T09:52:00.000-07:00

Today, I took a long stroll (my first time to venture beyond the apartment in weeks) with my daughter the returned to my laptop to actually bang out the beginnings of an essay.

Perhaps I am actually on the mend...

Finally!!!!

Lamentations

2009-06-25T21:22:00.000-07:00

It is a sad, sad day.

My Best Friend

2009-06-23T07:45:00.000-07:00

My best friend's eyes are brilliant blue,
And in them, I see bits of sea,
Of sky,
Of my inmost Self
Reflected.

His voice,
And mine,
Seem to resonate in vibrant sameness...

Yet,
I am wondering
If this oneness is but an illusion
Born of deep longings,
Foolish fears,
Wishful thinking,
And a need to love,
And be loved,
When Love--in reality--
Is Absent.

The Unfinished Children's Story (Excerpt of the First Draft)

2009-06-23T07:44:00.000-07:00

Here's as far as I've gotten....

Somehow, I can't settle on a satisfactory ending. Even so, below lies the very fragmented beginnings of "The Sorcerer's Assistant":

Once, in a place so far away to as to be like unto a dream, there lived a young man,t he apprentice of a kindly sorcerer. Now, this was no ordinary boy. Yes, he was gentle and patient, very easy to like. He listened carefully to that which was told to him and took pride in serving others. He was also, unfortunately, very curious; moreover, he had the unfortunate habit of rushing through his duties rather than taking the time to perform each task to the best of his abilities.

"Use your head, boy!" the Sorcerer would often scold him. "Think before you act!" It was of no avail. His bright but headstrong ward was forever getting into trouble....and the Sorcerer forever getting him out of it.

And this one sad fact led to the one tragic event which would forever shape his life.

Apprenticed at the age of seven, he began his service by learning simple tasks--cleaning up the work area, learning to arrange and maintain the many clay pots, tubes, and bottles containing a wide array of potions and chemicals, and dutifully running any errands his teacher might require. Though he could be headstrong at times, he was not a bad or willful boy, leading the old sorcerer to grow very quickly fond of him. Further, as the sorcerer had no children of his own and the boy had lost his own father when still an infant, the two fell into quite a comfortable arrangement.

Over the next three years, in fact, they grew quite close indeed.

All the same, it must be said, the assistance was a constant source of vexation for an organized, methodical old man who liked his life "just so".

One day, as the master chemist was away, the young apprentice, charged with putting the work tables in order, was impatient to be finished. "Think, lad think!" the Master Magician had admonished before his departure. "Think before you act!" Neverthelessm without that patient but watchful eye upon him, the young man was not as meticulous as he might have been. In his haste, he rattled pots and bottles, overturned glass tubes, and did not properly wash and dry small bowls and beakers used earlier that day. As he worked, a single fly buzzed steadily about his head, annoying him greatly. Perhaps this would not have bothered him but that a small albino mouse nibbled steadily at a dried crust of bread in a far corner; meanwhile, a tiny cricket, reveling in the warmth and peace of its place by the fire, lustily sang its chirrup of pleasure. All these things, plus his eagerness to get out into the sunshine of the bright, early spring day, led the boy to do a very foolish thing: with a cry of frustration, he hurled a large, shallow earthen bowl of water (used to wash out the soiled utensils and vessels of before) in the general direction of the three, persistent pests.

A great explosion shook the room. Sparks of blue, red and green lit the smoke-filled room alongside spectacular bolts of blinding white bolts of light. Though the boy scurried here and there, desperate for cover, he could not escape the small bits of hot debris which settled upon his and clothing. Cry out though he might, none could hear him over the incessant whistles and screams of pops, booms, and bangs. And, very soon, startled by the noise and calamity, the sorcerer's small, terrified assistant crawled beneath a nearby table--followed soon after by the fly, the cricket, and the tiny white mouse--where he tearfully awaited the return of peace.
But, alas, peace was not, for him, to be.

Never again.

