Between a dose of jet lag and one particularly nasty cold (J is kindly referring to my cough as an “old-man-death-rattle”) my sleep patterns have been wacky this week. That means that it's 6am and I’ve been up for about an hour and a half already. I tried to lull myself back to sleep, but instead wound up reorganizing my Pinterest boards on my phone, in bed, while Ratcat slowly tried to claim my entire pillow.
So I’m up, mercifully coughing a bit less this morning, and chugging a hot mug of my healing tea, only this time I’ve boiled it down into a near syrup that tastes like fire. After more than a week of vacation, there’s too much work waiting at the office (the kind with deadlines fast approaching), so I’m rallying the best I can to get my butt into my cubicle today.
We went on a vacation last week, which I realize I only barely mentioned in passing. It was the first time in four years that J and I have taken a vacation just for us. It was also his first time out of the country. I’m still digesting it, but I’ll have more to say at some point. It was wonderful, expansive, challenging, and definitely not relaxing (but we didn’t mean for it to be). When I sort the slew of knots in my brain, I’ll tell you more.
Leading up to the trip, I let myself succumb to being overwhelmed, which generally has more to do with my own state of mind than the actual circumstances of my life. I can always find something to feel overwhelmed about (anxious brains are excellent at that). While I felt overwhelmed, it felt impossible to write. I wish I had powered through, pushed through, but I didn’t. I gave in. So I haven’t done any freewriting in exactly 18 days. Writing that out now, it doesn’t seem so bad - there have been many much longer hiatuses in my history. But I’ve been writing more intensely in the past months than I have in a long time, or ever, so 18 days feels like……..I’ve been holding my breath?
Thursday, February 26, 2015
Saturday, February 7, 2015
editing.
I have never been great at editing my own work, surprisingly, considering I work as a writer. Once the words in my head get onto the page, I have the urge to fling them off. I never want to look at them again. I want to forget that I was so bold, or foolish, as to take my thoughts and put them down for everyone to read. It’s not the most healthy feeling, and a little tricky to manage when writing seems to be your work.
Up until four or five years ago, I used to throw away everything I wrote. I would fill up notebooks, and bit by bit, I’d tear out the pages and throw them away. I blogged on and off, and usually wound up deleting the blogs shortly thereafter. The urge to write has always been there, but the courage to lay the writing bare and let others see it has not. That’s why the first rule of this blog, for my own sake, was:
That was the task in front of me today, and I’ve done an epic job of avoiding it. I made phone calls, I ran errands, I even resorted to an afternoon nap. So the day stretches into evening now, permeated by the blues because I’ve spent the entire day avoiding the thing I want to/have to/hate to do. But there’s still time left today.
Up until four or five years ago, I used to throw away everything I wrote. I would fill up notebooks, and bit by bit, I’d tear out the pages and throw them away. I blogged on and off, and usually wound up deleting the blogs shortly thereafter. The urge to write has always been there, but the courage to lay the writing bare and let others see it has not. That’s why the first rule of this blog, for my own sake, was:
I will not delete. Once I put it out there, it's out there. Yes, I am afraid that I'll sound stupid, silly or wrong. Well sometimes I am stupid, silly and wrong. I apologize now for being any of those things, but even still - I'm not going to delete it.But I’m trying to stretch myself a bit further these days, trying to do something more than the rambling and freewriting. It is hard as hell. I keep telling myself that I will get better at it only by doing it, but its so easy to feel like it will never come out right, ever, because I don’t know what I’m doing. I have to suppress a lot of feelings in order to make myself reread and think critically about what I’m writing. Like I said, I’ve never been great at editing my own work.
That was the task in front of me today, and I’ve done an epic job of avoiding it. I made phone calls, I ran errands, I even resorted to an afternoon nap. So the day stretches into evening now, permeated by the blues because I’ve spent the entire day avoiding the thing I want to/have to/hate to do. But there’s still time left today.
Tuesday, February 3, 2015
on the horizon.
