Blog-a-rific

It's been awhile.

I've dusted the rabble off of my shoulders, washed the chunks of life vomit out of my hair and I have arrived on the other side shiny, squeaky and incredibly ready to get back to bizness.

Writing bizness, that is...(duh you say as the single file line is instructed to purchase the golden ticket that will allow you one great slap of my forehead because I know those of you who may still read this are non-idiots.)

First off, it feels like I should say that I apologize for not blogging for awhile, or for spilling my crazy rambled personal self doubt, through my precious writing life yes, do I have the gnawing thought to erase the last for or so posts? Abso-fucking-lutely, Mister Big. In truth, I'm not and embarrassed and I am not sorry. It happened, I learned from the encyclopedia whalluped at my head from life's stoic hands, but, it was what I needed to do.

And with this last year under my belt, (scoffing at conventional time calenders in lieu of the conception of my revolved situation until the time when the world stopped spinning, for me) my muse has awoken. And she is fired up.

This fire, is not an out of control rage, it's a sweet one that has been cobbled w/ stones and warms your face on a cooler (ha!) summer night while the children play flash light tag fifty feet behind you.

Now I have the power of her and while rolling rampant w/ the creative ideas steaming, streaming over me was a phenomenal feeling, now, I can open my mind up to the stories, ideas, creations I feel pulsing through my veins.

A plan? Well, I have none as of yet, but there is my book to edit, a startling character whispering her dark tale to me (I'm unsure the length, bc it's a completely different experience for me. Usually, I see the ending first and then the rest of the story sings itself to me...this time... I have the entryway, the doormat and the brass knocker, it's pretty schweet.)

As for a footnote I would like to thank those who have not forgotten me while I was away -- Aaron Polson, Tony Rapino Angel Zapata, Bea Sempre, Laurie D, Bettie Turner. I got a beautiful Christmas card from the lovely Cate Gardener in December (which did tickle my Christmas bells :D) For those blogs I once followed religiously-- Shadow, Ken, Mercedes, Ellen, Alan W. Davidson, Tyhitia Green, and so many more, I have missed reading all of your whosywhatsits of the goings on, and I'm still thinking of ya'll fondly.

finding the fool

I have been somewhat lost as of late, whimsy has left the comforting frontal lobes of my mind and tucked itself away to recesses unknown. It pops out every once in a while, allowing me to know that my fool is still lurking.

On the writing front, stories have been sprinkling their sparkles over my brain when I sleep -- there is a lot of dancing and I just happened to write two poems last week (thanks for the faith, Aaron, Bea and Tony).

On the short story front, I still have some in the editing pool, some that have been waiting, patiently for me to do something with them. It might be time to delve back in with a scalpel and see how long it would take for the blood to stain my elbows.

And then, I will search for a home for all of them.

But, speaking of finding the fool, while I won't be looking for it, I will certainly keep my arms open for its return.

The Dreams....

My dreams are coming back to me, stronger, harder and stranger than what they have been in the last nine months...I think this is a turning point. I really do.

The funny thing, I dream, therefore I am.

I haven't dreamt like this since September. But, it's how I first started writing, and it always helps me see where I am in my life.

I think that the little things of this past year are starting to strip themselves away and I'm starting to get a sense of who I am, again. Which is always a good thing. When I dream I am always taken to a bizarre place of something not quite normal, but it makes sense to me. I never have a 'normal' dream. It is comforting.

As I said, the last four nights, these dreams all have something in common, nothing I've figured out yet, but they are linked. A little unknown (or known depending on how into Psychology you are...) fun fact, when we dream of a person, it is never really about that actual person, its about which part of US they represent about US.

Today I had a dream of dancing, but I was dancing alone in the basement of some "friend" whom in reality, I have never met. There was a party, but I didn't want to be around anyone so I went and danced to my own tune in the basement (which was pretty done up), then we were in a car chase with some ninja's and I lost an earring -- earrings that I would never wear, and some dancing monkeys (always I dream about monkeys...I should look that up...)anyway, I think my muse is coming back to me. Well, I know she is coming back.

