This bell is ringing quiet

http://www.poets.org/page.php/prmID/121

Erika sent me this. I have been going through all my notebooks and I am having a very hard time finding 50 pages, let alone 100. To be honest, I don't have that many good poems. It's always interesting how age and experience changes everything. Some of these are downright embarrassing. I thought they were so very good and insightful and moving when I was 20. Oh, how I was full of pain and love and fear and it was all really really really important. I understand now why I was not not popular at poetry readings with my peers. Sheesh. When I read some love poetry with my mom's friends, they said they were beautiful devotionals to God. I didn't take that well at the time because I was sooooooo in love with the boy I wrote them for. God had nothing to do with it, and if they didn't get my poems, well I don't know what's wrong with them. Kids are goofy. Half my life later, I see where they were coming from, and they are right.

I have a bit more time before the deadline for the poetry contest. We'll see if I can get my soul moving enough to be poetic. It's been a rough couple weeks and I haven't had the focus to write, edit, even reread recently. It'll come.

A Whole New World

When creating a fantasy world, you have to know who your "good guys" are. You have to explain to your reader why they are the good guys and your bad guys are bad guys. I'm finding G.G. society has to be somewhat idyllic, but not unbelievably Utopian. You want your reader to want to live there on some level. Some parallels and a touch of reality makes a connection between what the reader knows and what you tell them. As a writer, I have to understand that a crime free world probably came from an extreme disciplinarian mindset. It's core social evolution things like that which determine the flow of classes and religion. I'm don't think I have to explain the full history, but I do need to know what it is to reflect the mood.

My society is classless so far. The religion is basic and sparsely mentioned in the form of traditions. Genders have equality. "Protect the men!" is just as likely as a cry as for the women and children. While parental responsibility is big, being a biological parent is not. To write a society, I have to decide what these people strive for, what they hope to earn in their lifetimes, and to achieve their end.

In short, in your created world, who are your hero's heroes?

I know who they are in my story. If I did my job right, then the reader will know who I am talking about. If I'm really lucky, I will change an ideal or two-
One can only hope.

Needing Pep

I'm having temporary discouragement. Other than the big bad world stuff, my application for another job has been rejected as well as my first attempt at a paid writing piece. It's the self pity moment of the new writer. I feel the same way when I think about how many books are in the library and who do I think I am believing my silly story is worthy of sharing shelf space? It's a nagging doubt that everybody has. You know you did at some point.
Just 5 more minutes to feel sorry for myself, then look at the review of my work and learn from it. But for the next 5 minutes, I'm not going to be so happy.

Lines- feminine voice dare - week 10

originally written 4-26-1993

What do you think it is? No, look deeper- it goes further than just geometry- more than just a line on a sheet of paper. It's a line sure- but it could be a line connecting two points. They are different, but the line between them joins them and let's them respect the privilege of having an opinion.

And it could be more than that. Instead of just a point at each end, maybe there's more- five, six,twelve, a hundred- a hundred points in between, all connected by a hundred tiny lines. A hundred separate thoughts all pulled together and depending on each other to pass the line along. Maybe a thousand pin points doing the same thing- a million- trusting the unwavering strength of each other to keep the line alive. Without one point to bind them, the whole thing would be blown in to utter chaos- the kind that crumbles nations.

Every line we draw and the shape it makes defines us. Each line shape we put on paper holds a segment of our infinite ideas that need to be understood. We have to be careful about the order the lines go in. The order helps us to perceive- to join thoughts without criticizing the other. And we are different, but the lines we draw join us and let us respect the privilege of having an opinion.
The more finite the lines, the more points, the more thoughts connect and more ideas, joining in comprehension until it all just flows back and forth- different and same in improbable continuity.

You look confused. Where did I lose you? At a line connecting two points....Maybe if you look at it this way? No? Maybe I just have a longer line than you. Or maybe mine is just a different shade of blue- either way...

Phonetically speaking

I noticed this morning something about the character names I created for my book.
There are essentially 3 generations. The wise sages, the main characters(let's say mid-teen to 40ish), and the very young children.
Those in the eldest have names that sound distinctly different than other names.
Of the mean age group characters- The women have primary vowel sounds, specifically long E and short I. (the two are indeed similar)
The men all have double consonants at the exact center of their name. This is more a fact of spelling than sound.
The youngest have short A common.

