Coming Soon!

Coming soon!

A life in verse....

Scheduled release date:
November 2, 2010

Back to Work

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!

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.

What Now?

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.

.

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.

Updated Titles by Chanctetinyea J.J. Ouellette

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

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.

Fall Term Begins

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

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!

Saturday Morning

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

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?

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

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

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

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

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!

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

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

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!?!?!?!?!?!?

Heeding Good Advice

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!

"Write From the Heart"

I just returned from a panel discussion entitled Breaking In: How To Get an Agent and a Publisher, which I found very encouraging. It featured non-fiction author Lucy Hedrick, young adult author Nina Nelson, literary agent Denise Marcil, and novelist Prill Boyle. To be honest, having been caught up in the whole writing/publishing/marketing whirlwind for approximately two decades now, much of what was said was not new to me; nevertheless, there were really helpful bits of information regarding the changes in the literary market--especially non-fiction--in recent years. Mostly, however, it was a plain, old-fashioned motivator. Time and time again the panelists stressed three points:

1. Remaining devoted to your writing
2. Not allowing yourself to be discouraged
3. Writing from the heart

I suppose we all need to be reminded of this. There are many options out there, from traditional publishing to self-publishing, winning contests, the Hybrid Alternative (of which I had never heard), and printing on demand; nevertheless, one thing remains true, and this is that one has to be motivated by the hunger to write, the love of writing, and the desire to write well.

Also, I found myself having to admit that as the years have elapsed, I have indeed found it difficult to actually "write from the heart". As I have accumulated more and more experiences--some positive, some negative, all life-altering--the tendency to distance myself from those emotions, sensations, reactions, and responses has become more commonplace. Perhaps with age, our self-protective instincts kick in, making it more difficult to so enthusiastically and regardless of inhibitions delve into our deepest selves, dredge up pain and regret, then slap it into print for all to read. Further, maybe my time as a freelance editor (who constantly lectures her clients not to separate themselves from their characters, from that narrative voice) has conditioned me to remain dispassionate and detached in a way that I, in my youth, did not.

All I know is that I did not realize how much I need refreshment until the thirst was quenched.

The moral, people:

Do not forsake the gathering of yourselves to write, discuss writing, encourage, critique, and share experiences. No writer is alone, and even in this uncertain market with publishing companies losing money, cutting budgets, reducing titles, there are success stories...and they all begin with individuals who love to write, make the decision to write as best they can, and refuse to give up or be dissuaded in their writing.

So start typing, ya'll!

By the way, has anybody else out there attended any good (informative, useful, interesting) forums, lectures, or workshops? If so, I would love to hear about them!

Random Acts (An Eye-Opening Reminder)

It takes very little to bring the luminiferous quality of faith into someone's day: faith in goodness; faith in the underlying goodness of man kind; faith that the sun will return after days of darkness and drizzle; that inspiration--though lost--can again be located; that the course of one's life, even as circumstances alter it, can drift towards new hope, peace, and the renewal of one's spirit. Pretty lofty notions for a Tuesday afternoon, huh? Today began with a great deal of pain. There are many "unknowns" to chronic anemia as well as g6pd and MDS. Every illness, every disease results from the body's attempt to rectify some internal flaw or problem; thus, unless one has an idea what it is that set off the series of rectifications or symptoms from which the "illness" resulted, there is not a great deal that can be done to "cure" it (i.e. assist the body in curing itself...without killing itself). One of the great unexplained mysteries in my case is why my body, when at its most red-blood-cell deficient, insists (upon other odd and inexplicable malfunctions) upon draining calcium and protein from my right leg. I won't go into the numerous theories by numerous medical professionals from numerous fields. I will only say this: The end result is a whooole lot of pain. (So much so, I would gnaw the sucker off if I could stand the taste of it!) In any event, pain came, rain came, work needed to be done, sleep had been elusive after yesterday's rant, yet our intrepid grammarian was determined not to let these small worries daunt her. Having made up my mind to move, I planned to get to work, surfing the internet as I clicked away at my daily research. Though it was not until ten that I could convince myself to get out of bed, once I had, I worked at the apartment for a while (still sans electricity, heat, and hot water) then headed out for the library. This being one of the few nights on which I volunteer, I made up my mind to push through the rather...excruciating...mind numbing...nasty...nasty pain in order to get a bit of research done (for my move as well as my writing projects) while simultaneously positioning myself to head out to the soup kitchen (only one door down) later on.

First of all, the number of encouraging messages regarding my decision to move were staggering. I had voiced an impulsive, rather implausible plan of action...and been met with warmth and support. As I read through the e-mails and Facebook messages, I recalled that "prodigious talent" remark from my best friend. I found myself actually accessing notes on that very topic and organizing them into some semblance of order. It was a process which not only reawakened my interest in the project (a "young adult" manuscript--O Mother! My Father..."-- which examines the dysfunctional rather unhealthy marriage between two people as seen through the eyes of their teenage daughter) itself but proved cathartic in dealing with the rage (directed at the relative who escapades have made my life a nightmare and who shall remain nameless but will be hereafter known as either KWH or my family's Dub-Yah) which contributed greatly to the decision to "get out of Dodge" (along with that slight complication of going unpaid!)

While in the library, I met all the familiar faces of the staff members, many of whom rarely fail to inquire as to the progress of my children, encourage me in my long hours huddled over the computer, ask about my health. or simply stop and chat. Those small, random offerings of unaffected kindness were invaluable in helping me plow through the discomfort (no, pain) and other emotional "stuff" in order to do what needed to be done. Not only did one of the security guards take the time to cheer me on; yet, as I was away from my book-covered station, the second noticed (via the surveillance cameras) suspicious-looking individuals circling the desk. Noting that although I had taken my computer, bag, and mobile phone with me to the ladies room my umbrella and adapter had been left behind (and after I had been away from the table for more than the usual five-to-ten minutes) the darling made a point of retrieving the items and locking them in his office. When I returned, noticing the same suspicious couple in passing before coming upon my notably less-cluttered table, I rushed to the check-out desk to tell of my dilemma (philsophically thinking Ha,ha, are they in for a shock! That charger is on its last legs anyway!) I was told, "See Jose!"

And, when I rushed back to the table to grab the computer and bag (which I had very unwisely left behind in my haste to catch the departing couple) three other patrons called out to let me know "the security guard" had walked off with my umbrella.

Apparently, he saw them, ascertained that they seemed a little too interested in my collection of books and notes, and stepped in immediately. "You can't be too safe, honey." He said. How comforting that the "honey" was actually a welcoming, sincerely affectionate term of kindness...and felt as such!

"We take care of our people!" one librarian told me five minutes later with a smile.

There is goodness in the world, even amidst the chaos.

To what better topic to devote a few hundred of my thousand words that that?