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.

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!

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!!!!

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!

Are Artists Actually Valued?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now?

We can't even get a cup of coffee.

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

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?

Making Plans!

Alright. It's official. The time has come to leave New Haven once and for all. For the third time in less than two months (not to mention about the tenth time this year, bearing in mind that it is only May, ya'll) one of my beloved clients has decided the time to renegotiate an agreement is after my work has been satisfactorily completed and is in his (or her) hot little hands! Life in Connecticut has not exactly been stress-free without these frustrations; nevertheless, between health issues, insane family members, political chaos, non-existent community , and socio-economic dynamics which make life nightmarish for all but the most devoted (or the most charmed) the ability, the opportunity to actually--like-- write is nonexistent. More and more have I noted the difficulty in identifying with my characters, remaining focused on my plots, or even keeping track of story lines. Dialog--my long time foe--eludes me completely. Moreover, the constant worries and distractions, I now accept despite past obstinacy, leave me in a mindset of wanting nothing less at the end (or the beginning of the day) than to bang out one-thousand words. I find myself walking into fascinating settings without even the most niggling desire to whip out paper and pen (unheard of!) Note taking has dwindled to nil, as have daily contributions to journals, "sketch" books, and my daily impressions. Mostly, though, I have noted a change in my entire attitude towards my craft, viewing writing as a job--even a chore--rather than the love it once was. Why? Because of arrogant, insensitive so-and-sos who, even as they enhance their own livelihoods as a result of my "talent", consistently minimize not only its worth but the time, the effort, the heart, the thought, and the discipline it takes. I woke up Saturday morning glowering at my journal. The lovely, navy blue, exquisitely bound, leather journal with its lovely, high-quality, gold embossed pages, and beautiful rendition of an old-fashioned quill pen, a single cadet blue cursive "u" stretched out in a bold flourish behind it (a gift from my daughter Dauriauna from February 9th of last year to ease the sting of the second "anniversary" of my mother's death) sat firmly shut on my coffee table--an over-stretched rubber band keeping both Mickey Mouse and Wite-Out Correction pen conveniently accessible--causing no harm to me or anyone else; yet, as it lay there, I detested it as though it might be worst enemy. Why? Because the last entry committed to it had been on Easter morning; because were I to take up the pen I would have nothing positive to add; because the mere thought of entering all my frustrations and aspirations--yet again--proved utterly exhausting; because I did not want to rant and rage on paper about the latest paycheck to go MIA... Because... Because I hated even the thought of writing another, single word. I had too many projects to complete in an atmosphere in no way conducive to creative thought. To put aside the activities of the day in order to delve into myself and my impressions--in order to lay open emotion, sensation, and thought--grows increasingly more difficult. To visit any of my "prized" personal projects requires reaching a "place," a state unreachable from my current physical location--a place I despise, in which no part of me finds fulfillment, security, comfort or peace, even if I am able to (fortunately) maintain the same within myself despite the surrounding environment. I was feeling overwhelmed, the sensation of hopelessness, of actually drowning actually suffocating the creative impulses within me. (It did not help that the last e-mail--or "missive," as he calls them--from my dearest friend in the whole wide world consisted of a single line which read: "All well and good, but when are you going to put this prodigious writing talent to work: ie, the story of your father's family?")

In essence: It's time to get out of here, people!
This admitted, I decided the time had come to take action; thus, this week will be spent putting out "feelers" in an effort to make a fresh start. While the children are safely ensconced in their respective schools feels like the best time to pack and bag and get away fast. Already, my friends from both high school and college have been supportive, rather than listing for me all the reasons why I--even in all my stubbornness-- cannot make this happen. It's time to move on. It truly is. So, Here goes nothin'!

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!)

Another Sappy Ode to Spring

I shall gather up this sunshine,
And with it fill my pockets.
In that way, I can carry it with me always...
Always, and wherever i go.
When the storms of life rage at me,
Casting darkly gloomed shadows;
When the winds of change funnel into gray cyclones--
Of confusion there present
And of the debris of the past;
If trouble rains acidic droplets--
Bitter tears born of fulfillment denied;
Beneath cold and clouded sorrow;
In fear; in doubt; in heartache;
Even in the bleak "winters of my discontent,"
I will pull it out in fistfuls
And sprinkle it about me
To watch it in all its golden splendor--
The sweet nectar that is this present happiness--
Burst into ribbons of color
(Underneath a canopy of vibrant blue),
Then say to myself,
"Ah!
This is contentment!"

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?