Now, I just looked up some of the definitions on/about some of the more prominant things...oh, crap, I forgot about the ninja's -- hold on one moment please *pushes elevator music for "Tom Jones", to entertain* -- *And she enters grac...HA I couldn't finish that line, there is nothing about me that's graceful*

I suppose it's true,what they said about Ninja's but I am not sure about the other stuff, more to ponder or just let float around in my head for a few more days...

I still have to wait to see where she is going to take me on this wild ride of dreams, and if I get a hankering to write (when don't have it? the problem is finding the space in my head to write out what needs to be written), then I will write.

And again with the random, I was just really inspired by this last set of dreams I had, no story yet, but who knows...the way this road is taking me, I could be writing by the end of the week.

Pleasant Cheers!!

Strength in numbers....?

It should be no surprise to anyone when I say "Hey, I haven't blogged in a while". Yes, we can all look at the last post and see that time has past.

I've put my pen down to focus on a full-time job, (only until I get my feet wet there, believe me, I have not given up the dream. Nor will I ever).

I've abandoned Facebook because I have nothing witty or sparkly to say, I haven't even spent enough time on Twitter to figure out how it really works.

And life keeps moving forward.

When a friend of mine told me that her heart went out to me (back in September) because she knew what I was going to go through in six months, I have to admit I was very put off. By nature, I know I can plow through anything when its given to me. I can handle the things put on the table, and blow through them, always trying to give it my all. But the aftermath is what gets me.

Welcome to the Aftermath!!

Anyone who still may be following this blog after my hiatus (thank you btw) probably knows the upheaval of my life at this time. Getting divorced is hard, but it is not really the getting divorced that is hard in my case. It's the finding my feet beneath the pool of dark fog around my waist. Each positive step thins the fog out, right?

No. That is not the way that life works.

I am sitting with myself, only myself, but I am not me which is okay because it is what I need to be right now. But let me tell you, it sucks.

And just when I think that I have it under control, life, the little devil she is dumps some more freezing ice into the bowl and the black fog rises until I can barely see. I'm flailing away through it though, because what else can I do? It's not about strength, it's about doing what we have to do when we have to do it. Finding some sort of peace within myself.

No one will be able to help me but me, though disheartening, more times it is empowering.

The hard part, the hardest part, is allowing myself to be crazy without allowing myself to be crazy. Or judging the crazy, or listening to the crazy, or holding the crazy's hand for a wild night out and waking up in the morning with it next to me waving at me laughing because when I look in the mirror, I don't see myself anymore.

There really is no point to this post, I just needed to do something with my hands.

My grandfather died this week, Pio Zone. He passed away in a chair after a rigorous four week battle with doctor's having to open and close his insides again and again and again. He was 88, born in 1923, he was in the Navy and loved his wife more than life itself so much so, that when she passed 14 yrs ago, and his dementia set in, all he would say was "Where are my cigarettes?" and "I want to be with Chickie". Pio loved to travel, live life, and gamble by cards. He was a fantastic grandfather and just let us be how we wanted to be without judgment, which, in turn, was a gift all in its own.

Today, I sit back and wonder why I need to write this, post this? Tomorrow, I will know it is because I wanted to do it, for me. This post has nothing to do with writing, it is a blanket statement of hidden things in my head, coming out in weird ways -- ways that don't really have anything to do with what is really going on, but they are helping me get over the greater issues. One day at a time, one step at a time...but what happens when your legs wobble and you can no long walk? You take a break, cry, eat bagel bites, watch mindless television, read a book that was said to be "so you and helpful", only to turn out that the lead character really wasn't like you at all and the end was a bust and you get angry now every time you think about it!!! (Oh, and by 'you' I mean me), you go shooting for the first time ever, plan to do things because you need to, do it with ease, (bc nothing is as hard as we make it out to be) -- but still everything is delayed, everyday drags on one million years into the next until you're to the point of exhaustion where your body can't even remember what function your nose has for your face (alright, I'm exaggerating, but it makes sense to me and maybe to some lonely traveler wandering the bloggoshepre, who has gone through a similar experience). And then get to a place where, "I don't know what to do anymore," seems like such a defeating but honest statement that you can't help to listen to the OTHER voice in your head that says "Yes, you do".