An interesting subconscious trend-

Refining words

It is not enough for me to simply say I am a writer. That is so broad a definition. It's like saying "I am water"- are you a gentle rain, a pond, a waterfall, a river? There are too many ways to be to limit explaining yourself. A writer is someone who can place words on paper, like a ToDo or grocery list. I write all day on scraps with what ever bit of knowledge I need in 5 minutes or 5 days. I write here. I write more private things there. I add to things and take away lines to poems no one will likely ever read. On paper, on line, on my hand, with chalk in the driveway - "Writer" is not clear enough for me.

I am a story teller of dream-like tales
I am a poet
I am a witness of places I visit.
I am a teacher from far away.
I need to know what hat I am wearing or the words won't come.

When you are a writer, what kind of writer are you?

New ground

I have been laboring probably too much, over an article for http://unfinishedprojectparty.wordpress.com/
a sewing blog run by a new friend. I'm having some difficulty trying to narrow down my subject matter. I have only taught orally. Putting things down on paper for the first time like this is an interesting learning process. I have to assume my reader has limited knowledge about the subject. At the same time, I know they are not stupid. I'm learning to find the point were over explaining becomes the problem. I hope I can learn this, because while writing this article, about six more ideas for later ones came to mind! I'm also increasing my computer skills. I am teaching myself to add pics and links to an document. It feels good to catch up.

Almost poetry

I laid down and cried today.
broken cars, broken window, broken tree

I had no answers, no solutions, and no plan to repair the imperfections in my life. My eyes burned with bitterness and my head ached while I listed off the reasons for my sorrows today. I am out of hope and faith. In a pause in the tears I prayed not for a bail out. I prayed- "Teach me to fish, so I can eat for more than one day"
I was deeply reassured by the words of an angel that it will be.
I cried again and felt happiness as a reflection off the drops of dispare.

Life is not strong unless it has something to reach for- My own words. My own tears a salty rain pouring in large circles around my garden self-

I have no answers, no solutions, and no plan. I have a ring of faith to reach for. Trust is the key to having an adventure-

Acceptance- feminine voice dare week 9

It has been the thought - how did I end up like this from the unstoppable I was?

When life was limitless, things came to me easily. I knew there was something to it, and I embraced, relished in it. I do know when I noticed that changed. It was further ago than I like to admit, and since it has taken so long to get over it, clearly I'm not doing it right. I met Geoff in summer 1993. I had a sweet boyfriend who accept my wondering, stagehand life and was willing to keep a place for us- be an anchor while I traveled around. He wanted to be my light on the horizon. Geoff was at my apartment in Virginia. He backed me to the wall and kissed me despite me asking him not too. Due to past abuse, I stopped resisting and just let him. I had a grain of 'they will just take it' rubbing a spot raw in my head. I had maintained control of my thoughts and body from when I was 16 until this point. I had fought back anyone who dared touch uninvited. Something about this moment in Virginia, I could not. I was compelled to continue in something my very being was opposed to. We went to Goshen Pass and splashed in the river. I said out loud that 'This feels like home" while my brain was screaming that I was lying. The place may have, but he did not feel like home. Again, I felt like I had not choice but to end my relationship with Lonny, and go with Geoff. I have told different reasons for this change of heart that were absolutely true, but the deep down one was I felt I had absolutely no other option.
I finished my contract in Virginia and went to New York for a short gig and to pack up my life. I knew in my deep that I would never return the same. I felt forced on a road I would not choose of my own volition. We sold my car. We loaded my personal acquirements into his truck, and onto a trailer. My inner deep was hoping, praying, begging my parents to refuse to let me go. We stopped in VA to pick up a bigger truck and his stuff. We drove to Florida. He backed the truck up to the single car garage that we would live in and convert to an addition on the house for rent. He left for an ex-girlfriend's house and left me to unload on my own. I was usually alone at the house. I would realize he wasn't around, so he was at work or at Kristen's. He didn't say goodbye. He just left. I had no car, and no way of getting around. My roommates left me completely alone (at Geoff's request)

Geoff's confession 2 weeks later was while I was packing my NY, his ex Kristen had come to see him. They had sex and decided to get together, and live the life they had been talking about for years. He came to NY to tell me face to face, and that the offer of a job in FL still stood if I wanted to come as a friend- to offer me the choice. When he saw how much packing and prep work I had done, he felt guilty for my effort and kept quiet. His run to Kristen's house as soon as we arrived was to tell her of the change of life plans for them. She was supposed to be moving in with him that day. He asked me to be kind to her, because her feelings were so hurt by the whole thing. After all, I wasn't the one who had my heart broken. No. I had been betrayed, kidnapped and left for dead. Also, the evil bitch who stole him away from her. When I asked him months earlier if she was his girlfriend, he said they never had been a couple.

