truth and tweets.

I am easily obsessed with thoughts and topics and ideas.  I'm a thinking person, maybe to a fault.  I'm good at being alone and being quiet.

I'm currently obsessed with truth.  I've been asking people, not so subtly, what they think of truth. Good friends, casual acquaintances. How do you define truth? What do you think it is? Do you think it's important? I am reading too much philosophy, the kind that twists your brain in a knot until your left eye twitches and your stomach drops out. I am hounding truth or it is hounding me. I am beating my head against the table, against the wall, against the questions, one after another.  I am forming some thoughts.  You know what truth is?  Please tell me what you think.

Listen, it comes down to this: I made the choice to write here and write often because I wanted to write about difficult things. I want to take all of the notebooks that I have torn apart and thrown away, take those crackling words, and spill them out all over the place and let people run around in them. I want to split myself wide open and lift up my eyes and make awkward eye contact that lasts too long before I say Hi.

some exercises.

Lately my itch to write is violent, uncontrollable, distracting. It feels like love, when you are powerless to harness your thoughts or do anything but be in love. Forcing myself to write regularly is working some magic on my brain or my fingers or something. I am learning to have grace and patience to ride the ebb and flow of creativity and motivation.

In the midst of all this violent-writing-love, I've encountered a new obstacle. I have too many things in various stages of being made. I've started writing in depth on a handful of ideas, I've written briefly on some other things and I also have The List (my writing prompts, exercises, ideas to pursue).

Writing exercises are my favorite way to regain some perspective, even if I don't know what I want to be working on. I do writing exercises to push through paralysis. I make lists. I bring the limp fingers to life again. I have slept on my arm all night long and now a stranger's hand is cradling my head.

encouragement & discontent.

I haven't done any freewriting in 4 days. Apathy and discontent have a strange way of paralyzing a person.  The cold air is numbing my fingers. I have a headache. The world is full of bad things. Excuses, all.

I have been thinking today on goals set and goals achieved, on the path we are walking and what comes at the end. There are too many things to make sense of tonight. Too much hurt in the world, confusion in my own life and others. Too many questions that I don't have the power to answer. Too many people being born, too many people dying, too much suffering, too much greed.

I am searching hard for something lately. I am here. I am creating the life that I want to lead and every day it is the life I want and every day I am grateful, grateful, grateful. It's a story that lots of people have lived and lots of people have heard, it's not original or unique, but it's mine and that's why I care.

I have to remind myself of things often, the things that I believe and don't believe. That I am committed and capable.

The answer is to write, it is always to write. Just reminding myself.

I read an interesting piece by Langston Hughes yesterday - I hadn't seen it before. It's worth reading.  Salvation - Langston Hughes

flash fiction and another list.

I've been reading the literary journal Brevity since college.  I've always been attracted to saying things sparsely, fewer words, less telling and more feeling. Spurred on by my love for brief nonfiction, I've lately been reading flash fiction. It's cool. Obviously some things need to be said in a longer form, but there are some things that are really said best in the so-called flash.

I wrote this in my head last night, dreamed about it, wrote it in the notebook this morning, and typed it here now. It is fiction, which I've already explained is something I don't do. Go easy on me - I'm trying to be brave.

Every morning at 10:00am, Susan climbed the 13 rungs of an aluminum extension ladder to the roof of her house. Her husband sat in his office; her three children were numb at their desks in school. She cautiously lifted one foot over the gutter before scrambling onto the rough shingles and plastering her body face down against the roof. After a few seconds, she flattened herself and rolled over towards the sky.

Some things are true and some things aren’t. When you’re lying on a roof it’s hard to see the difference. It’s hard to see anything but the big sky full of weather and sun and clouds and rain and birds and stars. Every morning at 10:00am, Susan took it all in and then pushed it back out. You can’t live an everyday life when you’re filled up with light and space inside.