Tonight, I’m thinking about:
-the smell of roasting potatoes, in hot oil, in the oven
-how early I can reasonably “get in bed to read” (i.e. fall asleep)
-whether or not it would be weird/creepy to wear a ski mask at home to keep my nose warm
But mostly, I’m thinking about the potatoes. I tried to write for half an hour, hungry, while the potatoes roasted in the oven. I managed to write a random string of words with “potatoes” inserted every so often. Sometimes an evening needs to be simple and sometimes a comfort as simple as roasted potatoes can consume you.
I’m reading essays lately, and I generally love or hate them - I don’t often feel indifferent. I’ve read a handful that I loved, and two or three (including this one) that I’m still thinking about hours/days after reading. That helps me remember what writing can do.
J and I saw a play on Sunday night, mostly because we had free tickets, even though we were both tired from a weekend of travelling. When we walked in and I realized that the show was three hours long, I almost bailed. I’m so glad I didn’t. It was riveting and so well done that I’m still turning it over in my head.
We spent the weekend in the mountains, or near to them, and it felt good. I’m an ocean person forever, but I still love to breathe mountain air sometimes. A group of us tried to find a trail that was supposedly near a mountain lake, and after an anxiety-filled drive down a winding, icy road, we found…...no trail. But we did get a moment of beauty at the foot of the lakeshore.
And soon we’re leaving the country, just for a week, but on a real vacation, planned just for us. And then spring will be coming - flowers, sun, and change on the horizon.
-the smell of roasting potatoes, in hot oil, in the oven
-how early I can reasonably “get in bed to read” (i.e. fall asleep)
-whether or not it would be weird/creepy to wear a ski mask at home to keep my nose warm
But mostly, I’m thinking about the potatoes. I tried to write for half an hour, hungry, while the potatoes roasted in the oven. I managed to write a random string of words with “potatoes” inserted every so often. Sometimes an evening needs to be simple and sometimes a comfort as simple as roasted potatoes can consume you.
I’m reading essays lately, and I generally love or hate them - I don’t often feel indifferent. I’ve read a handful that I loved, and two or three (including this one) that I’m still thinking about hours/days after reading. That helps me remember what writing can do.
J and I saw a play on Sunday night, mostly because we had free tickets, even though we were both tired from a weekend of travelling. When we walked in and I realized that the show was three hours long, I almost bailed. I’m so glad I didn’t. It was riveting and so well done that I’m still turning it over in my head.
We spent the weekend in the mountains, or near to them, and it felt good. I’m an ocean person forever, but I still love to breathe mountain air sometimes. A group of us tried to find a trail that was supposedly near a mountain lake, and after an anxiety-filled drive down a winding, icy road, we found…...no trail. But we did get a moment of beauty at the foot of the lakeshore.
And soon we’re leaving the country, just for a week, but on a real vacation, planned just for us. And then spring will be coming - flowers, sun, and change on the horizon.
Sunday, January 25, 2015
surprised.
I rediscovered the magic of setting my music to shuffle today. I started with this song and hit shuffle and all afternoon I’ve felt a constant state of pleasant surprise. There are so many ways in life to find yourself in a pattern, even a rut. When songs that I’ve forgotten about, forgotten I loved, forgotten the times and emotions and people I loved them with, when those songs suddenly fill the space around me, I’m able to blink away the film of repetition and daily life. Its the reason that unfamiliar experiences and new places always give me a spark of creativity and life. I crossed a long list of chores off, one by one, but each one felt easy and light.
I did a few minutes of freewriting this afternoon after skipping it for two days, which is the longest I’ve skipped since I started doing it every day at the beginning of this month. I didn’t plan to skip (actually, I planned not to skip even though I knew I’d be tempted). At any rate, the muscle felt a little creaky, but it was ok. Life happens. Intentions aren’t always kept.
