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!

Writing; the teacher and dicipline I never knew I always wanted

Before I discovered writing, (my muse birthed two and a half years ago, she's fully walking and talking and soooo cute! I just want to pinch her cheeks!) I would not say that I was a disciplined person, I was organized and did my stay-at-home mommy duties because I loved it. I've tried a myriad of things that would, from the outside (I suppose) look like I was really enjoying my life. And I was, there is nothing greater than seeing your babes grow into the people you know they can be and knowing that you have helped them do it, but I lacked that human drive that many with passions always spoke about and is never understood until you are stricken with your passion.

When I started my Novel, I knew that it wasn't going to be ready for a loooooooong time, and usually my fire for something would fade. It never did with writing. Writing gave me the discipline I had been looking for. It taught me that nothing comes out perfect the first time and with a little blood, sweat and tears (cliche, but give me one, we all know it's true :P) any of us could create something we are proud of.

I never knew I was searching for this, to be honest. I thought "I clean my house, take care of my kids, play with them, make dinners, set up play dates, work two days a week, pay the bills, mow the lawn...etc...I have the discipline I need to continue on in my life as a happy-ish person." But I never saw things completely clearly until Mackenzie sprinkled her magic dust over my brain and my heart. And this, my friends is not only something that can help in writing, but it also helped me with every day life.

So here is what writing has taught me;

Nothing comes out pretty the first time. No idea, no story, no piece of artwork, no exercise regimen. The bones are just that, bones. It is up to us to add the muscle, tendons, hair, eyes, teeth, the rhythm we want the heart to beat on.

Hard work is literally ripping your heart open, squishing out the juices of labor and creating something that has a spark of what we are trying for. Only with hard work are we able to get to where we want to go.

I have met those who have just started writing, just became brave enough to put themselves out there, I started in the same place. I have met those with phenomenal talent already published and well on the track to greatness the only thing that separates us? Time, hard work, and experience. There is nothing greater than watching the journey of others, while going through it as well.

Anything you want is possible. You just have to figure out your plan and go for it. Find what works for you (or me) and then, even if you have the bumps and bruises that life will always offer up with it's fists, nothing can stop ya.

Calmness. (Despite the nerve wrecking "What if I'm not good enough?" necrosis that all writers bare -- and is fleeting.) Knowing that something will come into bloom after you dust the petals off, peel them back one by one, until you reach the center, the shined and pretty little package we have been working so hard for. It will always come, if we are patient.

Confidence, I had a fake kind of confidence before I was writing, I didn't have anything that was mine, that I could say "This is who I am. This isn't going to go away and it will only get better with time." It took me a while, several rejections, many many many mistakes until finding the right formula for me to truly come into myself. To look at my skin and say "Hey, I like what is underneath, and I am not afraid to show it to others."

Fear, is nothing but a fog of fluff, you can run your hand through it, watch it disintegrate before your very eyes. It is our own minds that make it larger than life, it is the strength of our own minds that can squash it underneath our boots.

Complaints and frustration only bring you down. Problems are always fixable, even in the fiction world that has come to your head, there is always another way. Always ('cept if a cartoon Coyote throws a stick of dynamite in your lap and you can't get rid of it fast enough. But if a cartoon has beef with you...well....)

Grammar is not as scary as it seems. I have run across so many writers who say the same thing (myself included) "I don't know grammar." Yes. We do. And if you really don't think you know grammar, then learn. It's not hard or as hard as we make it out to be.

Okay. I tend to be wordy so I will cut it off here, but this is not nearly everything that I have learned from writing. Not even close.

Happy writing peeps!! Have a great day! (Oh, and I got a poem accepted!! More info to follow)

Uncertainty Is The In The Eye Of The Fear-Holder

For the last three weeks I have been fiendishly searching for a job. The thing is, it's not that I want a new job, I like my bookstore work and I am good at it, but changes in my life have caused me to need what the bookstore can not offer. And so, I am on a hunt.

I have had some luck with the job search, getting at least four interviews and another one next week. Sadly, I shot the pooch in the toe and have yet to land a job. What is funny is that rejection for a job is similar to a rejection for writing a story. It happens, it's a part of life and with each rejection we're supposed to learn something new, takes something away from it and continue on until we find out the right way to get what we want.

But what happens when uncertainty creeps up inside of us?

It freaks me out, that is what it does.

What if I am not good enough? What if I am just deluding myself, what if...what if...what if... on and on in a crazy beading cycle of negative dervishes that begs to pull me down.

(Here comes the super part)

I like my bookstore job; I enjoy the customers (fodder for fiction) that come into my store. I enjoy the activity and the constant change up of not knowing what is going to happen at any given day, I like the challenge it provides me with, I enjoy my fellow employees. I had a plan and I did not stick to it.

I am freaking myself out for no reason whatsoever.

Originally, I was going to try to get some contract writing jobs, plenty of writers freelance for contract sites and while some places are frauds, I am smart enough to know what is and what isn't. And yet, still...my writing "test" mandated from the site I want to go for is (still) sitting on my desktop, waiting for me to finish it.

How is that possible? I set myself goals and I accomplish them. That is what I do, that is what I have done in the past and that is what is going to spur my happiness for the future. Yes, I have been bogged down with a certain amount of stress, but this is nothing none of us doesn't go through, being overwhelmed plays a big part in this. I don't know which direction to go first. I keep telling myself that I will get this writing contract stuff done...but later.... and it turns out, I'm afraid.

Fear is shivering inside of me in a tense little package (with a purple bow to boot) because I haven't written non-fiction for some time now, what if they turn me down, what if it isn't good enough, then my plan to stay at the bookstore and work from home will be destroyed so I am nipping it in the bud before I even try. What if, what if, what if, what if..... again, I have shot myself in the finger without even realizing what I did.

Super.

And so, the point! *cries of "Finally" come belting in from the peanut gallery*

Tomorrow, despite my fear, I WILL sit down, I WILL research what I need to, I WILL finish my goal! Uncertainty be damned! (It's the exclamation mark that makes it seem like I am braver than I am, trust me, I am still terrified.) I WILL finish what I started, brush the "what if's" into the blowing wind and box their ears when they come back!

I am still going to continue my hunt, but at least, I will know that I did it my way.

Happy Weekend!

The Change

Sorry about the teeny-tiny lil ol' print on my bloggy, here. I've been wanting a change for a while and for some reason the design template hates my computer. It wouldn't show up, at all, so this weekend I hijacked a lonesome laptop (sitting on my kitchen table) and I haphazardly threw this blog design together before the owner tarred and feathered my person (I'm still finding black feathers in my hair, btw) ...now said laptop and person have gone for and I'm stuck with the teeny-tiny-lil'ol print I have here on the side of my blog.

Instead of thinking it's too small tho, I've decided to assume my eyes need exercise and this is the best way to do it!! (how flabby are your eyes? do they need some tunage? come on work em out with me!!)

Happy Writing, folks!