Every morning sometime after 10:00am, Susan began to shimmy her weight towards the edge of the roof, bending her knees until she was more or less crouched on the gutter at a 45 degree angle. Always in one single motion, with breath held in, she let her feet drop over the edge and dangle before swinging them around to catch the ladder’s rung. It wasn’t that high – a fall would only mean tumbling in the bushes with a sprained ankle or wrist, maybe a broken leg if the angle was wrong. But with her eyes closed and her back pressed tight against the gritty roof, the distance was infinite.

And she knew it would happen one day, when she was dizzy from climbing and the sun was shining bright. The world would turn itself on its head and she would fall into the sky.

***

I'm down to the last two pages of my notebook. To celebrate, here are 15 sentences from the notebook, selected at random, representing (in no linear order) words I've written over the last 10 months of my life.

1. The buzzing of the baggage carousel is matching time to the eerie Christmas music playing over the loudspeaker.
2. I listened to that song for hours in my lonely attic bedroom in the house in South Mankato.
3. She would always be worse, every time I came home.
4. I flew to Boston and bought a pack of cigarettes.
5. There was a crazy lady at the end of the bar who was talking to herself.
6. I have decided to move on from this place, whatever that might mean.
7. I want to call you back, again and again and again, until I feel safe - an old feeling from another time.
8. So let's bring it back to here.
9. I could write about the blue of the tables and the afternoon I varnished them, but I really want to write about sitting at the blue tables and listening to the song, crying so hard the tears ran off my chin and fell onto the floor.
10. I could show you the fields stretching far and how life can be so sad and slow sometimes.
11. I had a dream you moved to Alaska and wore a comb over and I was never surprised.
12. His long hair hasn't been brushed and I think that's good and his face is ugly.
13. Maybe she works nights somewhere and she spends her mornings buying coffees at Starbucks.
14. He wrote back that things were pretty bad and it was my fault.
15. I am looking up every few minutes to be blinded by the drifted snow and sunlight outside the big front window and as soon as the spots in my eyes fade I look up again.

big things.

I long to create something big.  I don't mean momentous or earth-shattering - I mean physically big.  For some reason, I love things that make me feel small.  I want to stand in the shadows of giant trees and mountains, wade knee-deep into an ocean that stretches for eternity beyond me, scream into a canyon while I'm toeing the line before the fall.

I want to make sculptures like these:

Patrick Dougherty

Or these:

Theo Jansen

I made a to do list in my notebook today:
-freewriting, one hour
-expand the essay, one hour
-think about a novel, one hour

Instead, I thought about a novel (or fiction in general) for three hours. I have always resisted it. I have always told myself that I can't do fiction and, honestly, I haven't really tried. I focused on nonfiction in college, so there was never a need. I vaguely remember writing a flash experimental play during a final exam for a creative writing class, but I don't think it was good. I'd remember if it was.

I've just been mulling it over lately -- the idea of fiction as a way to tell some hard truths without having to say, This is the truth of my life. Some of what I've been reading lately has spurred me on. And November is National Novel Writing Month (aka NaNoWriMo).  I signed up with the website awhile ago, but I didn't try it last year. I still don't know if I'll try it this year, but I'm thinking about it. Thinking it might be a way to dive hard into fiction and try it out. No pressure to be good, only to produce something. I do well with a goal to work towards.

I have one particular idea that I've been thinking and thinking over, researching, reading. Slowly, very slowly, it's turning into a character (maybe). I struggle with character development and I don't know why. But it would be good for me to practice. I have the time. I am particularly lucky there. I don't know when I will ever be able to say that again. So maybe. I might start an outline (just in case). I might do some freewriting on this character. Who knows where it will lead? Maybe it's just more essay material. But maybe writing some fiction will eventually give me the material for a better essay.

We'll see.

#cnftweet.

I signed up for Twitter awhile ago with the intention of using it for writing nuggets.  Sentences that stand alone, that I want to hold onto.

I'm finally getting around to it.

The heavyweight journal Creative Nonfiction has a running contest for tweets.  But mostly it's just another good practice.  Write one or two solid, clear sentences.  Put them out there.

