To BE, perchance to WRITE: A Signal Star in the Dark Skies

Good-bye Golden Girl...R.I.P.

2012-02-12T07:30:00.000-08:00

Good bye, Golden Girl…

Feb. 12, 2012 by Elle Nolan

I feel so badly about Whitney Houston’s death. It isn’t because she is better than any other human being that died of drugs or alcohol, or both. It isn’t that the drug and alcohol abuse is more devastating only because of who she was, but that with all her talent, and all her potential she could have allowed to go on, she had to die as a poster child for drugs and alcohol abuse at the end of her life, instead of anything else.

Yet, she has put a celebrity’s face (once again as many have in the past) to the horrendous realization of all those who have died because of drugs and/or alcohol, and any abuse we all may potentially succumb to while on our journey in life.

This is tragic. The travesty does not end there in fact. Now her little girl has to live with this legacy her mother has left her, as well as her dad’s history, but yet again, like so many children who are born into this world only to carry for parents legacies of failure, sorrow and despair, in spite of success, riches, and fame.

Good-bye Golden Girl, as the song from Stevie Wonder was so fittingly sung…

Angels of Incidentals

2012-02-07T16:49:00.000-08:00

Angels of Incidentals in 2012

February 8, 2012 by Elle Nolan

This year, as with every year, I come to some insights after thinking about the past. I was thinking about some of my more ‘embarrassing’ characteristics, and thought about the universal implications, such as the plight of human beings, and how they struggle throughout life to find a way to make it through without too much mental damage. And then I began to see memorable events in my childhood… about me, my parents, my siblings, and my friends and enemies. I remembered how I had such a difficult time letting things go easily.

The reason some of us have such a difficult time letting things go, and having to backtrack to “fix” things is because some of us are perfectionists. It doesn’t matter if you tell us: “you can’t make everything right,” or “just let it go, it’ll all be okay in the long run,” no. Perfectionists have to do it right every time, and if they have to, they will go over and over again on the same matter until they feel it is as right as they can make it…It’s in our psyche.

Remember those kids with whom you played hopscotch, who got all bent out of shape when they barely touched the line, and INSISTED on doing it all over again. Or those strange behaving kids that made a tiny error in the spelling or punctuation of their work, and had to erase the whole sentence or use a whole new paper–because you could see the erase marks…? Yup! That was me.

It is terribly hard on those people who are perfectionists, believe me. Others see them as dramatic, as overbearing and controlling, or maybe even a bit neurotic (okay, VERY neurotic).

However, they seem to grow up and do such stupendous work, especially meticulous work, that one cannot fathom how such a person can spend the time and effort on such details, or how that person manages to catch all the little things no one else seems to catch. It isn’t easy,

believe me… WOODY ALLEN & MICHAEL JACKSON

On the bright side, many of these people are discoverers of tiny little objects like a virus that creates polio, or psychological people that make theories based upon nuance behaviors in people, or theories about the universe no one ever noticed before. These kinds of people have a tendency to wade through large volumes of information, are capable of tenacious and redundant activities in order to ‘catch a single difference in

statistical behaviors. ALBERT EINSTEIN

SIGMUND FREUD & NEWTON

When I was a child, I observed everything. I watched how my mother walked, my father laughed, and how every person I came in contact with, behaved or spoke. I was very good at “acting” like someone else, from their voice, to their mannerisms.

On the negative: many of these types of persons are very good criminals at forgery, or copy painting of famous works or jewels, or of making fake money or checks; what can we say? They have to pay their time if they do the crime.

DICAPRIO (actor of criminal) & FRANK ABNAGALE (famous forger, criminal, turned informant for the government)

Some of our greatest presidents, generals, clergymen, psychiatrists, doctors– all sorts of people and professionals–have been perfectionists.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

They did okay,didn’t they? Maybe their personal lives were a shambles, and many of them were talked negatively about, as having been too dramatic or dictatorial, or just plain weird… . And yes, some may have been hard on others, like Hitler!

However, in many or most cases, they usually brought others to a higher degree of disciplined standard in whatever they did.

Every person has their strengths and their weaknesses. I always felt a little less confident because I knew I had some areas where I simply could NOT be perfect, even in areas I had nothing to do with, for example, my looks or my body shape. So many people truly are perfectionists, but many of them learn to let go, and let things fall where they may.

While being educated, every teacher with whom I was fortunate enough to be a student, told me: “Lydia, you are too hard on yourself.” When it comes to successes as well, my successes to others were never successes to me, but I saw them as having always the probability of being better than they turned out to be, if only I could continue to “perfect” them.

I could tell if someone sung off key and even when someone were lying, by their behavioral movements, or having remembered everything they said about something prior to this time. I am admitting this because I think it’s important enough to bring up, especially to those who may have children growing up, showing signs of perfectionism.

The paradox of such people is that they have very low tolerance for others who do NOT do or say the right things (in the perfectionist’s mind). They seem always to find something wrong with others, or to find some type of improvement method for situations. Yes, they can be critical. But don’t be too hard on your children, parents, those children who have these tendencies.

Maybe you had a “perfectionist” parent. I did. Forgive them. They could not help wanting you to be perfect. They could not help wanting you to HAVE everything perfect. And no matter how many times they fail, they strive for a perfect world. While they probably could not, or cannot now effect such an outcome, they are prone to attempting such a monumental feats forever. Which means they struggle just like everyone else in life, only to a much more complex degree. All I can say is: allow their neurosis, and don’t let it get you down. See them as The Angels of Incidentals, and try to do your best around them. They live shorter lives, and many of them die of illnesses that manifest due to their strenuous efforts. They just want to make sure everybody is in place and life is as it should be, so let the angels do their neurotic job, and smile, move out of their way, and shove the water over your shoulder as they say.

If you are not one of them, I guarantee you’ll be alright, and maybe even be better than you thought because of them. There is a reason for everyone who is here with us, including us.

2012-01-30T14:16:00.000-08:00

Too Wounded? On the Death and Dying of an Episode in Life

January 30, 2012

by Lydia Elle Nolan

I was talking to this gentleman friend, when he blurted out: “I don’t know, maybe I’m just too f—ed up to be able to do anything or accomplish anything of value anymore…” I was shocked by that thought and immediately rebuked his words by pointing out the positive aspects of his….”hanging on…” And then I began to think quietly on my own, even at home, even in the middle of the night: How many people really do feel that way? How many people really feel that life has wounded them so deeply that they are incapable of carrying on?