When at long last the fireworks came to an end, it was late into the evening. The moon shown bright and full through the large, eight-paned window on the other side of the room. All around him was darkness. And quietude. The fly ceased its buzzing. The cricket chirped no more. The mouse fell silent. Still shaking, the lad dragged himself nervously from his small shelter, noting with great fear that he did not feel as he should. His legs seemed heavy somehow, determined to each move stubbornly and in their own directions. He also noticed an odd pulling sensation behind him, as if having been crouched near the cold stone of the floor for so very long had somehow left him tethered to something beneath the table.

Still, so happy was he for a chance to escape that he paid little attention to these annoyances. As soon as he was able, he sprang to his feet and ran from the small, stone building ass fast as he was able. Only later, beneath the silver-white glare of the moon, did the poor child realize that something had gone horribly, miserably wrong.
Now, the sorcerer himself did not deal in harmful magic. He was not a man of wicked spells or evil incantations. He did, nevertheless, practice magic of all sorts, especially those requiring the use of potions and powders--which held for him a great fascination. Even so, he was always quite careful to keep his small workshop tidy, his tools and supplies in order, his bottles clearly labeled, and his instruments meticulously clean. For that reason, he often had reason to scold his young assistant, who was known to rush through his work if not properly watched and, in doing so, make any number of mistakes and blunders.

On this night, in mixing his wash-waters and failing to properly clean many of his receptacles, the lad learned a lesson he would, sadly enough, not soon forget; for when he looked down at his own body beneath in the moonlight, he cried out in sheer horror then burst into useless tears.

No longer was his right leg his right leg, but instead, an enormous fly. He recognized it to be the very same fly which had so vexed him before. No longer was his left leg his left leg, but rather a gigantic cricket. this he knew to be the very same cricket whose chirping had before filled him with such frustration. Although his head and arms were his own, his body was that of the hungry white mouse; moreover, behind him swished its tail. There they four were, locked together in a single, awkward form, undeniably one yet with thoughts, instincts and wills all their own.

Somehow, this miserable quartet managed to amble clumsily home to the tiny cottage the young man shared with his mother, younger brother, and older sister. When he arrived, it is sad to say, he was not met with sympathy or even a welcome. Instead, his own mother barred the door to him, shrieking:

"Heaven preserve us! A monster! A monster!"

His own sister, before his best friend and constant playmate, snatched up a broom, which she swung wildly about her. "Go away! Go away!" she sobbed. "Don't eat me! Please! Don't eat me!"
What hurt him most of all, though, was the instant his own brother--who had been the only father he had ever known--took the sword of their long-dead father from the wall above the fireplace and warned him, "Be gone, you evil demon, or I shall slice you in two."
It seemed he no longer had a home. He no longer had a family! Devastated, he and his companions scrambled back to the only place they could think to go: the workshop of the old sorcerer. As the hour had been well passed midnight, they curled as best they could in a ball in one, lonely corner, where they trembled and lamented until finally falling into an uneasy sleep. It was there the wise old man found them the next morning.
"By the stars above, boy!" he howled. "What have you done?"
Between his sobs and hiccups, above the chirping of the cricket, the squeaking of the mouse, and the furious fluttering of the fly's wings, he somehow managed to relay his pathetic tale. When he was finished, the sorcerer could only shake his head in wearied disbelief and set to work making things right. Try as he would, though, even he could not undo what had been so foolishly done; and there was nothing for the boy to do but accept his grim fate.
So it was he--for as time went by, the four companions began to share one another's thoughts and anticipate each other's moods almost as though one being...though not quite--was taken in by the wily sorcerer; and although his master could not pretend to be unaware of his strange and grotesque condition, he grew to love the boy in spite of it...in some cases, even because of it! As the years blew slowly, deliberately, inevitably away--like sands of an eternal beach stirred by the winds of time--they two became like father and son; so much so that neither could recall--even if he so desired--a moment when they had not been together.

Just because the sorcerer himself accepted the lad, however, did not mean the people of the village were as kind. Over the years, the lad had become the subject of much talk, the object of a great many fears. Albeit few knew the details of his grotesque transformation (many thinking him to be the actual son of the sorcerer brought to life, somehow, through the darkest of evil magic), nearly everyone in the surrounding area knew of him. And, even though he usually wore a great, thick velvet cape which concealed all but his head, arms, and--on occasion--his long, pink mouse's tail, all who lived near him (even if they had not seen it for themselves) had heard stores of his monstrous form. As such, the boy was referred to by many names. Some called him the Fly Boy, others the Cricket. Regardless, he was an object of fascination, feared and reviled by everyone around him.