I went to a concert on Friday night and was struck by my own distraction at the people around me. Part of it was being annoyed by the handful of annoying people, including the bro who kept inching backwards until he had me more or less pinned between his sweaty back and a wall. But there are so many stories to watch unfold in places like that, gathering places, places filled with all sorts of people. It’s like sitting at the airport or riding the Metro or laying in the park. How can you do anything but watch people being their people-selves? Especially at something like a concert, when there are all kinds of expectations built in. There are people on dates. There are people with no sense of rhythm trying to figure out how to move their bodies to a beat. There are people who have drunk a lot, and people who are drinking a lot, and people who aren’t drinking a thing. There are people who are so excited and people who are so indifferent.
Anyway, I loved the show and I listened and listened and while I was listening, I watched people.
I did a few minutes of freewriting this afternoon after skipping it for two days, which is the longest I’ve skipped since I started doing it every day at the beginning of this month. I didn’t plan to skip (actually, I planned not to skip even though I knew I’d be tempted). At any rate, the muscle felt a little creaky, but it was ok. Life happens. Intentions aren’t always kept.
I went to a concert on Friday night and was struck by my own distraction at the people around me. Part of it was being annoyed by the handful of annoying people, including the bro who kept inching backwards until he had me more or less pinned between his sweaty back and a wall. But there are so many stories to watch unfold in places like that, gathering places, places filled with all sorts of people. It’s like sitting at the airport or riding the Metro or laying in the park. How can you do anything but watch people being their people-selves? Especially at something like a concert, when there are all kinds of expectations built in. There are people on dates. There are people with no sense of rhythm trying to figure out how to move their bodies to a beat. There are people who have drunk a lot, and people who are drinking a lot, and people who aren’t drinking a thing. There are people who are so excited and people who are so indifferent.
Anyway, I loved the show and I listened and listened and while I was listening, I watched people.
Sunday, January 18, 2015
eavesdropped conversation.
I’ve been doing so much freewriting lately that I start to worry I’ll never be able to make a thing whole. I worry that all I have in me is a lifetime of rambling and abstract thought. I worry that the more I try to actually finish something, the less capable I’ll be. But I also know that those fears mean that I’m on the right trail.
Last night, J and I went to a reading at Politics & Prose, Scott Timberg on his new book, Culture Crash: The Killing of the Creative Class. I have a swirl of thoughts on his talk and on the subject of the book, enough that I can’t seem to sort them out just yet. It’s important stuff. But after the reading, we wandered down the street to look for dinner. We passed a middle-aged man and an older woman, I guessed his mother, having a disagreement. It was immediately clear that there was some mental illness in the mix of the heated conversation. I couldn’t follow the whole thing, so I don’t even know what the argument was about. Whatever it was, he was yelling and begging her to just come home with him. At some point, I have your credit cards, you dumb bitch, hit my ears and I bristled.
We stepped into a restaurant, but there was a 45 minute wait for a table, so we headed back to the street, finally deciding we’d just drive home. We passed them again, the same conversation, the same elevated voices, almost frozen in time. We stopped in the CVS on the corner and the older woman walked in behind us, followed by the man, still screeching, Just come home with me!
Last night, J and I went to a reading at Politics & Prose, Scott Timberg on his new book, Culture Crash: The Killing of the Creative Class. I have a swirl of thoughts on his talk and on the subject of the book, enough that I can’t seem to sort them out just yet. It’s important stuff. But after the reading, we wandered down the street to look for dinner. We passed a middle-aged man and an older woman, I guessed his mother, having a disagreement. It was immediately clear that there was some mental illness in the mix of the heated conversation. I couldn’t follow the whole thing, so I don’t even know what the argument was about. Whatever it was, he was yelling and begging her to just come home with him. At some point, I have your credit cards, you dumb bitch, hit my ears and I bristled.
We stepped into a restaurant, but there was a 45 minute wait for a table, so we headed back to the street, finally deciding we’d just drive home. We passed them again, the same conversation, the same elevated voices, almost frozen in time. We stopped in the CVS on the corner and the older woman walked in behind us, followed by the man, still screeching, Just come home with me!
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