It is believed that many people who commit suicide do so because they feel inadequate anymore of contributing further to life. And there are many aspects of even that direct act of suicide that is a kind of suicide or “checking out” if you will, of society and life. Many people, when they feel unable to pursue things further in the frey of populace, retire to reclusivity, or become hunters or perhaps may even subscribe to a varied kind of suicide, like taking drugs or alcohol, and then there are those who decide to bow out of the limelight and just WRITE about it. A memorable author, William Styron, evidently understood very well about suicidal tendencies.

Styron is the author of “Sophie’s Choice,” a novel about a writer’s encounter with a mentally psychotic Jewish man and his psychologically wounded Polish lover, after the Nazi regime, during WWII.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Styron

Born	June 11, 1925 Newport News, Virginia United States
Died	November 1, 2006 (aged 81) Martha’s Vineyard, Massachusetts United States
Occupation	Novelist, Essayist
Alma mater	Duke University

The protagonist, also the narrator, was a southern young man, who transplanted himself from the south to Brooklyn, New York.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sophie%27s_Choice_(novel)

http://www.bookrags.com/studyguide-sophies-choice/

Later, Saroyan wrote his non-fiction Darkness Visible: A Memoir of Madnessabout his descent into depression and suicidal preoccupations. It is here in this book that he faces and writes about the descent and ultimate return to normalcy (as good as one can).

But in writing “Sophie’s Choice,” having come on the heels of his great and controversial book “The Confessions of Nat Turner,” about Southern conventional slavery and its discontents, Styron told a deep part of himself in the way of seeing how universal themes can invoke one’s personal life perspective, and indeed skew one’s ability to pursue a “valuable set of contributions” for the simple fact of being depressed by the insurmountable evil on earth.

A quote at the end of “Sophie’s choice” pretty depicts this climactic acrc as to the pre-existant, or foundational “darkness” that comes into a soul after experiencing a right of passage into adulthood and ultimate fatalistic views.

“And so ended my voyage of discovery… in a place as strange as Brooklyn. I let go the rage and sorrow for Sophie and Nathan… and for the many others who were but a few…of the butchered and betrayed and martyred children of the Earth. When I could finally see again…I saw the first rays of daylight reflected in the murky river. This was not judgment day. Only morning. Morning: excellent and fair.” ~Stingo, “Sophie’s Choice”

What opened my view of this matter-beginning with my friend-was my little research of how people experience rights of passage that carry them through what Psychiatrist, Elizabeth Kubler-Ross introduced to us as “The Dying Process.”

In her 1969 book, On Death and Dying, Swiss-born psychiatrist Elizabeth Kubler-Ross outlined the five stages of grief of someone who is dying:
• Denial and isolation: “This is not happening to me.”

• Anger: “How dare God do this to me.”
• Bargaining: “Just let me live to see my son graduate.”
• Depression: “I can’t bear to face going through this, putting my family through this.”
• Acceptance: “I’m ready, I don’t want to struggle anymore.”
The list was praised and criticized by grief experts. Some said the stages got people expressing their emotions; others said the stages were too rigid.

http://www.ekrfoundation.org/

And then I realized that it doesn’t always have to be a physical death that we go through, to experience these stages of dying, or rights of passage. Sometimes it is the death of love, or an ideal or concept, or even an upheaval of our belief system. Whenever we come to a crossroad we come to some kind of realization which may feel a lot like death in the making. And many times, it leads to a kind of death of part of us, but hopefully a renewal in another part…if we hold on, and if we do not react through suicide.

Life is complex. It was never meant to torture, but we do have a lot of pain while we travel through it. I believe, however, that life was meant to help us transcend from our physical to spiritual selves while we journey through it. Life is complex. We can perhaps never know everything before we leave here, but we can at least grow through the wounds to another level after scarring and healing from the pain of the experience of growth. It is a difficult thing to be alive sometimes, and yet….we cannot deny it is also the most outstanding ride in which we will ever take part.

The hardest thing, I think, is to be able to look outside of depression, or some kind of sense of fatality, and see that you will be a part of something different; something more; something that enhances life while you share in it….You will always contribute and be valuable, as long as you share your life, even in the darkness. Thanks for sharing with me this moment.

Let go the Past, Bring in the Present, Plan for the Future....Live

2012-01-01T08:58:00.000-08:00

It isn't an easy thing this New Year deal. We speak of letting go the old and bringing in the new. This means everything that happened last year is to be taken with a grain of salt, or left behind, lost to the memory or given to the cache of lessons in life. It is harder than it appears.

Many of us have lost loved ones this past year, or many have lost a love affair, or a job, their homes, many many other issues that were "NOT HAPPY."

The new year promises a whole chance at getting it together again, at doing it better, at remembering those who are gone, and keeping a fire for their memory in our hearts. The new year promises to help us get over the year past. It's hard. It's like leaving a best friend in a house on fire. It's like having to say good-bye to your favorite pet and moving into a new mental, emotional, physical, psychological or spiritual arrangement.

Some of us have separation anxiety: I do. I lost people I loved at a very young age. It seems everything that alludes to ending, and a new start , creates a sense of anxiety in me. I am sure many others feel the same way, especially if they have experienced a trauma this past year.

There is nothing we can do about that. Acceptance is a virtue most difficult because it asks us to let go, leave behind what we cannot change, and start anew, plan for the future, and go on to live another year at least.

There is even a certain amount of guilt going on when those who are left in the past cannot come along. Yet, it is destiny and it is part of life.....let go.

What we do now is love our best, live our best, and give of ourselves with all the past knowledge and lessons of life we have come to understand within ourselves, and without those who cannot come further in our life's journey.

You are not alone. You have me, you have many others experiencing this same very moment in your heart. May your new year in 2012 be as rich and warm as you remember in good times, it was. But do not forget that this year, too, shall end, and another may or may not come for you. Just go on.....and live as heartily as you can....live for all those you must leave behind, and especially live for those who are here today, and will remember you.

Alfred Lord Tennyson outlived most his family. He was the fourth child of 12 children, and in the 1800s life was much less glamorous and scientific, but it was much more rich in hope and a belief in God. Weigh your life, balance it with those childhood treasures that were bestowed upon you, and discard that which leaves your heart heavy. Take care to learn from someone as this Poet Laureate of the 1800s. Everything is a blessing in some way.

Happy New Year!