Check them out on the right!  (omg).

the notebook (not the movie).

This week I'm finishing a notebook. I've never finished one before.

It doesn't seem like a big deal, but it is.  Every notebook I've written in has either been abandoned or thrown away.  I've never written from the first page to the last.  But I'm finishing a notebook this week, it's happening, and I'm not throwing it away.  The urge to keep things hidden is still strong. I have often been unable to stand the vulnerability of sharing what I write. It's a habit and a way of thinking that I'm trying very hard to shake.

I've been writing in this particular notebook since last December.  I bought it in the Minneapolis-St. Paul airport when I was stranded after Christmas.  It's not a big notebook, so really, it should have been finished months ago.  But I have a hard time keeping my writing all in one place.  I have three different notebooks right now, all in different stages of being written in.  I also write on scraps of paper and hide the scraps in books I'm reading, in my purse, in my pockets.  I write into Gmail drafts.  I write into Word documents.  I write here.

It used to drive me crazy that I couldn't just write in one place, back when I thought the only purpose of writing was producing.  But it's just as much the process as the product, and I've come to terms with the fact that I write randomly.  It's ok -- it's my process.  And there's some magic in discovering a random note on scrap of paper, hidden in a coat pocket months ago, that you can't even remember writing down.

I haven't been terribly productive the last few days.  I tell myself that I'm letting some things rest and letting myself think.  I guess I am, but let's get real: I am just that good at distracting myself from the work I know I want to do.  As a compromise, I made a deal with myself.  Finish the notebook.  There are 7 pages left.  So finish it.

Pick up the pen.

***

This is what today feels like. 

Check out these paintings by Philipp Haager.

there is time.

For the past two weeks I've been working on something.  Yesterday I crossed the start line. I'm not sure what a finish line even looks like, but I know the feeling of starting. Moving past an idea and randomness in the brain to something real, words sentences paragraphs pages.

I don't even care what happens to it. I don't care if I file it away forever. It's been a very long time since I've worked on something that I can actually call a piece. More than rambling, journaling, freewriting, etc. I needed to remember how to do it.

I've been writing on dark things. Back to the light. People, laughing, cold air, cribbage, hot drinks, oysters. Just life really. Just living hard is all.

I've been reading through some of the collected letters of Anton Chekhov thanks to a recommendation from this blog. I'm feeling startled by how much his words are resonating with me right now. I am reminded again -- yes, sometimes writing hurts. But even now, even still, there is time.

I am writing and wondering how many times tonight my whole body will be racked with pain for my presumption in daring to be a writer. - Anton Chekhov, letter to Alexander Chekhov, 8 November 1882

Some days I stare at the page or the screen and type word after word about nothing. I write about the color of the sky and the way the concrete feels beneath my bare feet and feeling sleepy and hot. Some days I sit down with the weight of the world right behind me. Yesterday:

I am going to write today about religion and feeling alone and feeling lonely and speaking up and remembering and making peace with your thoughts and being healed. And sin and guilt and fear.

I still don't understand the process, I don't know how or when or why or if I can create something. I just keep on.

All my hopes are on the future. I am still only twenty-six. It may be that one day I shall manage to achieve something, although time is rushing by quickly. - Anton Chekhov, letter to Dmitry Grigorovich, 28 March 1886

re: the gap.

I heard this yesterday and it was so much what I needed to hear.  It's important to be reminded that we are capable.  Remind yourself.

Nobody tells this to people who are beginners. I wish someone had told me. All of us who do creative work, we get into it because we have good taste. But there is this gap. For the first couple years you make stuff, it's just not that good. It's trying to be good, it has potential, but it's not. But your taste, the thing that got you into the game, is still killer. And your taste is why your work disappoints you. A lot of people never get past this phase; they quit. Most people I know who do interesting, creative work went through years of this. We know our work doesn't have this special thing that we want it to have. We all go through this. And if you are just starting out or you are still in this phase, you gotta know that it's normal and the most important thing you can do is do a lot of work. Put yourself on a deadline so that every week you finish one story. It's only by going through a volume of work that you will close that gap, and your work will be as good as your ambitions. And I took longer to figure out how to do this than anyone I've ever met. It's gonna take awhile. It's normal to take awhile. You just gotta fight your way through.

