Writing is like moss

There is something about hiking along the river that made me think about my writing. I think about my writing a lot, if I wrote as much as I think about it, I’d have 10 novels by now. But hiking the river, in the drizzle this weekend, made me more thoughtful than usual.

Maybe it’s because we hiked past a rock formation that had previously been the star of one of my rambling journals. A year ago, the main character had been a middle-aged woman who hiked to the top of a steep hill to explore the boulders, only to find that it was haunted. Yesterday, we hiked up the hill to see the crevice again. Strange. It was not as big nor as formidable as it had been in my story.

Maybe it’s because my writing is like the water, flowing and moving, constantly there. I can see all kinds of neat stuff around me... bits and pieces. But I can’t ever see the beginning and can’t ever find the end.

Maybe it’s because I feel like my writing is much like the forest floor, fertile and supporting lots of new growth. But like the moss, it doesn’t yet seem like a big deal. Something that people would step on or step over without batting an eye. Something that no one else would care about. Or even worse, something that other people would perceive as ickky!



Progress: Still writing but having great difficulty thinking about plot. Still looking for the “so what?” However, my characters are getting easier to imagine. The other day I was standing in line at the donut store and as I watched people interact, it seemed like it would be something my character would say or do. I wrote 7 pages about it. I have lots of little scenes, but I can’t seem to get things to join together yet.

I'm just sayin'

Once upon a time, I went to work with an eye so black it was bright purple. A complete ring of bruise. I told all who asked my plausible story about how I was injured at my second job.

We all went to the break room at lunch and sat around the plywood table, the chattier women talking non-stop as usual. As I sat there, quiet as usual, not one of the women addressed me. Instead, they talked about me and around me. They made their declarations for the entire break….
“If my man ever hit me, I’d kick his ass."
“There’s no way a man would EVER hit me more than once”
“If a woman doesn’t leave, maybe she’s asking for it”

No one spoke to me directly. No one asked my opinion about any of it. They spoke loudly for all the room to hear, including the other tables filled with men and women.

The shame and judgement I felt at that moment was far greater than any split lip, black eye, or broken bone I had been at risk of receiving. Any thought I had of asking for help, was extinguished in those 20 minutes.

Years later, I had become independent, educated, and professional. A helping professional in the “helping profession.” I observed a battered woman being helped. It was unsafe for her to return home, according to staff. She was exhausted and wanted her home, her clothes, her things. She desperately wanted a shower, she said repeatedly. She would have left on her own, but she didn’t have transportation and it was too far to walk. Staff happily helped her find a shower in the old area of the building. They provided soap, shampoo, a towel, and some borrowed clothes. She showered in the stall, a leftover locker room of sorts in a partially remodeled public restroom. People took turns guarding the door so she could have her privacy. I felt sadness for the woman, showering with horrible water pressure, in a shower that hadn’t been used for years, surrounded by old cold tile and strangers. All she wanted was her home, her things, her comfort. But she knew that if she returned to the home with her child, she’d be reported for putting her child at risk. I can imagine that she felt forced to strip and shower in this unwelcoming place.

I’m reminded of these images and thoughts as the Chris and Rihanna story splashes across the news nonstop. Personally, I no longer believe in secrets or lies. Domestic violence needs to be discussed. Yet I’m wondering if Rihanna is feeling hurt by strangers…pained and humiliated far beyond cuts, bruises, and blood. I wonder if it’s excruciating to hear other people talk about and around her… and at times, talking at, yes at, her with their advice. All of the superstars and the news reporters being the equivalent of folks at the break table giving their two cents or the helpers who are forcing her into a choice she maybe doesn’t want to make.

Many years after that day at the break table, I realized that the women were trying to be helpful. They were expressing their concern. And their thoughts that domestic violence is wrong. It is wrong. But the way they expressed it was more hurtful than anything I’ve ever experienced. And I sure hope Rihanna isn’t feeling that way now.

I wasn't going to add to any of the commentary but finally tonight, I'd heard so much that I wanted to scream. I wonder if she feels the same.

My wish is that Rihanna has someone who listens openly, honestly, and without agenda to what she needs and wants. That she’s not perceiving all the discussions, the debate, and spotlight as judgement. My hope is that she’s not being re-victimized.

Frozen water and writing

It’s Superbowl Sunday and we spent the day at the resevoir. It was a gorgeous winter day today in Maryland and we spent the daylight hours outside. As we drove home, I told him, “I think this is a metaphor, or a parable, or whatever, for my writing.” For the rest of the drive, I quietly thought about it further. Yes, I think there’s a lesson about writing somewhere within the events of today.

Many years ago, I learned about fishing with my father. Fishing in a boat on a MidWestern lake, Salmon fishing in a Michigan river, and ice fishing in Indiana in the wintertime. Fishing for fun. I certainly wasn’t an expert. I just loved being outside and near water. Many times, then and now, I read or write while I’m “fishing”. In other words, I’ve got a worm in the water and I’m not watching closely enough to know when the little buggers have stripped the hook clean. Other times, I’m obsessed with fishing. I don’t want to stop until I’ve caught one… and just one more… and just one more. And before I know it, it’s too dark to see the trail to hike out easily. But I’m thrilled because I’ve caught fish.