Love, Elle

In Memoriam, [Ring out, wild bells]

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
   The flying cloud, the frosty light:
   The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,
   Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
   The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind
   For those that here we see no more;
   Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,
   And ancient forms of party strife;
   Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin,
   The faithless coldness of the times;
   Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes
But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,
   The civic slander and the spite;
   Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease;
   Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
   Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free,
   The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
   Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.

by Lord Alfred Tennyson

Rhymes and Scales

2011-12-29T14:33:00.000-08:00

Rhymes and Scales and Puppy Dog Tails For Children

By L. Nolan

© December 29, 2011

I got Babybear with me, and a boobie-trap tree,

I got Pappie’s chewing gum, and my Pookie dog’s flea

And don't let me forget the Babies --- THREE!

So now I need a scardy cat bee,

And a Pinkie doll to play with me.

And then I'll set the snow on the edge of night.

And then the sun will shine in the dark, dark sky.

And I will laugh throughout the foggy next day

As I pack for my trip to the chocolate Milky Way

To practice all my rhymes and music scales

And for amusement pull puppy dog tails,

So I'm on my journey, I’m on my way

To the land of chocolate on the Milky Way.

But we're stopping first to salute Earth Day,

So the place where I'll be is the Morro Bay.

MERRY CHRISTMAS, and that's ALL I have to say about it...

2011-12-15T11:25:00.000-08:00

I have come to accept that I am powerless to make any change in the fabric of society, as I watch with amazement the rapid change in people's affections toward one another by virtue of each's separate views. From our simply having different opinions, religious practices, spiritual beliefs, and other various political and ethical activities, this will determine one's fate, and it is determined by whichever community is in greater power, of which a person is made part at that moment...

I am astounded in seeing that no man or woman seems to believe that they each and every one, have a part in the human condition in which we all share before, now, and in the future. It has been my opinion by experience and research in history, that: No one is better or worse, but God can choose who God will favor at any time in history, for some greater purpose as time goes on...whether it is for personal or social insight or revelation.

Certain sad realities continue to plague the joy that could be all of ours: 1) As soon as one human, group, or corporation, reaches a level of comfort, greed is not far behind, 2) One cannot see the misery of others unless one is plummeted in the same misery, 3) Human beings never want to take responsibility for their part, because they are privy only to parts of themselves they like, and anything unlikable is simply denied and blamed on someone else, 4) human beings do not have any idea what love really means; they say they love each other all the time, but put one person in a position of self-sacrifice to their own comfort boundaries, and you will see how much they really love. Finally, 5) human beings are self-seeking, cruel and back-biting, if you give them the chance to prove it.

C.S. Lewis said it best when he said something like: Pain is the megaphone by which God shouts to us. This is why people become their best in catastrophic events, because they realize they are not so powerful, and we all need each other. C.S. Lewis also said that We love to know that we are not alone. This is also the time when we are at our best.

There was a certain incident on Facebook that, for a number of days past, caused me to bring this post to fruition. There were hurtful people that could not accept in what I believe, and the integrity in my beliefs with which I live. For better or not, I still have affection for those who have decided I am not worthy to be their friend any longer, merely for those beliefs I hold, nonetheless, I always hope only the best for all of us, and I truly do wish you all a MERRY CHRISTMAS...

I made a quote of my own on a Christmas card:

God is Love, and Love was born on Christmas Day.

This is truly

The Reason for the Season.

That Jesus was born to be a sacrifice of love from the spiritual father, through a fleshly son, to us. We needed help then, and still do all the time; and God sent us help wrapped in a tiny baby in a manger, who would grow up to be love for us, so that we could relate to God, as God related to us.

Christmas doesn't have to be a particular day on the Calendar; it just needs to be understood as to what it truly stands for. Not presents, or family soirees, or great food, although all of those things are added attractions. But it was and is the day that true Love was exposed to every soul in the form of laying down one's life for his or her human neighbor; it was the first time we really saw someone who had a whole different take on how to deal with hatred and death, and all the ugly things in the human condition. Christ must be understood in the word Christ-mas, or it will cease to be anything at all, but more hedonism in our already taxed human self-contentedness.

May God make himself (or herself, however you want to pose it) REAL, on Christ-mas.

Is it so Hard?...

2011-11-14T18:08:00.000-08:00

Is it so hard to ask for you to hear me?
Are your ears numb already from all the hearing that you can no longer take in?
What sadness that we are numb from our aches and pains of listening, yet not balancing ourselves in hearing and speaking....the cure? RESPOND in a thoroughly intelligent way! But there's more: that means hearing has to be authentic, and listening should be so well done that you are capable of paraphrasing fully what you heard.

The trouble with the entire world today, in regards to communications, is that the world of 7 billion people are used to appearing as though they are listening, but really not listening to others, thereby unable to respond with sincerity, and when or if they do respond, they are so inept at it, they resolve to reaction rather than response, in a flippant, aggressive tone, which means that their listening is suspect. It is enough to drive people crazy! Lots of verbal noise, but no meaning.

Men and Women: have you ever had a partner, spouse, girl or boy friend, or acquaintance, WHATEVER you wish to call it. Have you ever had one that when you politely gave a piece of your mind, or perhaps gave a scenario of something that was disturbing your peace, or perhaps you said something expecting a response, and all you got was a BLANK STARE!!!?

Yes! A blank face, stare, person looking about as if you never said anything! What is WRONG with this person! Are they retarded in the practice of communications? THAT is what I would think...

I was married to a man for 25 years who had that problem. I would speak a concern, and he would stare out into the open universe as though he had not heard a word I said, or he would continue doing something, never responding. When I had enough and left the home, he came after me seeking to repair our marriage and suddenly, guess what? Right. He had learned how to speak!!! But more than that, he learned how to listen, so he COULD respond.

Now, this dear person is beginning to show signs of the illness again....what happens?

I think what happens is that people have a tendency to become ungrateful. They don't care anymore abut being alive and having others around them. As soon as they lose appreciation for life and people, they lose interest in other people's concerns and attend to their own interests at the expense of showing interest in others.

Put someone on an island by themselves and you will see how quickly they miss others and desperately want to hear and speak to them again.

I can only speak about my own shortcomings. I need to figure out what it is I need, in order to make me feel valid and "heard." It isn't necessarily someone else I need but something outside of myself that I need in order to feel some kind of validation.

A while back there was this very cute little movie called "Validation." It was "A fable about a parking attendant who
gives his customers REAL validation -- dispensing both free

parking and free compliments."

http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0986272/

The most important thing I took away from that cute little movie was the fact that people need to feel validated by listening, by having sincere concern and interest in what they are saying, and responding to them in such a way that they feel you truly cared about them.