I am staring at the inky fog, only seeing black, but I keep going. I believe anyone would do it in my shoes, I don't believe it is strength, I don't believe that it is survival, I believe it is human.

We are, first and foremost, always alone. Numbers...having numbers is great -- but when you sit back and think about those hard times in life, the ones that never seemed to end, the one which puts so much stress and strain on your shoulders you feel as though your neck is going to pop, we were always alone. We had to work it out for ourselves, in the way only we knew how. And if that is by focusing on the small stuff while you process your way through the big stuff, then so be it. If it is taking a gun to the shooting range to murder a little paper man ("Target," Larry the shooting range owner corrected me, "Target"), then that can help.

Even when I was surrounded by people -- husband, boyfriends, friends, family, coworkers -- I still felt alone. Only now, I really am alone -- able to do whatever I really want to do, and yet, life...life, loves to throw shit at you (in a fun, monkey flinging poo kind of way, of course that monkey thinks its hilarious), from every direction.


*This post, is a part of my quirky way of processing things. I obsess about random things because I can not fathom the larger scale issues all at once. Stop by my brain sometime, trust me, you'll have a blast and leave through the crazy door with parting gifts in the shape of a giraffe.

**Dedicated to my Poppy...he lived a grand life and he was happy.

Wading into a Pool of Rusty Nails (or Life Lessons for Fiction) by Lee Thompson

Guest Blogger Lee Thompson comes to visit my site today and spills his guts across the pages!

About ten years ago I moved to Tennessee because I wanted to attend a university that had a great music program. At the time I’d just started playing guitar and really sucked at it but I wanted to learn properly and make a lifetime of music because, pre-writing, music had moved me like nothing else ever had. Seeing that I’d just come out of a long bout of drinking I didn’t have a car or shit for money, and it was okay that I didn’t know a soul in the area I planned to go to, and hadn’t started enrolling. I just ‘went with it’ by buying a one-way greyhound bus ticket from Michigan to Tennessee. I took a backpack full of clothes, my guitar, and sixty-three bucks.

Looking back, I can imagine how crazy family and friends thought I was, but, “Fuck!” I thought. “I’m on an adventure! I’m going to do this!” I didn’t give their funny looks a moment’s worry. I just said, “See ya!” and left. I spent the first night in a motel, went to the university the next morning to start the application. The second night I was on the street with about fifteen bucks in my pocket. It went fast. It was summer and warm, so there was that, but after a few days I started starving. I didn’t have a phone, or change to call anyone at home, nor did I want to. I looked for work and hit fast food joints around sundown and asked, “If I clean your parking lot, you want to throw a burger my way?”

Some of them did, some of them told me to get lost.

Those were lean times.

The locals knew I wasn’t from around there the moment I spoke. I was too stubborn to hock my guitar to grab food for a couple weeks. A few people told me about a homeless shelter where they’d give dinner and a bed for the night as long as I followed the house rule to look for work every day, which was fine because I was already spending the coolness of mornings to seek employment. The homeless shelter booted everyone at 7 am and re-opened in the evening, which was smart, because they didn’t have a bunch of bums hanging around all day.

I spent evenings rubbing shoulders with crack heads, whores, gambling addicts, winos. They all had stories and we’d run across each other during our day hikes. Some of them would follow me and try not to make it obvious, but it was because they weren’t wandering like normal, they had things in their head, a sudden purpose. I always carried a knife. Sometimes, late at night when no one could sleep, we’d share a little history. When they asked my story and heard that I had a family who loved me, had left a job, had sobered up and then became homeless, these hardcore addicts gave me damn funny looks and let me know I’d made a pretty silly choice. And they knew all about bad choices.

It didn’t take long to find a temp agency where they snagged workers and paid them at the end of the day. I was in good shape and smiled quite a bit (probably looked a little creepy, smiling like that when I appeared a bum.) I hired on as a construction laborer right away because they didn’t care how I looked, just that I could bust my ass and not stand around expecting anything for free.

