Finally Doing It

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....

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

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.)

Me?

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?

You Think Too Much!

"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.

Recalling the Darkness

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.

Arrogance

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

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.

Fumagatin

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!

Suffering Through the Moment

"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!)

Freelance Heartaches

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.

Dauriauna's Birthday/Writer's Wanted

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

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!!!!

My Best Friend

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.

Geezsh! All I Wanna Do Is Write!

Here I sit at my usual table in the New Haven Public Library on Main Street, having completed my usual "Just Say NO to Being Hit On" ritual. I have moved two of the four chairs surrounding my table to another then placed my cumbersome Tinkerbell bag and jacket strategically upon the second. Next, I have plugged in my already fully-charged cell phone, tucking it between said bag and jacket lest some smooth Lothario again corner me with the "do you mind if I move these" line. (The inconvenience of disentangling the cord is a viable excuse for not freeing up this particular chair since the entire Reading Room is quite undeniably empty.) My reference books are spread out about the table, my computer centrally positioned to discourage the bold from squeezing in beside me. And, to top it all off, my best, no-nonsense "no, I am not interested in a 'friend'"demeanor is firmly in place--like well-polished armor--to turn away even the most persistent of the bold. Seems a lot to do simply to work in the library? Yes, I would say so. Still, somehow, this ritual has become a necessary part of my morning research routine. Why, I could not say. After all, I am no raving beauty, In my over-sized t-shirt and leggings, I have not dressed to impress. In truth, it never ceases to take me off-guard when males of varying ages, ethnicity, and socio-economic positions seek me out in the all but empty library in order to sit at my table making very trite, very annoying, very blatant "chit-chat" while I struggle to simply write! I have my "regulars," who pointedly seek me out, making a great production of passing my table, selecting reading materials, or placing their bundles upon my table while loudly or pointedly making their presence known. My popularity has, in fact, become something of a running joke among myself and certain members of the library staff. Before moving to New Haven, I did not realize that daily stalkings were an occupational habit of the serious writer. Naive though I may be, I had no idea that libraries were "notorious pick-up stations." Call me stupid, but I actually thought people came here to, um, read. Still, two minutes into my library routine, a man very casually (too casually, in fact) approached my pointedly isolated table. "'S supposed to rain today?" he asked, as though something in my dress, manner, or demeanor indicated identifiable meteorological abilities. "I'm not sure," I replied off-handedly, careful to be neither rude nor receptive. "You Jamaican?" he asked. The motivation behind the question--as I have no accent, am wearing a Phillips Exeter Academy t-shirt, and have never even been in the general vicinity of that particular island in my entire life--baffled me into making momentary eye-contact. "No," I replied, again erecting my chilly, impregnable walls of distance and resistance. "You're pretty though. My name is Miguel. And yours." Usually, my response to that question is an icy glare, a menacing twisting of the lips, and a distinct, no-nonsense, "My own!" complete with disdainfully arched eye-brow. The Jamaican line having momentarily distracted me, however, I muttered, "Chance." (Not that it matters, as the name is invariably repeated back to me as "Janice," for some completely incomprehensible reason.) "I'll see you around!" he announced with the supreme confidence of one who has made a definite conquest. There was even a bit of a bounce in his step as he exited, never so much as casting a glance at the periodicals offered in this quiet corner section of the building. Thus, here I sit, sighing and shaking my head to clear my mind of its fog of incredulity. One would think I could slip easily and unobtrusively into the background. After all, Tyra Banks, people, I ain't. In fact, I consider myself actually quite plain, leading me to wonder what fascination, what blaring magnetism draws this kind of attention throughout the day every day no matter what steps I take to discourage it. My conclusion: an electromagnetic field surrounds my ancient ibook, sending out periodic signals which subconsciously hone in on desperate or lonely Lotharios, drawing them inexorably to my table. And, as I must invariably utilize this particular tool (as well as the irremovable reference materials necessary for this particular project), such interruptions must be accepted as par for the course. But geezsh!

All I want to do here is write, people. (Hmmm. The twenty-pound dictionary on its fiberglass pedestal! Albeit I usually just cross the room when the need to flip through it arises, it is quite movable. ...And it would take up quite a bit of space at my table as well. Convenience, utility, and versatility! Odd that I never though of it before!)

What Is Writing to You

Writing is not what I do, it is what I am.

My name is Chanctetinyea Ouellette, a little girl who grew up in a tiny town in West Carroll Parrish Louisiana called Oak Grove. As one of ten children, I had precious little to call my own--only my imagination and the ability to rewrite life, viewing it not as it was but as all it had the potential to be then capturing that view on paper using the endless spectrum of language imagery. To unravel the thin layers of subterfuge and conditioning, upbringing and attitude, myth, denial, self-delusion, and dissembling in order to look into others and see the bared beauty of their souls came with that marvelous ability; thus, I have never taken for granted the power, the majesty, the awe-striking responsibility of the written word. Writing is my way of understanding myself and the world around me; of seeking truth, wisdom, and knowledge; it is my source of peace and my expression of displeasure; it feeds, it starves, it thirsts, and it fulfills...

In short, to write--for me--is to breathe.

Reflexively, I take in all that is around me and emit--with the stroke of a pen or the click of a keypad--the images and perceptions, sights, scents, insights, and discoveries which they form within me. Through this expression of self, I explore. I learn. I LIVE!!!!!!

What does writing mean to you?