Meantime, all of us need to believe that those we love care about what we have to say, and not only those we love but human beings in general.

Whether we care to admit or not, we love everyone at some point also. Just see what happens when a disaster hits, and you will see how quickly we all love each other, and how quickly we listen and we speak with sincerity. So just pretend you are living under a death threat or that you are in the midst of a disaster, and then you might start listening and responding with love and interest to everyone. It really does take a village.

Dying to be heard, dying to be hidden...

2011-11-11T08:01:00.000-08:00

The paradox of writing is that the writer wants to be heard, while at the same time wants to be hidden. Why hidden? Well, let me put it this way.

The writer is traditionally a person who is unconventional and does not flow easily with the conventional status quotient. Therefore, they cannot necessarily come to an office or school in some routine fashion when they have a fantastic plot brewing in their heads: nothing is more important than getting down on paper the thoughts that are shooting unmercifully through their heads...so they have to remain hidden. Even though it can become a lonely hunt, the writer's "heart is a lonely hunter." This is where the dying comes in. Sometimes life is happening and the writer is writing, not participating, and that can be lonely indeed...a little bit of dying occurs. But the need to be heard is greater than the need to be expelled from the cave.

Somewhat quirky (I like to call it) many writers have the ability to see more than one side of things, they tend to SEEM to vacillate on matters, which makes them seem imperious to others' events or needs, so they'd rather not commit to anything. But really, they see all sides, which helps in characterization of their plots, or arguments on non-fictional essays, and that makes them hesitate to decide upon something that may be set in stone. Thus, writers prefer to remain, in others' minds, vague or ambiguous, so that they can move about easily, for their writing's sake. They have to be able to capture things, peoples' discussions, arguments, physical and abstract observations of people, places, etc., to be able to analyze them and decide upon using certain things or forgetting them, or archiving them for another day. They MUST be heard, but they must do it in a mental mode, thus they must be hidden. Writers are always THINKING. They may seem to many to be dopey or empty-headed, but they are quietly assessing even you!

Writers, traditionally do not like crowds (they have enough characters in their head), and they don't like to be pressed into a timeline with others (they have their own timeline in the deadline for publishing, or in their "dead-lines" for editing....like that pun?)

Writers are spontaneous to some degree. They "feel" their work at times, get into modes of gratitude, outlandishness, harrowing and daring circumstances, and sometimes, they just like to hang out in the library to get away from people that love them too much (like pets, spouses and children). Writers [traditionally] are acute and hypersensitive people, who feel so much they have to purge it upon paper, because they are also quite insightful, and never miss an opportunity to point something out.

Writers are not really "tortured," but sometimes they DO torture themselves (to see what it feels like for their story), and sometimes they try to read into things in different ways, depending upon the writer. For example, one writer might be very good at expounding on ideas, and taking them to the vast limit; another writer may be exceptional at reading body language; yet another writer may be very good at stick-to-it-ive-ness at the writing and editing in their cubbies, without flinching for lunch or dinner (those are the ones that become authors, and perhaps 'wealthy' authors).

Writers are unique people, not because they write but because they NEED to write to get their unique quirks purged, and then they can relax a bit, until the next wave of creativity hits, which is all but 15 minutes after purging, if that.

Writers feel a sense of duty to emit love through their writing--yes! LOVE is the object of their affection to their reader, which is why they MUST write. They were children of creativity, and authoritative and opinionated philosophers, and have only become more so as adults. Their vision is more than physical, and simultaneously they view varied patterns of thought. Writers are like stealth bombers: they sneak up on themselves as well as everyone else and scream their stories in writing, while being unseen.

I'm glad I'm a writer. I don't have to go anywhere to be everywhere, and I don't have to pretend in reality, because I'm pretending 24/7 on paper! I LOVE to write because I LOVE to see people enjoy reading what I wrote. I LOVE writing, and I hope some day to be discussing the pros and cons of writing to young writers everywhere, because that's what we do best: we tell AND show and CREATE.

Here is MY cubbie hole...and my dog...

Now, Go! I have to write now....

Just what is it!!!

2011-11-07T14:02:00.000-08:00

Okay, so let's look at our lives for a moment.It all started when I finished reading a biography on Frank Lloyd Wright. I closed the book, sighed, and then I got very
disturbed....

Every time I read a biography, I am torn to ask myself the same question: what makes this character different than all the rest of us that makes a book worth purchasing, borrowing from the library, and, or obtaining in some form, to read about he, she, or it?

I'd love to expound about the biography itself, but that particular event is not the point. If you're lost and really don't care about anything else BUT the biography, go borrow it from the library: Frank Lloyd Wright by Ada Louise Huxtable.(2004).

We can say the same thing about movies that were made into movies after a book was written about that character, or about the author that wrote the book!! Take, for example, "In Cold Blood" by Truman Capote, (1967), hit the bestseller's list and was a huge and massive book sale. And then a movie was finally made of Truman's life about
making the book: "Capote" (2005), starring Philip Seymour
Hoffman--(great movie, by the way).

This is an important question, why? WHY do people have such an interest in a character, that a book is written about that character, and readers WANT to read it?

So, we all do such and such, and this and that, and all of it looks and feels, and sounds curiously the same..... and suddenly....uh.....hello Hello?? Who is this...? Who's calling, please??? Is there anybody there in the next cubby hole? Hello??? Is anyone really there? Or am I really looking through a mirror into a mirror, into a mirror....(no I'm not taking drugs, never did, never will....)

Am I having a breakdown? Am I coming to a point here? Do I have any thing to say....? REALLY??? Do I??? Do I???

Alright. Back to the books, the character, the movie about the book or character...

It isn't simply about money, really it isn't, although I am sure when money is made, it is appreciated and used happily, but....

It's about what sparks the interest of the reader(s) and what makes someone's life worth making others sit up and take notice, and begin asking questions as I am doing at this very instant...

Lately, I've been on this "Modernism" kick. Modernism, for me, was genuine.   http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Modernism

Modernism was a true search into the soul after having found a vacant lot in the promise of finding a grand mansion just off the beach, in some glamorous tourist town...and realizing the reality of living life as we were, which was purposeless and meaningless because it was not of our choosing but the generations before us that did what they were told without thinking about what they were doing.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Realism_(arts)

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Social_realism

Postmodernism, on the other hand, was a diffusion to stop us from taking the REAL introspective modernistic view, and changing our world authentically, or at least seeing the truth of our purpose and meaning; our instinctual survivalist needs and pursuits in spite of our longing to live and everyone else to leave us the hell alone...!