Some of the guys who just bummed around and never looked for work would watch me and a few others, wondering if they should try and rob us (and some people did get robbed, usually early in the morning when they were still groggy and the perp was up all night planning and building the courage) but I carried a knife like a lot of others did, and if I had to I would stab someone in the throat and let them bleed to death in the street because sometimes you have to meet crazy with crazy if you want to keep on living.

After two weeks working for the construction crew I saved enough to rent a motel room by the month and get out of the madhouse they called The Shelter. I still saw some of the homeless shambling about in the coming weeks and months, and a few of them tried to stay with me, asking if they could crash on the floor, these guys who had a gleam in their eyes like you wouldn’t believe unless you’d been there, unless you’ve seen violence and hope and hopelessness all fighting inside a person a mere six inches in front of your face, and inching closer by the second.

Even after I had a crappy motel room I still had to walk everywhere because it wasn’t like I could afford a car, and I just enjoyed walking and fresh air, and you can observe and study things when you’re walking. It was a difficult and enlightening time. That year crawled and sped by.

I watched drug addicts—some of them probably decent kids and men at some point in their lives—drag their ghosts behind them, drifting into more of the same, nervous and edgy, always in the same place as if the city moved around them and they never gained any ground at all.

I think some of those experiences (at least in themes) have bled into NURSERY RHYMES 4 DEAD CHILDREN. Spending time with desperate people, and at times being one of the desperate, is something that will always stick with me. Like me, my characters know what it’s like to go hungry, to think things they wouldn’t normally think, to wonder what the hell they got themselves into by charging forward without a plan. There’s a lot of excitement hidden in those quiet moments, alone and still, while the world speeds by though—where you have to depend on yourself and no one else at all. It’s like living and dying at the same time multiplied by ten. It’s seeing the best and worst firsthand and taking from it even as it takes from you.

*Visit Lee at http://alongthispathsodarkly.blogspot.com/ AND visit Delirium to see his new book Nursery Rhymes 4 Dead Children due out in May 2011!!

"Oi with the Poodles already..."

Okay, that's a quote from Gilmore Girls, but it is a direct comment for how I'm feeling.

Everything has fallen into place, the stars have aligned, my ducks have found their oblong row, the life I have been working for is tying up its loose ends -- I've started two short stories, both of which are taking their time to birth, I finished Betaing a fabulous novel for a friend, got my book read for my new Book Club, my bills are paid, I got my hair cut in pretty fashion, my two weeks notice is in, I've grieved my old life and now I'm ready for my new endeavor... and yet... It's a strange thing giving up a part of life that I thought I knew.

That being said, as I have dug into myself, uprooted my life and planted my feet somewhere new over the past eight months -- it wasn't hard. Yes, in the moment with the chaos whirling devilishly around me and self doubt gnawing on my every thought, picking apart the tie I knotted together, laughing at me when I cried or fell deeper into insecurity, enjoyed flooding my brain with hindered thoughts of "I can't do it," "I don't know what I am doing," "Everyone thinks I'm a ______(insert deprecation here, I'm sure I thought it of myself) -- it was hard. Very hard, nothing good comes to fruition without hard work. And yet, I'm still standing. Everything I wanted/worked for/doubted is now sitting and placid in my hand.

My point is that working hard isn't as hard as we make in out to be in our minds. Just because our mind fools us and tells us that we suck... or the equivalent (my worse thoughts aren't extremely clever,) doesn't mean that we really do. Thoughts are just thoughts, only we give them weight...ammunition, power. If we can flick them off like the dust fleck they really are, anyone can handle anything at any time. Easy. Right?

And so, I say "Oi with the Poodles, already..." enough is enough. These thoughts have kept me down for too long, and I'm taking my brain and thoughts back. I accept them but know just because I think them, doesn't make it truth.

Redundancy is one you've seen twice before...

Black Label Books liked my latest blog post so
much they borrowed it for their own!
(They asked of course!)
Now, I'm not expecting those to re-read it,
but pop over and see what they have to offer,
you just might like it!