Nevertheless, by his sixteenth year, he had become a fixture in the life of the sorcerer. Hence, because the Sorcerer himself was either loved or hated, feared or adored, known or known of by any and all, so--too--was his beloved son.

That is not to say, however, that the Sorcerer's Assistant had grown any less headstrong, and less determined, or any less reckless than he had been in his youth.
Now, it happened one day that the great Magician was called away to serve a wealthy family with ties, it was thought, to the king. Immediately, he attached his finest covered wagon (filled with his necessary supplies and potions) to his best horses (huge gray stallions with white-gold manes whose flanks gleamed even in the morning sun) and made ready to answer the summons.

One must understand that the old man was quite an important figure. His duties were really quite extensive. Being a man of many wondrous talents, when anyone had a problem or dilemma, complaint or illness, question or concern, he was usually enlisted to assist them. And his authority was never challenged--not even by nobles themselves--for such an impressive figure was he. Few, in fact, dared even to speak to him. Standing head, shoulders, and chest above the king himself with the eyes of a wily hawk, a flowing white beard, and thick white brows which some were sure might actually themselves speak when spoken to--he was rarely turned away from any door. Furthermore, any one who had need of his services never had reason to regret having called upon them.

When the Great man was away, he left his son in charge. By now, the Sorcerer's Assistant had learned a great deal from his teacher. And, though his startling appearance made him leery of venturing out on his own, those who knew of him were not opposed to speaking to him as a means to reach the sorcerer himself because of the Sorcerers reputation and renown. Now and then, the young man still made mistakes--either by hurrying or skipping steps, failing to listen or being distracted by his own curiosity. Luckily for him, his other "selves" the Fly, the Cricket, and the Mouse, were on hand to show him the error of his impetuous ways.

It was a cold, winter's morn when the Sorcerer departed on this fortnight's journey. As always, he was a bit uneasy about leaving the boy. Oh, it was not that he did not trust him...quite. No. As a man who dealt with magic, he knew well the havoc that magic could make. He also realized that even though his son grew wiser and more responsible each day, he was still quite young; furthermore, when making tough decisions the boy had trouble, at times, making up his mind...as would any one who had four minds to make up!

"You are sure you will be fine here alone," he asked with a wiggle of those living brows.

"Yes, my father." Underneath the cloak, the Fly began to impatiently flutter its wings.
The Sorcerer climbed up into his driver's seat and slowly took the reins. "There is nothing you would ask me before I go?"

"No, my father." And beneath the cloak, the Cricket rubbed together its long, shiny legs.

The old man stared at his son. There was much he would have said to him, had he the luxury; unfortunately, he was already past his time, and the matter that awaited him was one of some urgency. So,with one last tug of his long, curling white beard, he gave the reins a powerful flick. Four silver horses.

No sooner than the Wizard's caravan vanished behind that first hill did his Assistant hear an urgent knock on the door. At the time, he had been labeling vials and making lists of which potions and chemicals most needed replacing--a task which irritated the impatient Fly, made the Cricket jumpy, and caused the Mouse to argue with and correct him at every turn. So it was that unexpected intrusion annoyed him to no end. So exasperated was he, in fact, that he quite forgot to throw on his enormous black cloak before throwing open the heavy metal door.

"Who disturbs me at this hour of the day!" he thundered.

Outside stood a tiny little man. He wore a coarse, burlap tunic of coarse, raw-wool leggings and looked for all the world like a hungry hound cowering from its master's boot. The early morning sun shone from the top his his shiny red pate, and in his tiny little hands he hold a flat rectangle--taller by a full head than he--wrapped in thick brown paper and tied with rough yellow twine. This poor, bedraggled fellow (who had already worked himself up into quite a state at the prospect of having to face the towering Sorcerer) nearly fainted dead away at the sight of this horrifying, three-headed creature. So terrified was he that he dropped his delivery outright and fled without a word of explanation.