Postmodernism gave us some kind of shallow, superficial catharsis so we can go on thinking we've solved the problem and we can get on with the party of getting somewhere.........only.......we're on the same guinea pig wheel--when in fact we're really hamsters!!! All of us!

I had a discussion with my son, and we were talking about the big industrial machine in which all us working stiffs provide fuel to keep it running by our own blood, sweat and tears....literally.

We were discussing the cliche about the cogs in the wheel, and cynically chuckling about how if one cog dwindles, turns to sawdust, or simply stops working, it (or the PERSON!) will just be thrown into the garbage and another cog will take its place.

And then I thought (after we hung up and I was walking about aimlessly, disturbed somehow by the conversation of my son's sense of disturbance) and I began to think about that wheel with the cogs, and when a cog DOES create a momentary disruption, there is not only a replacement needed for the wheel to work, but there is sometimes (depending upon the importance of the particular cog that creates a problematic situation) a noticeable crack in the wheel!

If you don't follow me, close this page and go look up something else.   If you follow me, keep reading....

It's like the movie "The Matrix" and I hate referring to movies, but what else can I refer when nearly every human in (at least) this country has seen the movie...The point is (in the movie) that everyone is really asleep, pretending that they have this great life, full of distractions and focuses that keep us in the moment with our "things" doing our "doings" and never letting on to us that we are really stuck in a pod, having our brains sucked out from our existence while we feel the grand machine; the larger forces that seem bent on believing that their existence is greater than yours and mine, and that as long as they keep us unbeknownst to this fact, they can suck the life out of us and make us....YES, YOU GUESSED IT: ZOMBIES!!!! You got it!!!

So here we all are: living in a dream-scape, a vacuum; a house of cards...

And we pretend our lives are great, with a new car every few years, a new house every so often, lots of new babies, and, or new relationships, changes in our professions, our investments, our genitals....it doesn't matter, really, what it is....We're doing it because we feel something's missing, and we don't quite know what it is, but we feel it, and it's bothering us, so we drink more, smoke more, have more fun, mount on more distraction...and....and....you get the picture...

All of it pertains to the one significant fact: they are distractions to keep from realizing that we are in "the Matrix."

Okay. I got it off my chest. Now. I have to figure out how to get out of this damned egg!!!

Who's your Editor of the Month? Gotta Love'er!

2011-11-04T18:36:00.000-07:00

You want me to play...

Helen Mirren? Hmmmm... this could lead to being famous: or at least, wealthy! (I make a mean English accent, and I can stay out of the sun for a while...)

Or, perhaps I can be made to play an aged Natalie Wood, you say? Had she lived through her 50s to 60s? (I could pass for Russian...)

Naaawwh!

I’d much rather BE the old Red-headed, wild child of the 60s, NO English accent, NO Hollywood make-up, and a mixed-breed, Native American Frontier Bawdiness that would make a snake quiver!

This is REAL America, People !

Meet Wild Horse Woman !

AMERICA’S REAL ROOTS found here!

L. Nolan-Ruiz, Editor
International Books Cafe

Every editor has a slant when it comes to their magazine, and this one isn't any different. Find out where this one will take you, how you can make a difference in it, and when it comes out, where you can contribute. Coming 2012!

2011-10-30T10:31:00.000-07:00

William Faulkner's famous Nobel Prize Speech
(excerpt)

I feel that this award was not made to me as a man, but to my work--a life's work in the agony and sweat of the human spirit, not for glory and least of all for profit, but to create out of the materials of the human spirit something which did not exist before. So this award is only mine in trust. It will not be difficult to find a dedication for the money part of it commensurate with the purpose and significance of its origin. But I would like to do the same with the acclaim too, by using this moment as a pinnacle from which I might be listened to by the young men and women already dedicated to the same anguish and travail, among whom is already that one who will some day stand where I am standing.

An example of the spirit of a writer is William Faulkner. He's a perfect specimen of a writer, and the rendition of what it means to hold the attention of readers, while presenting to the world a part of himself and a view of his society and culture, manifested in his stories about Southern people.

His speech is so famous probably more so than the other writer speeches, at least to date, because of his authentic definition of his part as a writer, "a life's work in the agony and sweat of the human spirit..."

Much like Jack London, Faulkner also met with great challenges to be who he was, particularly keeping his integrity intact while writing, and while having his bouts with love and loss, misunderstandings, and drinking. Although his legacy remains and his contribution can be felt throughout generations, he was still a man who had a story to tell in order to make us understand ourselves as well as he: this was his most serious determination, and he achieved this very well.

To this day, his Nobel Prize speech is heartfelt and deeply moving. It is hard to hear it and receive the same impact, and isn't it appropriate? Reading it will move the heart more greatly; after all, he was truly a WRITER first, before anything else.

Read more about Faulkner at:

http://www.mcsr.olemiss.edu/~egjbp/faulkner/faulkner.html

Morning Pages...

2011-10-28T08:11:00.000-07:00

Morning Pages, Exerpts, and Projects in the Workings...

Copywright 2011

I've got a new project going, International Books Cafe, and it will be an E-Magazine as well as a Real Magazine soon. You can find it at: www.facebook.com/BooknBarTender

A typical zine with interesting articles, book reviews, author interviews, quips, anecdotes, games, and interesting little facts about trivia of the literary types. But the wonderful thing is that members get to throw their two-cents in anytime they like on Facebook. Once International Books Cafe is on the radar with its own website, it will not necessarily be the same thing, but while it isn't yet of its own power, Facebook will ablidge very nicely, and create, for the beginning of its birth, a consistent following I think. You be the judge. Go visit it, "like" it and become a party of interest. Hopefully, we will be able to eventually create all sorts of things, like anthologies, poetry section, excerpts of writers' stories, and the like.

Here's another tidbit. There will be an enrollment of a class which I will instruct called "An Artist's Way," and one of the lessons to begin with is the lesson of "Morning Pages." This little exercise makes participants do some... well, alot of writing early in the morning, before you can think about it. That's what I'm doing right now! It clears the passages of your mental sinuses (including your physical sinuses) and makes way for creativity...you'll see, if you join my class.

I'll be presenting it on www.meetup.com and there is a small fee (only because there is a fee to use the meetup system online) but it will be minimal, such as $5 per week and lesson inclusive.