Today, in Maryland, we went to the water and I took my fishing apparatus because I didn’t expect the resevoir to be frozen. It’s too large and there are too many channels that keep the water moving. Or so I thought. I was wrong. We hiked quite a way to the first spot. In the distance, there was a large area where the channels meet and the water wasn’t frozen. Near the shore, the water was frozen, but the ice wasn’t thick. I didn’t trust it to hold me weight and couldn’t cast far enough to reach the unfrozen section. We hiked to another spot. Beautiful views. Frozen solid. But to get from shore to ice, one would have to jump from the boulder onto the ice. There were deer tracks across the ice, so it was solid enough to hold their weight. But, unfortunately, I weigh more than a deer. And I have enough cognitive ability to recall that the water at those boulders is very deep. I didn’t want to risk falling in. So, we agreed to hike to one other spot. A spot where I know the shoreline consists of boulders but the channel is nearby. Maybe I could cast from the boulders into the unfrozen water nearby. Right. Wrong. Frozen solid.

But I had such a strong desire to fish. I had worms and bobbers, hooks and lines. But I didn’t have all of the things my dad and his fishing buddies used for ice fishing. I didn’t have the auger to drill the ice. I didn’t have long handled scoop thingie to dip the ice chunks out. I didn’t have the miniature pools or the little wax worms. But dang it, I wanted to fish.

I didn’t concern myself with whether or not I had the correct tools. (I am very careful to make sure the ice is plenty thick wherever I go, in case any of you were worried). I started to chip the ice with a knife. I made progress, but not enough. I kept at it and kept at it. I began to use sharp rocks. I pounded and pounded. The hole was filling with water that was seeping up from underneath, but I still wasn’t through. So I used a bigger rock to pound a smaller, wedge-shaped rock. And then voila, I was through the ice and fishing. Woohooo!



I realized, while I sat and watched my poles, that I hadn’t concerned myself with whether or not I was doing it “right”. I was just doing it. And I wasn’t worried about whether or not someone was watching me. There were footprints on the trail and I already know that there is a tree-stand just at the crest of the hill where I was. Someone could easily have been watching. But I just didn’t care. My man was watching, and laughing at my persistence, but I didn’t stop.

I had dove in, chipping away, bit by bit, and not worrying about whether or not it was perfect or whether or not anyone else cared. I knew the general direction I wanted to head, toward liquid water, I did it for me. And for me alone. And I didn’t stop until my goal was reached. It was glorious!

My muscles are sore and I’m exhausted. But I’m satisfied and it was a wonderful day.

Now, if I could just get myself to write that way!

How is it 2009 already?!

Well, it's January already and things at work are hopping. I've been lurking, wandering the 'net, and reading more than writing. It seems like all I do is drive to work, work, and drive home. At least it is light out now during the commute and I can amuse myself with trying to identify the black and white ducks on the resevoir while trying to stay on the road!

We were very lucky to have my oldest son here during his 2+ week leave. We talked, stayed up too late watching movies, relaxed, ate, and just sat around looking at each other. It was fabulous. Then all too soon, he had to head back to base. I'm thankful and content that I had so much time with him but it's bittersweet to let him leave again. My youngest son is adjusting to being back in the states and setting up house with his wife. My best Christmas gift was having both of my boys on American soil.

That is a summary of my holidays. Christmas in a nutshell. I hadn't really planned on blogging tonight. Really, I'm here for another reason...

...I'm popping in long enough to encourage you to stop by Travis' site and consider sending something to his family. You can check out either his blog or a site that has been set up for him. (woohooo! I finally figured out how to add links in my blog. It was so simple that it was hard)

Anyway, I think this is important. After all, a house fire to start the new year? Sucks. Completely sucks. Especially with kids.

A similar thing happened to a very good friend of mine many years ago. It's something I'll never forget.

Travis and family, you are in my thoughts.

Adios November, hello December

Well... NaNo is NoMo'. I didn't come anywhere close to the 50K mark, but it was a really good experience for me. My word count, after last blog, went up to 19,078. Woohoo! NaNo was definately a good exercise in doin-time-on-my-behind.

It was helpful to let go of "how do I do this the right way" and to embrace "just do it".

It was helpful to feel successful at getting a whole bunch of words, that do have some plot and good character development, out of me and into a black & white version.

I learned that if i got stuck, looking at random photos or reading random things can spark a thought.

I learned that if i got stuck, going back to pen and journal and sprawling out on the livingroom floor on my belly, helped to feel less "formal" (read: intimidated) and helped the juices get flowing.

Now I have to use these things that I've learned so that I can keep writing and get some of these characters out of my head and onto paper.

I also have to be a little bit careful to cut down on some of my procrastinative pursuits. Those things have included, but are not limited to; reading, watching tv, daydreaming about a marshy riverfront chunk of land that's for sale, looking at many different "teeny house plans", daydreaming about country living, and beginning some of the holiday decorating around the apartment. We were exctied to have found teeny bluebirds to go on our teeny charlie brown tree.

Bluebirds.... of happiness.... i wonder if they'd live in marshy areas if we built a bluebird house...if we were able to buy that land... can bathouses (ew bats!!! but bats are better than mosquitos) be placed anywhere near bluebird houses??? Maybe i ought to do an internet search......

NaNo-OhNo!

EEeekkk! I'm at the same word count as my last post. No progress. None. Nada. Zilch. Zippo.

My brain is as dried up as an old creekbed during a dry November.

I don't feel hopeless. And I want to continue working on this WIP even after November/Nano ends. But for Petesake.... UGH! I could scream. My character is very clear in my brain but I can't think of anything else to write about. I sit and stare. I almost write something then think.... "boring"... "so what".... I think of possible plot ideas but then think "i don't know how to get there from here."

OOOooooOOOHHHH!!! Do you hear me screaming?

The more I try this the more respect I have for writers who have finished something... even if it is that "book" that sits on the shelf. You all amaze me.

Gonna go procrastinate with the tv for an hour then try again. Please send your positive writing thoughts, or writing fairy dust, or something my way. I am in desperate need of it.

PS.

Oops. I forgot that I wanted to include this photo at the end of my previous post.

Brrrrrrr! Snow!