"Well, isn't this a fine thing!" muttered the apprentice, as he bent awkwardly to retrieve the bundle. Lifting things often proved difficult for his, as the Mouse--used to moving about on all fours, not upright--claimed it hurt his back, the Fly complained his legs were not strong, and the Cricket tended to leap and cavort about at the oddest times. Somehow, though, he managed to angle the heavy thing into the shop, where he propped it against a far wall. There it would have remained, untouched, had something fantastic not taken place.

The packet itself stood opposite the huge stone fireplace, which the work table faced. So, when the brown paper fell away, the light from the flames reflected on its polished black surface, filling the room with an eerie glow. Even though his back was turned, the Sorcerer's Assistant could feel the strange, icy glare of it against his bare, white fur, and he spun around to see what had happened.

"Why it was like a snake shedding his skin!" he said to himself.

The Cricket agreed.

Now, the Mouse wanted to run from it. The Fly buzzed and fluttered its wings, forgetting (as it often did) that it could no longer take flight at will (though it could fly, after a fashion, if the need arose). As for the Cricket, he tended to face every situation with good humor and a song; yet even he found himself just the tiniest bit leery of that ominous black glass.

The Sorcerer's Assistant, however, was curious. "Oh, don't be so foolish!" the boy snapped at no one and everyone in particular. "It's only a looking glass, after all."
With that, he drew closer, dragging the others through the sheer strength of his stubborn will. It seemed to the young man, as he moved nearer, that the black glass surface began to pull him in. What began as a solid, shining surface began to swirl, as though some powerful whirlpool lay just on the other side of it, sucking at not only the mirror itself but everything it held in its glare.

Now, anyone else would have immediately backed away. And, given the dire consequences of acting without thought before, one would have thought that he of all people would thought twice, then thought again before approaching it. Not so the apprentice.

"Odd," he muttered, then stretched out his hand to touch it.
The Mouse chipped angrily. The Fly buzzed its wings, nearly lifting them all off the floor. Even the Cricket stopped chirping and began to fidget and bounce on its great, spiky legs...all to no avail. The boy simply had to know what manner of glass this was, and what made it appear to be moving when clearly, it was quite still.

He lay his palm flat on its surface. No sooner than he touched it did the mirror grow fiery hot. He cried out in pain, but for some reason, he could not pull his hand free. Whimpering with fright, he pulled and twisted, tugged and jerked, wrenched and wriggled, but nothing he did loosened his hand from the glass.

This was not a good thing!

He absolutely could not face the sorcerer! Not having disobeyed his Teacher again! What would he say? What would he do? Surely even such a man as great as he would lose patience after a while. Surely even he could not forgive always.

He thought of the Teacher's disapproval. This made him tug harder, fight more fiercely. He twisted and turn, wrenching until he thought his arm would jerk free of his shoulder...to no avail. There was no question about it. He was stuck tight.

"Now what do I do?"

The cricket stretched one leg over the other and began to make shrill, screeching sounds that made the Assistant cry out and cover his ears. It grew louder and louder until the air itself seemed to be rent in two by the sharp, splitting sounds.
"Stop it!" the lad bellowed. "What are you doing?" And, with his free hand he swatted at the steadily moving legs. It was then that he noticed something remarkable!

With each note, the mirror throbbed.

It throbbed and pulsed, like the heartbeat of a living thing

Now, of all of them, only the mouse had no actual head. that was because, at times, he and the boy shared that particular part. At that very moment, the lad's glossy black curls became stark white fur, and a pair of powerful front teeth appeared, with which he gnawed easily through the thick hemp of the rope.

On the other side of that black glass, however, they were again four separate beings: the Fly, the Cricket, the Mouse, and the Boy.

The world beyond the black glass was dark and distorted. Even the solid things about him twisted and faded, as though made of wisps of smoke; yet to the touch, they were substantial...and very real.

He could not understand it!

"Think! THINK!"he could hear the Wizard reminding him. "Think before you act!"

As the light struck the Crystal Steeple, it exploded into a blinding spectrum of color.

Another Day

2009-06-23T07:22:00.000-07:00

Last night, my nineteen-year-old son presided over my writer's group. I was still not strong enough to assume my duties. Frustration, therefore, is theme of my current existence.