By the time one finishes though they will be GREAT at whatever they do; it's not just for writers, but it's for illustrators, artists, playwrights, contractors, doctors, lawyers, anyone who want to ignite and expand their creativity to help them achieve a higher rpm in their pursuits. If you are a part, you will LOVE it.

And don't forget: we're working on finding a venue for open mic for poets and authors to read and perform their work. As soon as I know where, we will be there! Thanks for listening this beautiful morning, and don't forget: A writer writes--always!

Ciao!

The Making of a Writer

2011-10-27T09:21:00.000-07:00

What does it REALLY take to be a Writer?

I posted an excerpt of a story, "Love of Life" by Jack London, an American short story and novelist in early American Literature. I also posted a small biography about what brought him to the literary world. He had all odds against him, yet we know and love his work, it is graced in the academic halls of heroes and pursued by researchers still trying to analyze his work and his personal life character and purpose.

It's not easy putting oneself into the public eye, especially when one may be inclined to arguable discontent; yet, as Jack proved, he could not stop himself; he needed to write his stories, tell his talent, and give of himself so deeply that when cut he wouldn't just bleed, he would lose parts of himself, trying to regain those parts through drinking and drugs, because not only are writers driven, many are super-sensitive and privy to such insight, it is unfathomable to the "normal" person with limited emotional capabilities.

Jack London was the epitome of the underdog. Although his end did not seem to be an easy one, he revealed an iron will toward the goal of writing without compromise, and little negotiations. Many writers gave into pressure for prestige, and some became merely a puppet to the real story of their lives and souls, but not Jack London. In spite of his harrowing and difficult life road, we know and love his work without question, and whether or not we agreed with him, we respect his integrity.

It's true, there is always going to be consequences to swimming upstream when everyone else is swimming with the current: it's so much easier to get along and be conformed. But integrity is a kind of thing that doesn't allow for pithy conformity and resignation when one must speak (or write) one's truth.

To be authentic, a writer has to give of him or her self without fear or dread of retaliation; it could come, but that isn't the focus. The focus is to share something profound, something so embedded within one's nature and personality, that the stories can be identified as the writer who created them easily by scholars.

This is MY goal, writer, and readers; what about you?

he American writer Jack London. Twenty-five years before Orwell he had disguised himself as a tramp in London's East End in order to write The People of the Abyss.

Photo No. 2: ‘Jack London’ — BBC Hulton Picture Library.
Scan ©: mvc@orwell.ru, 2003

© 2001, www.jacklondon.com
Read ‘Love of Life’ by Jack London on
URL: http://sunsite.berkeley.edu/London/Writings/LoveLife/ Site about Jack London in German language.
URL: http://www.main-kinzig.net/privat/DrEtzel/jackset.htm

Kaleidoscope Memories: Childhood Stories that Celebrate Life

2011-10-27T07:58:00.000-07:00

TITLE: Kaleidoscope Memories: Childhood Stories that Celebrate Family Life
AUTHOR: Cindy Oldham, Vicky Ennis, & Jenny Stees

PUBLISHER: Tide Dancer Publications

WEBSITE: www.TideDancer.com
COPYRIGHT: 2009, Kissimmee, Florida
PAGES: 138
PRICE: $14.99 (US)
FORMAT: Paperback
ISBN: 978-0-9797079

A delightful journey into the minds and hearts of three authors who write about their home life, filled with love, loyalty, and growing up in a small town. Six siblings and their parents, relatives and friends experience different events from routine days, to elaborate family holidays at the Stees’ family home.

Cindy writes about her aunt’s patience in teaching her how to play Jacks and how she overcame her fear of a steam pipe by realizing how greater dangers can occur when one tries to avoid a situation that isn’t necessarily dangerous. Vicky remembers the teamwork and competitive spirit, as well as the sheer joy of rolling barrels, and when her oldest brother suffered the initial experience of being stung by a wasp, while Jenny recalls her dilemma in helping her twin sister with her classwork at the risk of being confronted with “the meanest teacher.” These stories are not merely memories of the stories themselves, but of what is learned by children when they interact in a family setting, with their parents, and throughout the neighborhood, and institutions we all have to visit and deal with at one time or another. Family life, in various day to day experiences, endear the readers’ hearts and remind us of our own childhood memories and events that made us who we are in the midst of our own family lives, and how we were taught to understand the larger world in the microcosm of the family unit.

The book is 7 chapters of remembrances: School Days, Family Pets, Playtime, Eating times, Special moments, Childhood fears, and miscellaneous experiences that make us wiser, kinder, more understanding and appreciative of those with whom we grow up and come to know and love.

Cindy and Jenny are twins and the youngest of the six. Vicky, older, Gwen oldest of the girls and brothers Gabe and Kel, all take part in these wonderful experiences, through the memories of the three authors.

This is an excellent book to read in family events, holidays, or just to your children at bedtime. It is also a helpful book to initiate games from the book, set up a family plan of organized space and preferences, and it will surely delight one’s whole attitude about the validity of family and home life, especially what it means to your children while they are growing up.

L. Nolan-Ruiz, Reviewer

International Books Cafe

Review of: Noah's Wife: 5500 BCE

2011-10-26T10:17:00.000-07:00

Noah’s Wife: 5500 BCE

ISBN: 978-0-9840836-4-0

Author T. K. Thorne

(October 2, 2009)

Chalet Publishers, LLC

$15.25, 344 pages

Author T. K. Thorne has created an astounding fictional piece of a character named Na’amah, the wife of the Biblical and historical figure, Noah. Na’amah has been essentially unknown to the western world. Written in first person, Na’amah is a very young girl when she meets Noah, but is noticed because of her special personality. And this is what is revealed to us throughout the book: her special persona. Yet with so believable a story we could actually entertain the idea that it could possibly be true of such a woman. Na’amah is so intricately fashioned, and with such deep thought and sensitivity, that she is fixed in my mind possibly forever. While this novel does not claim to be a historical novel, Thorne has researched enough on the period in history, and the Biblical world and its culture, that she has masterfully created a unique variation on it. In fact, most effectively the characters, geography, period and plot have all been interwoven in such a way that one is unable to let go of the probability of such a story. The characters will live in the reader long after the novel has finished being read.

