Archive for September, 2015

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I’m a psychic!!!!

September 8, 2015

Actually I’m totally not. If I was, I would have known that I was going to miss posting yesterday and would have anticipated such things, ensuring that I posted a thing, making this longwinded intro superfluous.

However, I’m here now and find myself caught a bit. It’s day three(ish) of the 30 day writing challenge I signed up to do approximately 37 days ago. I know, I’m so fucking organized. Sincerely, anything that takes a backseat to my schoolyness right now is okay with me. Do I dream of being both writer and mechanic? Fuck yeah, amongst other things (surfer, barefoot, silly, pie baking, festival pathway lighter, caravan builder, world traveller, sailor…yeah…it’s kinda endless) that will shift and become more or less important depending on the moment. This moment? School is the most important thing. Which is why crazy self sabotage brain has been sending me story ideas like there’s no tomorrow. I’m serious, I just had an idea for a short story that involves no tomorrow while typing that. And they all have such good reasons for wanting to be written! But none of those reasons benefit my ability to learn about braking, suspension, hydraulics and all the other fun stuff I’m trying to squish into my brain right now.

I don’t know if this applies for anyone else. Sometimes I start a post, a poem, a thing. For some reason, I have to walk away from it. An appointment, a distraction, perhaps I’m getting to close to something that scares me. I can tell when I’m getting into it, because if I’m on my laptop, I’ll open a browser window and start looking at something else. I can pull myself back most of the time but if I let it go for too long, typically I can’t resurrect it. I’ll delete whatever I’m working on, or I’ll save it and say (never out loud, that infers accountability) that I’ll come back to it.

I never do.
Even if the memory of it pops up, my brain has decided that we’re too different from the person who started that story/post/poem/love letter to Tom Hiddleston/list of sexual requests for Michael Fassbender/whatever.

Or, to save time, I could combine the love/lust letters, engage both of them to be my paramours and just be the queen of lusciously erotic efficiency. Damn, I have some great ideas.

What was I talking about?
AH yes, the followthrough.  Honestly, I’m not going to get very down on myself if I don’t post here everyday. Because I have been writing every day, much to the detriment of my mechanics education. Though, I’m following through on that too, not to worry. Perhaps not to the extent I could be, but I’ve cleared the 2 month honeymoon and so now my brain is suggesting that there are better things we could be doing with our time. However, knowing myself as I do, if I dropped out of school with the intention of being a full time writer, would I write every day?

HA! FUCK NO!

I would find something to distract myself from that. It’s what I do. But the point of all this rambly-bamblyness isn’t to cast light on those things lacking in myself, such as focus.  It’s more to acknowledge that I’m learning myself well enough to recognize what’s happening, in real time. Which doesn’t make me psychic, but what is psychic ability anyhow? Seriously, I don’t actually know. Hang on, Imma google.
A person who claims to use extrasensory perception (ESP) to identify information hidden from the normal senses. Thanks wikipedia! That leaves it pretty broad. It could be argued that we are all to some extent psychic, working out the information we hide from our own selves through what’s taught or construed as “normal” in an effort to be more balanced, to evolve and adapt and find those parts of ourselves that encompass a healthier, saner truth.

Why do I keep harping on the psychic thing? Because the day three challenge was to write a short story as if I were psychic and able to read the thoughts of those around me. A character study of the inner workings of the people around me.

Here’s the truth of it. It’s not that I don’t care about the inner workings of those around me. It’s just that I have enough trouble understanding my own motivations and perspective while on my meandering course through this life of mine. Would I better comprehend my tendencies and proclivities if I had a greater sense of what is going on with the humans around me? Perhaps.

Ultimately, the only person I can speak for is myself. Every character in every story I write is, to some extent, me. I can imagine how it feels to be raised a young boy in southern california during the depression, a middle aged woman who decides to leave her husband of 40 years because it’s something she needs to do, an apple who grows and thrives under sun and rain all season to find itself at home in a pie come september, an alien who discovers that everything their society believed about extra-terrestrials is wrong. But it’s always going to be me who writes it, me who sparks life into those characters. That doesn’t mean that I don’t hope I will create something that other people can see themselves in, something that resonates to such an extent that it brings them to tears, or laughter, moments of “I thought I was the only one!” We are a collective of beings sharing space on a tiny rock in space, after all. It’s good to share.

I feel like I’ve lost the plot of this one. But does there always need to be a cohesive narrative for clarity to be apparent? I suppose the point of this challenge is to write every day, the content doesn’t matter as much as the intent. And so my intention to follow through, both on writing and school (yeah..school should probably be first…) is manifesting itself as a finish what you start kinda thing. I’ve started school, I’ll finish it. Kick some ass, chew some gum, learn some stuff. I’ve started the 30 days challenge and I’ll see it to the end. The posts might not always follow the prompt to the letter and they might not be amazing stop the presses quality every time but the words will be spoken..written..typed..whatever.

And the stories that are filling my head? I’ll do my best to leave breadcrumbs back to them when I have the time. But for now, my focus should be on finishing the ones I’ve already started. And so I’ll do that.
If I can manage 1500 words a day? I’ll be stoked.
If I can write and/or post every day for the next 27? And perhaps most of the ones after that? Huzzah! That’s grand.
If I can learn all I can about mechanics and rock out with my engine block out ( then remember how to put it back in so that it runs better than before, of course.) and end up doing work that makes me mentally and physically strong while enabling surf trips and delightful travel adventure shenanigans?

Well, honestly, there’s no if about that last one. I’m not saying I can predict the future, but I’m pretty sure I got this.

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A letter to the me who never was aka what the everloving fuck does that mean?