This is when my life went from an adventure to forced acceptance. My decisions were made for me. Out of money, with no transportation and an unwillingness to abandon my possessions that I had worked to hard to earn and restore on my own, I was in a situation I could not change. I was forced to accept the limits of a predetermined life. I lost my ability to do anything independently. I couldn't drive standard. He retreated into video games and beer after months in Virgina of hiking, camping, etc. He said I had grown too dependent on him for time and conversation. He was ignoring me to force me to make friends and do other things. Leave him alone because he deserved to be alone from growing up youngest of 9.
If I could not longer have my own life as my heart lead, accept what is and make the best of it. I shut down and did what family and friends expected next. What makes the most people happy was the logical thing. I became irrelevant the day he showed up in NY, maybe the day he kissed me. So I married him and made the best of what was good for him and let myself come second, third, eighth-
I do not know what power this person had over me. I do not know why I was compelled to do everything he directed when my core cried out otherwise to me. I didn't stand up for myself. For 13 years, I had erased myself, and I don't know why.

I do know that I have not forgiven myself for all of it. I don't know if I can even though this dreadful road has led me somewhere to my heart again. If everything had not happened as it did, I would not have the people I love now. That makes it very hard to forgive myself for living halfway for 17 years- nearly half my life sitting and waiting for the chance to be unstoppable again.

my book

I'm taking a minute to plan where to go next. A list of the thought process:
I'm writing an hour or so in the morning for the time being. I'm having some difficulty in generating names. When it's hard I pout- do I really have to? Isn't it difficult for the reader? What if the pronunciation in their heads is not the same as mine? The new guy will be named 'Bob'. That's just easier on everyone.

In the afternoons, I have been listened to "Eldest". He, along with Tolkien, McAffrey, and dozen others have done it. Every fantasy writer has to for some degree. My story is a fantasy novel. It doesn't have magic and dragons, but it still is for a list of reasons-
I have generated a map of this place. I have created a religion, social structure, and code of ethics, not only for the main culture, but for an opposing force as well. I have created a sunrise unlike the one I see. Names would reasonably follow suit. If I'm worried about pronunciation, well that's why God made appendices.
I have realities as I understand them. There is civic planning and military tactics, schools, hospitals, farms and livestock. The research is there.

Something I knew, but finally understood clicked today. This is harder than it seems.
The technical aspects got in the way for the first few days. My verb tenses are all over the place. I have good sentences I keep moving around until I find the right spot. That's not my part write now. The designer of a universe is my job right now. I's and T's come later. That makes it easier. Sort of-

busy tired

I need some exercise. I'm a climb mountains kind of girl. What I can do in the house when it is in the high 90's outside does not satisfy. I miss hard physical labor. I miss the physical demonstration of how I have spent my day. It hurts me deep inside to not work my body to it's capacity of strength. I miss fall and spring like no one else. In the south, the hibernation season is summer. I have cabin fever, just like February in New England where you are nearly mad mad mad from the lack of being yourself, and only the weather to blame for it. I need some exercise- very much so. It's interesting to me to see what bit of yard work wisdom will come my way. I would like to read "Shop Class as Soul Craft" by Matthew Crawford. I have a feeling I will agree with everything he says-

Space- feminine voice week 8

The boys have gone back to school already , and I have had a strangely difficult time writing.I had been looking forward to the time to mentally and emotionally stretch out- to let my mind take up all the space it can in my head while the boys are under someone else's care. I haven't written yet. I have rearranged furniture, painted the pantry (:-)), mowed the lawn, ironed everyone's shirts, caught up the laundry and dusted the living room. I have manipulated my space. Now that I have my space, and the uninterrupted time to write, I still don't have time to do so. I want my space to be right- to be neat and tidy and I'm making excuses. I see me, trying to hide over there in the corner of a sphere.

Some friends moved away yesterday. I called the truck pack and tried to keep it tight, but easy enough for them to unload. Half the truck was still empty. I can manage space well. Managed space is efficient, efficient is easy and quick. There is something to be said for slopping right in too. I keep thinking about my book. I'm going to write some now-

Girl Chat

We talk about the sorrowful things in our lives. We do not do it for sympathy. We do not ask for solutions. We talk these things to remind us what we have passed through, what we have succeeded in overcoming. We do it be sure we know- We have done this. We are able to do it again and to do more.
Button by button, our cloaks are trimmed into a powerful flail that separates the sweetness from the chaff. We make a piping hot loaf of honey dripping bread to nourish whatever we do next- nor have we forgotten about the tea.
So if you are looking for a pity party, our door is not so easy to open.
tea and talk
bread and wine-