Even so, I am determined to get at least a bit of writing done: perhaps I might even track down that elusive ending to the children's tale which wrote (then put aside) months ago!

Crises

2009-06-21T06:38:00.000-07:00

My children--having had no contact with my estranged husband in over three years and, unfortunately, preferring it that way--have declared today "National Fatherhood Crisis Day". I myself would prefer to think of it as my own personal Writer's Crisis Sunday.

Not a thought, not an idea, not the slightest inclination to put words to "paper." This is becoming alarming. Even though my journal serves as the last refuge from complete and utter literary exile, I am determined this day to awaken my brain, stimulate my senses, and have a bit of fun with my writing today.

Once again,

To quote the title of the movie (and didn't you just love the ex-husband in that one!):

"Something's Gotta Give"!!!!!!

Getting Back Into the Swing Of Things

2009-06-17T19:43:00.000-07:00

The last month has seen me struggling with health issues once again, which I found--naturally--quite disheartening. Not only have I found myself unable to attend many of the functions or indulge in the activities which bring me the most pleasure but I have not written much of anything in the past month. Oh, to keep my mind nimble (not to mention geared towards creating) I have spent much of my convalescence attempting to read; nevertheless, it is so very frustrating to find myself too tired, too listless, to drained to actually write.

"...Life sucks...and you are a warrior...."

This is what my "best" friend in California had to say on the subject. And, as usual, the levity cheered me up just long enough to give me no choice but to put things into perspective. Despite my moaning and groaning--not to mention my spiels of very creative lamentations--given the severity of things, the situation could have easily been far worse. Thus and therefore, the time has come to push myself back into the "swing of things," albeit the very prospect of having to unravel nearly six weeks of untouched manuscripts, missed appointments, unanswered e-mails, and piles of correspondence leaves me cringing.

So, here goes!

I am now re-entering the Land of the Living!

Are Artists Actually Valued?

2009-06-15T08:51:00.000-07:00

This day finds me somewhat discouraged--not at all my natural state of being. For the past month, very low red blood cell counts have kept me quite undeniably incapacitated.

Bluntly put, I have been too weak to do much more than sleep.

Most frustrating in all this (besides being unable to fully enjoy these brief summer months with my rapidly growing children) has been the complete inability to write during this time. As I lay beneath my covers on my love seat struggling to will, bully, and cajole my traitorous body to conform to some semblance of health, the days have lapsed--formless, shapeless, and identical in that maddening sameness of inactivity. The mere act of forming organized thoughts, be it to speak, think, or (heaven forbid) actually write requires while I recuperate supreme exercises in determination, concentration, and sheer stubborn will--all of which, I am learning, prove a notable drain on my energy and stamina.

For a woman not yet forty, it is a humbling and infuriating state of affairs.

Most frustrating of late, however, has proven to be (of all things) organizing the fledgling writers' discussion group at the local library. Were it possible to hold the gatherings in my own tiny apartment, I would, for--in my mind, at least--the invaluable exchange of experiences and ideas truly demands an atmosphere of hospitality. After all, one's writing can be so very personal, such an integral part of one's being that relaxation, developing a degree of trust and comfort with other members of the group can be pivotal for many of those learning to share their works with others. I suppose, as a writer, I am quite sensitive to, extremely passionate about this. Thus, when after four long years of calling, pursuing, and getting the run-around with regards to organizing the group in the first place I am told that the basic effort of providing coffee and/or tea--even when I volunteer to provide the coffee itself and even drag a coffeemaker from home--is treated like an imposition, I find myself wondering if the whole matter is worth the effort.