Audiences from Feminist, Biblical, legal, cultural, and spiritual groups, and from various perspectives and various levels of scholarly analyses will be drawn to this book of epic proportion. I love this story. It was not a page turner for me; otherwise one would miss the subtle nuances embedded in this first-person narrative. I stopped, digested and contemplated deeper meanings throughout the entire book. Tropes and themes abound throughout this wonderfully told story integrated within romance, drama, history, culture, and adventure. There is so much here to fathom, you will not be disappointed. Some reviewers choose to focus on the physical storyline itself, but I think it is important for readers to know what the novel has to offer in the way of meaning and purpose, with spiritual, intellectual and inspirational elements. It is a MUST READ! Everyone has heard of the Biblical story of Noah. But never told like this! Author T.K. Thorne has proven that she is exceptionally gifted in her sensitivity to life, love and loss, and in successfully applying what she knows today from those universal themes to fictional characters, which we come to genuinely love and of whom we wish to learn more.

Reviewed by: L. Nolan-Ruiz, Editor

International Book Cafe

www.InternationalBooksCafe.com

Ever Wonder Why that happened?

2011-10-24T09:45:00.000-07:00

Most people tell me I think too much. It's the nature of the beast in the writer. Writers DO think too much, if they didn't they'd have nothing to say on paper... But something about this "thinking too much" phenomenon is not right...

Thinking too much is useless unless you can categorize and compartmentalize in your brain! I have sooo many thoughts inside my head sometimes that I become stymied by them all, and then, I have to start the real work: categorize; compartmentalize.

This is how I start. I take a look at all the words and images in my head--REALLY! Then I tell myself, which ones are worthy to be put in the Catalog of Potential Stories folder. I proceed with those first. Next, a thought may be pressing, and so I write a poem into the Poetry Catalog about something that urges me to tell someone or something about someone or something. After I do that, I write down any potential short stories that I want to get to as soon as possible, but can't right now, and these go into the Catalog of Short Stories folder. After that, my thoughts are beginning to boil over all over the place: Catalog on Screenplays vs Plays folder; Haiku? Or, Poutoum? Lists (of projects to finish) and on and on, and...

Then I have an inkling to eat: red or green chile poured over a cheese enchilada, or a green chile spicy turkey sandwich with lots of lettuce, spinach, and onions...or just someone to eat with in the morning! (I think my brain gets hungry!) OOOooops (wrong image):

Okay, that's better...

After all this catalog-ing, I look back into my Novel folder, and pull out the novel I've been working on (this YEAR!) Whatever I dreamed about last night somehow makes its way into my novels, coinciding better with one story as opposed to another.

About this time I'm getting overwhelmed so I drop in and out of Facebook, Yahoo, Gmail, YouTube, or whatever, perusing, interjecting, laughing, just your usual need to interact with human contacts... intermittently writing and surfing...

By this time, it's about 2pm, my dogs want to go out again, after twice before this morning, and after some bone throwing for exercise (theirs, not mine), and I have to wonder around out back on the hill so they can acquire the necessary smells to afford them the instinct to "do business."

After we return inside, it's hard to get back into the groove of writing, so I tend to either want to eat an apple (with cheese), or have a yogurt, or sip a glass of wine....or DANCE!!!

Or, maybe I get into my melancholy mood (because of the part I'm writing about in my novel, who knows!) and instead I go to the keyboard and start writing a song:

I have to tell you right here: I have music playing throughout the day anyway, but it may suddenly hit me to listen to it, and if it's a somber, moving piece, I'll dance to it awhile....(Thank goodness, no one can see this fiasco!)

......And then I saunter back to my little office, sit at my desk and return to some semblance of normality, still mulling over some of the avenues I want to take my writing, and then.....BOOM!!!

Something terrible happens...I start to think about publishing! I need help!!! I go through the Writer's Digest website, looking for who I should try and get to know, or I go through the websites I have saved in my favorites, to see which conferences I'd like to go to, who I'd like to try and obtain some favor from, to grant me a "ride" to one of those conferences, and, and.... It's no easy job choosing to write for a living.... How do the others do it?? (My butt hurts!)

And then I go back to the OTHER stuff I already have: edit, re-edit, do some more, again, edit, and re-edit....Am I procrastinating the inevitable marketing aspect of this business? I think, yes.

I don't want to sell my work myself: I sold all my life as a broker in real estate, I just want to get all these creative demons out of me that have been brewing for over 20 years...(oh, dear!)

..and finish reading the hundred and one books to which I've been dying to relax on the couch, and relish....

So there it is, the making of a writer (with training wheels, obviously). I WILL become accomplished, yes. But don't think it ever changes, I've spoken and read about a number of GREAT writers: they have the same kind of day (and LIFE!) Bon Appetit! Ciao!

The Prologue

2011-10-17T10:48:00.000-07:00

All Quiet on the Western Front

Lydia Nolan

December 14, 2009

Outside it’s pitch—

—Cold, too.

I hear those routine sounds outside—and inside:

The occasional car, a howling coyote, wind...I hear it all out there.

It’s past midnight.

I think to myself: The Christmas lights! They’re still lit on the patio!

I tip-toe in the dark, pass the slider, and out to the patio floor.

I see the dangling lights—

“It’s past midnight, you out there!” As if somebody’s listening...

No one else hears me whispering but coyotes, the wind. . .

I say just as loudly, looking up:

How do I reinvent my Self? It’s nearly over!

No answers from deep within the sky—nobody’s listening...

I'm tired. The stars wink, curious.

Now I have an audience.

The stars come closer.

Just for a moment, their eyes intensify—

I look intent at them through the chill of winter.

Clouds threaten to cover the skies,

Snow will be coming, beyond midnight

The moon is wearing a cloudy shawl—

An enchanted moment calls for someone to caress me now...

I let go. Tears flow

And my desire to mirror the model leaves me.

I long to inspire of my own, instead,

Quell self-loathing for a change—

Show confidence to anyone interested—

Fill myself up again, with loving kindness.

And my inner voice whispers: don't ignore our breathing—it’s honest. . .

Don’t brush away the tears with the wind, I promise—

I’ll keep us: you and ME here, alive—

All’s quiet on the western front tonight— that’s all there is.

Quiet—Go back to sleep, I hear myself say.

Now, the stars smile. They yawn for delight.

Everything will be better in the morning light…

The sun will make everything warm again—

Go back to sleep…

Still, looking out, it’s pitch, and attractive with the Christmas lights.

Now the sounds I hear are whistling winds;

Coyote howls, dog growls, shaking trees—

The wind and me....and

My knight and shining armor of a soul,

And midnight passes warily.

