Category Archives: writing

Mar11

Struggling with #Writing. Struggling, Period.

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I have had a hard time of late writing my memoir, about all of this: unearthing. Despite some of it being a totally fun ride, a lot of it is heavy stuff.

A book about healing ancestral trauma recently came out this week which both delighted me and sent me into a vortex.

It delighted me because it affirms what I’ve been feeling in my bones and also reading, discussing with my therapist and friends and learning about in recent years. It’s that we all are part of a web, no matter how far we are out on the line, whether we are poor or rich, tall or short, pasty white or bronze toned, male or female: that we are affected by stuff that happened hundreds of years ago; stuff that is unresolved, unattended and still festering in our genes. Don’t believe me? That’s ok. You keep doing you.

None of these past hurts and wounds are our fault, but once we learn about the patterns in the web, we are confronted: stay there and let the spider (past wounds that aren’t even ours) consume us or stare at the spider on its approach and wriggle ourselves free.

I have chosen to wriggle myself free. I’ve been wriggling myself free since before I even knew there was a web. I have always been ready to stand and resist.

I have not read the book that was recently released and I have no doubt it’s brilliant because its author is a psychologist I do not know yet I hold in high esteem. She is vulnerable and real. She puts herself out there and I sit with sincere admiration for not only her work but also her Work and the effort of writing a book, which is NO simple task. Writing a book requires either thick skin or complete arrogance because you are putting yourself out there — no matter what the genre is, you are literally saying “these are the words I’ve strung together to compose these sentences to complete these thoughts and I’ve done it consistently to the tune of about 300 pages and if you think they’re brilliant or if you think they are dull, it doesn’t matter: I can’t unring this bell.”

That is guts. It’s a similar energy required of actors, singers, dancers, artists and anyone (apparently other than politicians) who aims to express themselves through a certain medium.

The vortex that I recently crawled out of however, has taken some Work and some standing back and looking at my situation objectively after my pity pouty (and that’s not a typo, I actually pouted, and not in a sexy way). It hinges on the fact that yet another book has been released about transgenerational trauma and it’s a memoir which of course meant that I should not be writing mine. In came the judgment: you suck Who needs another memoir you suck about dysfunctional families, unconscious habits and how you still suck even though that unconscious habits thing might have traction one person has worked to end the cycle? I mean, c’mon, right? It’s just one you suck more person saying mean things about its family, cry baby, you suck its relatives, you suck the neighbors it had and how everyone was against this person? Right?

Well, no. I remembered that a good memoir, one that engages and informs and delights and entertains has a balance of justice, humor, reality, and truth. A good memoir isn’t like tragedy porn, where the writer goes on and on about his or her exploits or the beatings or the drunken nights, or the arrests or the blackouts or the one-night stands, DUIs or even the days at the park with the nanny and butler or sunsets spent sailing after a day of horseback riding with the polo team whilst eating crumpets and sipping a cuppa tea. No.

It’s a mix. Just like life is a mix. And it doesn’t have to include every freaking detail: I woke at 6:52, the brown velvet curtains were drawn but I could see the sliver of light…. I was wearing my Snoopy pjs, the ones with the hole in the shoulder seam, not the ones without the hole as they were in the hamper, with my GAP hoodie, the socks I wore to Alexandra’s fire pit when Sam was there with his new girl. It was 6:53.

The only way to make that interesting: it was 6:53pm

I can include highlights and lowlights. I can include my screwups and my parents’ moments of cogent brilliance. I can include stories about my dog and cats and how the house was broken into and when my dad or mom said really stupid or creepy things. Or when my dad took us sailing and never relaxed the entire time. My dad: Captain Ahab of Buffalo Harbor. It’s all of it. It’s life. The reality though, is that I’m doing it to get some things off my chest, to share with people that ultimately while we aren’t responsible for the stuff that happens to us when we’re younger, at some point the statute of limitations applies when constantly blaming our upbringing.

So it took almost an entire session today with my therapist to get me to turn this bus around and reframe the whole thing. She said, “Well, you could just stop and give up on it; if it’s causing you that much stress. Don’t finish it.” She’s such a minx. I said, “Nope. I see now, better, that what I’m doing is an act of generosity and kindness to entertain and help people heal and maybe feel strong enough to get on the couch or share their stories because that’s how we help each other from the web.” Crawling out and seeing the sun included that I read a text from a family friend who’s LITERALLY got my back. This person came out of the woodwork to offer professional expertise gratis and if that ain’t a sign of go! go! go!, I honestly don’t know what is.

Plus, I think this psychologist who released her book would be right there telling me to run and get writing. This is a big enough world. Everyone deserves a chance to sing their song.

So: I’m back, peeps!

Thank you.