- Ira Glass

hurricane dreams.

I have been writing. I have not been posting. Sometimes it just gets too wild to share, or too wild for me to share. Or something.

I dreamt last night of a hurricane, but I was in the house I lived in when I was 13 years old in Elmore, Minn. I was herding people into the basement, we were packing up food, I stole a sandwich and wrapped it in foil and tucked it into my shirt. And suddenly I realized: we're overreacting. It won't be that bad. Then I lost my sandwich and went out into the rain.

Dreaming of a hurricane: This dream is considered to be a warning, because it alludes to an impending crisis when all old opinions, ideals, values and beliefs are being shaken. The dream suggests that you need to start shaping something new within yourself to cope with this personal crisis.  (http://www.dream-land.info/)

I wrote for 5 hours on Friday, mostly straight through, with breaks for tea. At the end of it, 10 pages of Microsoft Word single-spaced madness, I felt like something other than human. Here is one piece:

I am very deep now. It is a dream and I am being chased, I am in danger, and I can’t cry out. I open my mouth and strain with every muscle in my chest and neck, but still no sound. I am pursued and still no sound. I keep pushing until *pop* I am awake and tangled in sweaty sheets and screaming in an empty black room, screaming alone, screaming for someone to save me.

Any writing, anything real, even anything shallow, means you must confront the blackest parts of humanity. This is art: even the most beautiful work has the deepest evil of the world in it. They exist together, as one. All it is the lighting. See: look behind the bushes in the sparkling sunlight and there a spider is consuming its prey alive, slowly, deliberately. Listen: ten bars after the song ends, there is war and death. You know they’re coming. Don’t look away. I know you want to and so do I – but there is nowhere else to look.

The feeling is this: much writing and suddenly I am in a very dark state. I am thinking too much, too hard about evil in the world and evil in myself. I am swimming in circles, swimming in the thoughts and as I type I feel my face scrunch up in fear and disgust, my nose wrinkles, my eyes shut. And so I pause for a moment, take a breath, make some tea. When I sit back down and raise my fingers to the keys, the feeling is pure revulsion. I don’t want to go back in it, I don’t want to go deeper and I don’t want to find more. It is too heavy and hot and dark inside – I want to stay out in the clean air. I wonder sometimes if this is me or if this is the writing.

At the end of 10 pages and 5 hours, I wrote the following:

I don’t want to write anymore. Only 30 more minutes. I hate it. I hate writing. I hate these words and my fingers that are typing them. I hate this brain that thinks writing is good and I hate the dull fluorescent lights and the computer humming and the hot sunlight blasting in through my window.  30 minutes. I can do it I can do it I can do it blankblankblankblankblankblankblankblankblankblankb

But there is still this: "Every day, I give myself the same encouragement, and every day, I need it again."

***

I read back through some of last week's writing today.  Yes, some of it is dark.  Ok, a lot of it.  Yes, I need to get it out of my brain and onto the page.  But I also need to come back out of it and remember the beautiful moments that make up my days.

For example, today:

-I walked briskly to work this morning and was not too hot, not too cold.  Amazing fall, I love you.

-At work I made an individual cup of coffee with my brand-new, bright-red, individual-coffee-cup-maker.  Awesome and happy.

-I sat at my desk in the afternoon and thought in my brain, Man-oh-man I wish I had a snack.  Not 30 seconds later, my co-worker walked in with a bag of cheesy-popcorn she didn't want.  Do you want the popcorn?  Yes.

-Still hungry this afternoon, I thought about pie and realized that my life's purpose might honestly be: Make pie.  Or: Eat butter.  It's a tough one.  I resolved to make more pies and eat more butter.