September 6, 2015

Day two prompt is write a letter to the person I think I should have been by now. Explain to them why you aren’t them and offer them proof that who you are is better.

HOW CAN I FUCKING DO THIS IF THE PERSON I SHOULD HAVE BEEN NEVER EXISTED IN THE FIRST PLACE?

Ok. To be fair, I’ve been drinking a bit. It happens (often) and that’s no reason to shirk my responsibility to this 30 days commitment I’ve made to myself. Especially if that shirking takes the form of an episode of Drunkalele where I sing a song that resonates with this challenge which was not written by me.

But seriously. The attempt.

Dear me I’m not,

Perhaps on some level I should have been you. But I’m not. Get over it, you crazy minx. We’ve known forever that we’re not that super focused, goal-oriented, endgame having girly person and we see no reason to start now. Yes, we’re in school doing awesome things with machinery (bliss!) and there will probably be some amazing adventures that come out of this. But we know, they’re inadvertent. We’ve lived our lives according to the mantra, if someone had told me (insert specific random time period here..6 months..2 years..a week ago) that I would be (insert amazing adventure we’re embroiled in at this moment) I would have said they’re crazy.
It’s just what we do.Is it fair to go all disdainful on this writing challenge because of a perception that it does not apply to us? Yes. Why? Because it presumes that we thought we’d be somewhere better than we are, until we conclude with a passive argument that even though we thought we’d be better than we are, we are actually better than we are.

What the everloving fuck does that even mean?

It means, let’s have another drink and sign the fuck off for tonight. Day three can only be better because it’s actual future us we’ll be interacting with, rather than speculative ‘I thought you’d be better than this’ future us. Fuck her, she’s a crazy fucking bitch.

I love you, you crazy fucking bitch,

Me aka the crazy fucking bitch (or some reasonable facsimile thereof.)

Cue laughter followed by some falling off of chair…then snoozies. G’night!

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On beyond zebra I go.

September 5, 2015

I forgot who I was doing this for.

I forgot about the girl who loves the words, the ones that sing, that stumble awkwardly, that trip and fall and sometimes catch themselves in time to make it look intentional.

I forgot that there is no hidden agenda. No ultimate desire to create something beyond the something being created. That is to say, my intention for this space of verbosity does not have an endgame. Evolution has no endgame. There is no point where I will stand from this desk and say, “I have a arrived! I am a writer!” and rest my literal ass on my figurative laurels with contentment.

I forgot about the love of the loquacious, the propensity for the prose, the fondness of the flow, the wild eyed delight of the word written well, the appeal of alliteration.

I forgot that I don’t need to be anything in particular. My penchant this week for writing ramblings of an erotic nature does not preclude my proclivity for poetry. And, to be fair, there is a plethora of poetry in a fuck done well.

I get so caught up in the this or the that, it sometimes makes me forget I encompass the all.

So here it is, day one of a new 30 day write yourself alive writing challenge that started well over a month ago. I wasn’t ready to do it before today. Why? Because of the words.

I forgot to not get hung up on the way something is worded for it to have resonance with me.
The first challenge? What is standing in the way of your creative revolution?

I’ve struggled with the answer to that since August first, when the challenge started. “well, it’s obviously me. not making time for this thing that I should have found a way to make a viable endeavour by now. Is that what I want? Do I want to be a published author at some point? Is that my goal? Do I write things worth publishing? I don’t even know if that’s what I want! Should it be? But I barely show up, that’s obviously what’s in the way. Plus I give in to the voices that tell me I have time, that I can do it later, that I can spend another while reading someone else’s genius, rather than acknowledging my own. Because how arrogant is it to insist that I’m in a category similar to these other writers?”

It’s not fucking arrogant at all if it’s true.
And it’s true.

We all have things that we’re good at. I suck at being a responsible parent. Why? Because it’s not something I do. If I did it? I wouldn’t suck at it. It’s the same with writing. I’m a way better writer than I am a parent because I do it way more often. And if I did it as frequently as a mom or dad parents someone? I’d be a fucking genius at it. Every day, go hard, don’t turn it off because you don’t have a choice. That’s not to say that I won’t have days where I’m a shitty writer, just like parents won’t have days where selling children to gypsies feels like a viable option. (How did that start? Are gypsies really in the habit of buying children? I was always hopeful when I heard that, nothing ever came of it though…) but it’s the showing up, the goddamn I have to leave this bed WHY? ok, fine! and doing so. But I was trying to reconcile aspects of myself I found lacking and trying to plan a creative revolution to unseat them and perhaps chop their heads off and dance in the streets while burning the bastille.

But that would suggest there are aspects of me that need to go. That need to be usurped and deposed and done away with. And that wasn’t sitting well with me. And one day I suddenly thought, how different would this feel if I dropped an R?

What is standing in the way of my Creative Evolution?

Instead of revolting and railing against the old guard, the habits that have grown complacent and out of touch, how can I fold all of these traits into this personal pastry I’m in the middle of baking and turn it into some damn fine all of the things pie?

I don’t deny that there are habits I’ve outgrown. I don’t pretend that there aren’t patterns that need work. But to demand of myself that I sunder them, cast them aside and forge a new, stronger personality from the ashes of my former self seems slightly more brutal than I’m inclined to do.

Now I know that there will be those who would see a revolution as the best possible scenario. And that’s great. But I’ve come to understand that for me, the best perspective is one of evolution. Tearing down the old makes way for the new, but in doing so, many of the lessons that could have been learned are lost. Of course I grasp the benefit of phoenix from the inferno, new growth after a forest fire mentality, but that doesn’t suggest a revolution to me. It’s nature.

And, being that it’s natural for seasons to change, and things to start anew, here I am in my writey place at day one.

What’s standing in the way of my creative evolution?

Nothing.

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