Mar4

Stephen King’s Prompt

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I haven’t been writing because I’ve been reading lots of books including Stephen King’s On Writing, Mary Karr’s The Art of Memoir and Lit and The Liar’s Club, Anne Patchett’s The Getaway Car, Anne Lammott’s Bird by Bird.

I’ve also read some great contemporary fiction A Little Life (which is a large book accompanied by an equally large pull) and The Girl on the Train, which was entertaining, but nothing terribly deep. I’m going to read Elizabeth Gilbert’s Big Magic soon too. I’m in the middle of Colleen Seidman Yee’s Yoga for Life. I’ve also read a lot of other things: magazines, newspapers, yoga and meditation content, blogs, short stories, and the like. It’s winter.

Wow. That’s a lot of words written by other people.

I’ve also been doing jigsaw puzzles.

I’ve also been doodling. And coloring.

I’ve been doing everything but writing.

I’m not a fan of King’s writing; I’m not against it, it’s just not my jam. I believe some of his books, the less violent ones, would appeal to me. On Writing is wonderful and he gives some very good advice; he also shares some personal history of his experiences with ear infections, when doctors lie, his adventures and tenacity as a very young writer, and about the origins of Carrie and how that book changed his life forever. He speaks admiringly and lovingly of his wife. It was she who ferreted the manuscript from the trash and told him to keep it up, that he “really had something” there. He shared in careful detail his memory and recovery of the accident that almost ended his life. I believe it is that experience that fueled his desire to passionately spur on and encourage all creative people to keep going.

King said of himself that he tries to take breaks from writing, but he realizes that when he does, he’s not quite himself. He gets twitchy and irritable. He said that the writing stabilized him.

I know why I’ve been avoiding it. I can blame it on yoga and lots of planning (I’m teaching 4 kids classes and three adult classes a week now) but no, that’s not it.

I’ve been distracted by the political freak show in my country, as I’m am legitimately concerned for how things are turning, but I have hope that something will change toward the end. Maybe Luke Skywalker will come and save the day.

I can blame it on external forces. The truth is, I’ve been fearful. Fearful of what will come out once I open the gates to the words pressing to get out.

A friend of mine I care for deeply said to me, “You can write it, get it out. You don’t have to share it.” The ego inside me says, “What’s the fun of that? Where’s the recognition?” King said, at the end of his book, that if we write or create for recognition, we are doing it for all the wrong reasons and that the recognition and “fame” becomes the draw, rather than the love of creating. King says, write for the sheer love of the craft.

And he’s right.

So in On Writing, he gives only one prompt. The book is 15 years old, so he’s no longer accepting submissions. The prompt is fantastic, and in true King form, it has a twist. I can’t share it here, because I fear I’d risk unauthorized reproduction of his work, so I’ll sum it up:

Dick and Jane fall in love but the love grows weary. Fights and envy ensue. Lots of dysfunction, passive aggressive, violence, traps, and threats fill the air. (King gives some really great details on how to make it all take shape.) The twist: it’s the woman tormenting the man. Sort of how Misery rolled out.

It’s a fascinating proposal and I’m going to jump all over it. You might not hear from me for awhile, but I assure you that this time, it’s because I’m busy writing, not busy avoiding writing.

Thank you.

ps — if you’d like the actual prompt, here’s the link.

Dec8

When Mom’s the Child

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I’m feeling a little blue at the moment; my youngest and I had a skirmish. He is newly 12. He’s in sixth grade. He runs late every morning… no matter how early I wake him, he never gets downstairs until 8 and then he drags around and we have not been at school on time in weeks.

Today, I packed his lunch bag in his backpack. It was 8:25. We had a chance… we could’ve been out of the house by 8:30. But I discovered he’d pulled it out of that space and was trying to jam it into another compartment.

It wasn’t fitting, and he was snarfing and huffing to get it in. He was also completely bitter that I’d put it in a place where it just went “phoomp” into place. (But we all know he wasn’t mad at me, he was frustrated at his conundrum.)

SOMEHOW WE LOST FIVE MINUTES IN THIS SPACE.

I was putting on my coat and looping my scarf. The clock beamed 8:30. I stepped over to undo his efforts and redo mine: putting the lunch bag back where I had it. He’s snarfing and snarling.

As we were walking down the steps out front, he was still bitching about it. About how it was fitting just fine when he was putting it in. About how the delay was my fault because I put his lunch in “the wrong place.”

But where I put it wasn’t the wrong place. Where he was trying to jam it was the wrong place. The zipper simply wouldn’t zip around it; it wasn’t going to fit in the backpack. Plus the lunch bag was not going to stay in the backpack all day. The moment kids get to school they take it out… I disagreed with his protests.

Step step step.

Huff. Grumble. Step.

