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....

Artists Unite!

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!

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.

Thank You, Sunshine

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.

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.

Renewals

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?

Going Home

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.