To be truthful, my frustrations run far deeper than serving coffee. Discouraging for me is the ever-present, ever-growing disdain for writers--for artists in general--and what we do. The prevailing attitude seems to be that anyone can write, leaving no room for even the slightest degree of appreciation for the creative process, for the energy, the talent, the imagination inherent in the writing process. No, I do not consider myself one of the "greats"...yet; nevertheless, I strive daily to achieve my own personal greatness, as do the men and women I consider my contemporaries. Even though the days of sincere art appreciation seem, at times, far behind us, one would like to think that within our society exists a small core of enthusiasts willing to in some way encourage the creative process, the development of great (or at least imaginative, innovative) thought. It is based upon that belief (perhaps, I am learning, quite naively so) that I was willing to drag myself up from my love seat, ignore the racing and pounding of my heart, the dark veil of disorientation lowering itself over my senses, and the constant struggle to remain lucid despite the lack of oxygen to the brain in order to drag myself to the library, paste a big grin on my face, and soak in the waves of fresh ideas, of imagination and vitality flowing from the writers who arrived willing and brave enough to share their hopes, joys, triumphs and failures with a group of complete strangers in the optimistic hope of somehow forming a connection in the form of a single, supportive, entity designed to encourage, enhance, and otherwise affirm each individual's foray into the realm of writing.

If, however, even basic encouragement cannot be found in the local library (!)...

What does that say about the attitude towards the creative process (in this case, as it pertains to local writers and the encouragement of those writers) in general?

Once, there existed a belief that great talent, artistic energy, creative thinkers provided such profound benefits to society in general that any and all efforts to nurture their development were well justified; as such, there were often benefactors--if their "only" contribution was avid, sincere encouragement--ready, willing, an eager to "support" the arts.

Now?

We can't even get a cup of coffee.

Writers Wanted! (The New Long-Anticipated Writers' Discussion Group)

2009-06-08T17:27:00.000-07:00

This evening, despite my nightmarish interment within the walls of Yale-New Haven hospital followed by an equally discouraging week, I actually managed to drag myself out to facilitate the first meeting of my writer's group at the Elm Street library. With my two helpers on-hand, somehow I managed to give the impression of a healthy lady rather than an abysmally anemic convalescent with a hemoglobin level of 3.2! It helped that I was surrounded by enthusiastic individuals with much to contribute... Nevertheless... I'm now headed off to bed, ya'll! (Talk to you again in a month.) Meanwhile, keep writing.

Reason #3023 Why I Detest Connecticut

2009-05-28T21:17:00.000-07:00

Here I sit in the waiting room at Yale-New Haven Hospital. Here have I been since nine-twenty this evening. Why am I here? Chest pains...and hemoglobin and hematocrit readings which have probably sunk below sea level.

As my arm, face, and legs go numb, I listen in fascination as I am told by uncaring nurses in the infuriating sing-song voices reserved for the very young (or the very stupid) , "It's because you're getting anxious there,ma'am. It's your breathing."

My breathing.

Foolish me.

I thought it was the dizziness, lack of blood, and erratic heart beat.

This is what comes of touting the benefits of the medical profession (of any profession) based upon prestige, primarily upon pay packets. In a hospital bearing the name of supposedly one of the most famous and "prestigious" universities in the nation, not even the basic vestiges of human decency, compassion, or professionalism are present. Stone-faced security guards joke with one another, flirt with female registrars, and exchange jovial pleasantries with familiar passersby with seemingly no regard for the suffering of those left to wait hours to be seen.

(And people ask me why I choose to suffer in "isolation" in my apartment, ya'll.)

Though it has taken everything in me not to shout out in pain, in frustration, in outrage, I have succeeded. Though obviously, we who await care are less than human, I will neither forego nor deny my own, basic human dignity. The mind may be a bit fuzzy ("anxiety," don't you know); nevertheless, regardless of the callous, condescending, often dehumanizing treatment (one of my main reasons for deciding to move to Colorado), I know that I am still a human being; that my pain and suffering have merit; that my voice is one which deserves to be heard.

In the mundane ritual of day-to-day living, perhaps we take for granted that simple truth of having not only worth as human beings but also having the right to be seen as such, to be treated as such. As I pound away, using the gentle ebb and flow of written words to bring peace, solace, succor into the midst of such insanity (not to mention agony people), I am reminded of the power of an opinion expressed, an outrage noted, a stand taken. I might not be quite able to fight the good fight at this moment, people: yet, in this situation resides yet another story to be told, another truth to be explored. This issue of dehumanization--in the refusal to recognize the pain of others, in causing harm when the creed reportedly ascribed to is "first do no harm"--is one which can be explored in depth another day.

For the moment, however...

The question is:

WHY!?!?!?!?!?!?