-I finally have money (so to speak) to go grocery shopping.  So I made a grocery list tonight that included more than: peanut butter, can of beans.  It included: expensive olives, expensive cheese.  Cool.

-After a leisurely walk home, I enjoyed a hot boozy apple cider and a roasted tomato, caramelized onion, balsamic quinoa salad for dinner alone in my quiet apartment.

-Then I watched the moonrise in Medford through some haze and low clouds. Over the scary wires and oversized spotlit American flag and above the din of cats fighting. But it was beautiful.

The point is just that life is good.  There is always good love, good people, good food -- and for that I am grateful.

don't lie.

The year I was twelve, I walked to school. When I was nine, I was scared of everything; when I was twelve, I was scared of nothing. Round the corner, take off the boots. I always preferred soggy jeans and frozen toes to being seen with boots on. Maybe I still do. My clothes were never cool. I didn't know it until then.

I walked to school that year. Even in the cold, I walked to school. Heather came after me one day. She was bigger, taller, eighth grade, big-mouthed, bossy. I looked over my shoulder and saw her barreling down the road on her bike. It was overcast and it was fall. When the sky feels sharp and gray and heavy and your eyes tear up in the electric air.

Very early in my life, I started to pray in the middle of the night when I woke in fear. The blankets were hot, but I couldn't peel them off of my face for fear of what would be revealed. The pounding in my chest echoed into my ears. I couldn't tell if it was the sound of strangers in the dark (kidnappers, murderers, ghosts) or the sounds of my own body. In those moments, I would close my eyes and recite a prayer, over and over. Sometimes the Lord's Prayer, sometimes something I made up. Those prayers were usually short and simple, something like: Please keep me safe please keep me safe please keep me safe thank you.

I was walking home and I can't tell you how I felt. It's someone else's life. All I remember is the cool air and loneliness and putting one foot in front of the other. Who knows the thoughts that occupy the mind of a 12-year-old on her ten minute walk home? Heather came after me on her bike. She was standing on the pedals, coasting, weaving back and forth across the abandoned street. She swung in front of me and cut a wide circle around me. I remember her eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses and thick, greasy bangs. Squinting, dark. Are you too cool for us now? She was yelling. I can't remember what I said. I can't remember if I said anything at all.

Especially when I was very young, I thought I could feel the embrace of protection in the dark, a wave of comfort washing over me. I always knew it was the presence of the divine answering my prayers.

The instinct is strong. In fear, distress, anger at the circumstances of this life and this world, I have an instinct to plead with some greater thing to keep me safe. I catch myself doing it sometimes still. Almost always, it is in fear. Please heal her. Maybe I still have the power to shake the cosmos with my own desperate thoughts.

So tell the truth. Don't lie. Or don't tell the truth. But don't lie.

snacking.

I have been deep in my own head a lot these days. It feels full and alive, but also disconnected from my body, from my hands, from my feet walking back and forth. In awareness, I'm trying to make an effort to keep myself connected to the physical things of life. Here's a list of ways to keep myself grounded and awake to the world:

-go for a run/walk to work without my iPod
-cook/bake for 30 minutes or more
-eat a meal and focus on the food
-write letters
-sit on the deck
-practice physical creation (painting, drawing, sewing, knitting)
-laugh out loud at funny things

Those things that connect us to the present moment and to the world around us, the world in our hands - those things make the writing and our minds better. They give depth to the world that exists inside the walls of my brain.

I went through some sort of Buddhist phase about a year ago. I spent a lot of time thinking about presence, mindfulness, connection to the moment. I have been reminded lately how difficult it is to stay grounded in the present moment. So much is defined by looking forward to the next thing, but you get there and......what? It is so difficult to just appreciate the richness of the time and space I am in now. The gifts that are here. There will always be absence of some sort or another. There will always be something to look forward to, more to hope for. It is hard to stay here. But it's good to practice.

It's also good to snack, especially when you write.