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

When It Isn't Easy

Today, I am facing the hard truth:

Chanctetinyea Ouellette is not invincible.

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

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

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

So, keep writing, ya'll.

Or, as my best friend more directly phrased it:

"GO WRITE!!!!!"

Heeding Good Advice

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

No new projects!

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

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

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

Every once in a while!

Grants

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

Why is that?

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

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