Dragon’s breath plumed from our faces in the cold frosty air. Mittened hands flopped and flapped, gesticulating and emphasizing our perspectives. Muffled voices pointedly pressing through the scarves.

We shared twenty more steps in relative embattlement.

So we were about 1/2 way down our pipestem and he was still grumbling about it. “I’m going to be late because of YOU…”

That was it. I was done. I turned to him and said, “Ok. you’re entirely wrong about this. You were late to begin with; this is a daily thing with you. No matter when I wake you, you don’t seem to appear before 8 am. With your shoes missing most of the time. The lunch bag simply wasn’t fitting. It fit the way I put it and where it is now. It might not be where YOU want it, but it works. It’s 8:33, the late bell is in seven minutes. You MIGHT make it if we dash. ”

Then he starts to tell me how wrong I am. He’s 12. I’m 48.

I get it.

I’m arguing with someone one-fourth my age. So what do I do? The mature thing:

“I’m out. Goodbye. Go on.”

He swiftly looked at me with huge eyes: half scared, half stunned. Then a mental shift and a set of his jaw: he got a cocky look on his face and kept going.

I then turned around to go home. I decided right then and there, after nearly 13 years of consistently walking at least one of my children to school every day, to pack it up. We were having a moment. We each needed to be alone.

I let him walk himself to school, hoping he would use the crossing guard. His little body, behooded and scarved kept going.

He didn’t look back.

I didn’t say anything else.

No “I love you.” Or “I love you.” Or even “I love you.”

Now I’m sitting by the phone hopeful it won’t ring with an absentee notice from the school. I’m hopeful he didn’t run into assholic Scary Cretin on the path with his giant shit-dropping dogs.

I’m sure he’s fine and he arrived without a scratch; he’s in 6th grade and younger kids with far sterner parents walk all by themselves from as far as a mile.

But I’ve never done that: I’ve never sent him out on his own because I was fed up. We have had far worse irreconcilable differences and walked all the way to school, usually cuddling halfway there.

So now it’s gnawing at me, because of my filter, from when I was a kid. On days when we were too late waking up and we couldn’t get rides with our neighbors, my mother made us walk to school, probably about a mile and a half away. A brother and me, alone all the time in all sorts of weather through Buffalo’s tougher city streets, crossing big-time, city-express, 4-way traffic intersections where metro buses and 18-wheelers traveled and pounded. I’m sure she drove us a handful of times, but she didn’t get her license until she was in her 40s and her unpredictable sobriety created a challenge for us to get there safely if she was a driver. So I have this huge rut of guilt and shame of making him walk on his own.

He used the crossing guard. I’m sure of it. It’s a vow he’s made. We might be angry at each othe, but he’s not crazy stupid. The rest is all path amongst the trees.

I fought the urge to run after him. I was like a magnet fighting off its polarity, forcing myself to stay in the house and not chase him down like Scarlett running after Rhett.

He’s fine. Right?

Am I?

Thank you.

Aug23

Poetree

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I want to write a poem about my Birch tree

Yet I feel my observations might besmirch me

To you, my fair reader, who had no temptation

Of reading my barking without compensation

The birch, she’s a three-trunk, a trifecta of trees

Who’s named for each son I’ve bounced on my knees

She’s a good forty feet tall, and provides perfect shade

For the vendors who park out front when they’re bade

  
To my home to address one thing or appliance

Which exists in the house, but not in compliance

But she’s shedding herself always, her green DNA
Without warning or notice on each blessed day
If it’s not ripe yellow leaves, then it’s buds, or it’s pollen

Abundant enough to shut your eyes swollen

Or branches or twigs, for they fall all the seasons

She shares quite a lot, she’s a tree, needs no reason!

Lo, the trimmers, they stalk 

To approach and begin talk 

Of topping her off, limb by limb!
” ’cause she’s too close to the house!

She might let in a big mouse

Through the gash she’ll create on your shingles!”

But her sweet narrow limbs, so wispy, so thin, 

I impart a sly grin, 

I’ll not pay you to help your purse jingle. 
She’s been here since ’03, she replaced a sick fir tree

Infested with mites and decay

A neighbor says she’s too big, to close to my house

I think, “Did I ask? I don’t care what you say.”  
She’ll outlive us all, for her roots are quite spread

Beneath grass, grown anemic and thin

‘Cause she sucks all the water and drains nitrogen
Her older bark is quite rough, but her newer like paper

That my sons have used to write me notes

Of greetings and devotion 

Based on instance, or notion
For in her long lifetime

We are just a vapor.  

=-=-=-=

Update: Oops. I wrote this in June. I haven’t written anything since, and I pushed the wrong button, apparently when visiting the WordPress app this morning… no matter. Maybe publishing this has loosened my writer’s block. There are no mistakes. 🙂 
Thank you.