When It Isn't Easy

2009-05-22T13:09:00.000-07:00

Today, I am facing the hard truth:

Chanctetinyea Ouellette is not invincible.

Fatigue and dizziness do not make for the most scintillating prose--especially as I find myself wondering how I am going to march in tomorrow's Memorial Day parade, how I am going to finish my one-thousand words when I am constantly succumbing to multiple not-enough- oxygen-to-the-brain yawns, and even how I am going to write today's entry without whining like a three-year-old.

The fact of the matter is, life poses challenges. Sometimes, that which it requires of us is minimal: other times, it all but forces us to drain the dregs of our mental, physical, and emotional reserves. As such, the task--sometimes--is not to set the world on fire but instead to retain that small spark of enthusiasm or determination which urges the self forward even when circumstances not only discourage but fine one reluctant to leave the warmth and safety of his or her bed.

Thus, off I go to shoot at my goal. One thousand words. Perhaps I won't make it this day; yet, I will get awful doggone close. If I can do it, you can do it! Remember, we're all experiencing this process together.

So, keep writing, ya'll.

Or, as my best friend more directly phrased it:

"GO WRITE!!!!!"

Heeding Good Advice

2009-05-18T16:26:00.000-07:00

Although it is a great temptation to begin the project The Strange Adventures Soup Kitchen Girl, I shall limit my experiences and notes to a single character in a single book.

No new projects!

Even though that one would be a "hum-dinger," ya'll!

(Yes, "hum-dinger" is a legitimate literary term!

So, for those of you who know me well: I do listen...

Every once in a while!

Grants

2009-05-18T12:59:00.000-07:00

Today finds me doing something I have not done(or even thought of doing) in years: seeking writing grants. In my enthusiastic youth, searching out the means to pursue my first love came as second nature to me. In recent years, though, I seem to espouse the notion of creative financing to everyone else (often with quite favorable results) without taking my own advice.

Why is that?

Maybe the title of today's post, therefore, should be:

Wake Up, Chance!!!!!!!!!

In the Aftermath of Last Night's Thunderstorm

2009-05-17T09:12:00.000-07:00

This dark, chilly Sunday afternoon finds me huddled beneath a blanket in my living room-- windows throw open to let in the crisp, fresh air--as I listen to the joyful chirp of a single enthusiastic bird...and bang away at my keyboard, determined to somehow connect with my characters once again. The breaking down of subtly erected barriers has proven more complicated than I thought. Somewhere along the line, by distancing myself from my own deeper emotions, I have stifled the emotional development of my characters as well. It is hard to miss the lack of dimension and depth...and even harder to identify with them as individuals who love and live, hurt and hearken, both need others and answer to the needs they sense in those around them.
I suppose it is easy to forget that in order to write, one must be willing to put not just words and phrases upon the page but a piece of the Self. And, even though I am still a staunch advocate of my one-thousand words per day, to that, I think I should add at least one honest observation--preferably one which has radiated from the inside out, revealing not just an opinion, but the thoughts, emotions, and sensations which led to it.
That's a tall order for a "dark, chilly Sunday afternoon!"

Getting Out

2009-05-15T13:35:00.000-07:00

One of the challenges I have faced as a writer has been the simple concept of "getting out." In order to write about life, living, and the human condition...one must first be in a position to experience life, living, and the human condition.

Well, Monday I got it into my head to join the Red Cross, Tuesday I attended my first DAT (Disaster Action Team) training seminar, and today found me sitting at a booth at a Senior Expo passing out pamphlets and mimicking the "spiels" of the seasoned volunteers as though I had actual knowledge about the topics themselves!!!! Just meeting people, "running off at the mouth" (as a good Southern girl must do), and listening to their concerns, questions, and comments really stirred my creative juices.

Writing can be such a sedentary occupation (or "calling"..."drive"..."insane obsession") that one often forgets that unless the time is made to step away from the computer, typewriter, notebook, or laptop in order to actually interact with this process of living, there is that possibility of being not a "writer," but one of those fabled fools who "write" for no other reason than they cannot "do."

Stay connected, people!

Tell me, in what ways do you "get out"...and how does this benefit your writing?