Courage wrestles Fear,

I look up and see the stars sway softly

Bullying the snow—the wind, the animal sounds—

Trying to make a safe place for me—

Whispering: seek out your that place your long for

Your integrity—

I left the Christmas lights on after all—yes: like a boundary.

They sway in the wind; they flicker, but they don’t fall.

The winds try to entice them—

The moon starts fading in her light—

How do I reinvent my self? I try again, for an answer.

Now is coming daylight, I say

If all my youth and years have passed me by—

And here I am—and I’m tired.

And the world is a dubious place.

There are no roads between the tall trees—

They disappear into the forest beneath the mountain side.

The stars come forth again; intensified.

And chased the snow away, for good.

They smile and sparkle at me:

Don’t worry, He will light your way; God is your light from now on.

Is God the Sun? I whisper as I wipe away my tears—

I admit I never really think of God as the old man,

Or a physical body, at all:

I think of the still small voice— as when I was a child—

And tonight: to listen to the stars, the winds, the skies, and flowing trees

I am by myself, this late, dark night— I welcome the breeze.

I realize I hear God again, as when I was a child,

And I feel free of Fear—

How do I reinvent myself?

You just have, my dear—

2011-10-06T17:37:00.000-07:00

I am not too familiar with this new format, which is curiously like the OTHER "free blog" online, which means these blog sites are converging, and probably there will soon BE no FREE sites of ANY kind...I am writing this actually to practice using this, and seeing how I can actually create something and see how it comes out on the big screen...so this is a lot of baloney, and writers are good are baloney, malarky, and what have you!

In fact, this program no longer has morals or sympathy, I think, because they tried to wipe out my blog while I was ill for a long illness...But I found it! Good.

Signing off for a brighter day...

What's Your Sign?

2011-08-24T15:18:00.000-07:00

What's your Sign?

Horoscope signs became a popular pastime of the 60s under the tutelage of the Hippies' Movement: anti-war protest, flowers as symbolic of natural life, and signposts like: Make love not war. Of course, there were other things, like drugs, sex, and folk music as well, but those are not our interest at present. Why? The horoscope is depicted in words that feed an emotional need in us, which is why we read.

The twelve signs of the horoscope gave people a way to share intimacy with others; a way to reveal who they were in a holistic fashion of self-expression. It gave a man or woman segue into one’s soul; a way in which one could intimate: Look, here, this is pretty much how I am, who I am, and what I think about things and people, and by knowing this about me, you can decide if you want to know me better.
The horoscope was like putting a label on a package, only the label was placed on a person, like this: Geminis are moody and vascillate between two distinct personalities; Virgos are perfectionists, Leos are courageous, extrovert, and gregarious; Scorpios are sensuous souls....

Today, we use the horoscope less openly, however, we are still trying to find ways to define ourselves in public ways. Facebook must have sensed this, because its strongest attraction is the public wall, where people can post quotes, art, music, and ideas of their own, which creates a podium of public persona for each person who wishes to be known.

The purpose of my bringing this all up is not that I wanted to expose the intimate side of horoscopes, but in fact, I wanted to pose a theory about blogs.

Blogs are pretty much the same thing. Blogs are an extension of someone or some organization, or some kind of needed personal or professional exposure.

My blog, for example began as a way of showing others what WRITERS go through in the course of a writing, in a day, a week, a lifetime. I did this because I defined myself in this way: as a writer: one who writes publicly to entertain, persuade, or inform about certain matters of the heart, mind, or public sphere. I decide to expound on this premise of who I am. I’m changing my site to TEACHER.

I am STILL a writer, however, but teaching is my professional position at present, (until I accomplish that successful "American Novel" aspiration I have.) Until my successful debut as an accomplished author, therefore, I have this profession, and while I still will post about writing, I will lean more toward lending help to students as a teacher of English and a Researcher of British and American literature, (after all, I get my ideas by these areas of study as well...)
I hope my followers today will still read my blog, finding it fun and adventurous at times. You may just find more about writing than you think, because teachers TEACH writing to their students as well as writing for fun and adventure....

So now you know: what’s my sign? I’m an educator, teacher, writer, and Researcher, and all out fun kinda gal!

I’ll be changing my “label” from Writer to TEACHER, but as with horoscopes, there are a myriad of traits that encompass my LABEL, so don't give up on me! I hope you like what future adventures I plan on having with me you will have.

My Sources Tell me.....Nothing!

2011-08-12T09:35:00.000-07:00

Do you wonder at times: where doth come my provisions for literary creativity?

I realize this topic is a worn one, but I recently discovered--no: EXPERIENCED--that I have so many sources it's unbelievable to me now, how I never saw or heard them before.

I used to get up and complain that I HAD no sources...from anywhere--zilch--nada--nothing, nohow...I was wrong! Had I experienced sooner what I did recently, I would have had as many novels as Philip Roth by now...
But first, let me explain how I as a writer attempt to ... begin writing each morning. Most mornings I begin like this: I don't. I sit and wring my hands, and foolishly ask myself: are you SURE you're a writer? Because if you are, shouldn't you be able to write naturally? If you're a writer how come you have no sources from whence come your motives, your passion, your inspiration?
Why aren't you sitting in front of your computer writing instead of your office window eating your breakfast and watching your neighbors across the way, driving off to work?

Are you sure you're a writer? Do you think Philip Roth has this problem?

Do you think Dave Eggers has this problem?

Do you think Marianne Williamson has this problem?

Do YOU have a problem?

Are you just lazy and don't want to look for a job?
Finally, I answer myself: I AM a writer! I AM! I AM!

I just don't have enough sources; I don't have fodder to fuel my mind; I don't have cooperation from the universe; I can't find my equilibrium, maybe I should take up yoga...maybe [a second?] breakfast will help....maybe I should go walking from here to eternity down the road. THEN I will think of something else!

This phenomenon is called block! My first reaction is blockhead! The dictionary calls this term by its true meaning: a stupid person.

Or maybe, just a person who doesn't have it together; doesn't know which way is up, or down, or all around, or something or nothing or other or other, or....... Okay, I'm losing it!

I call it: the calm before a storm. I find myself in the eye of the hurricane--another way I see it--writing as a hurricane of creativity, and a voice with fire in it, while the calm is a hesitation to admit what the subconscious is thinking but not telling me...

That is to say that I may have begun a story and waded into it a hundred pages or more, then suddenly: calm...no waves of thought...no movement in mind...complete and utter calm....no idea where I go from there.

I have to go back to yesterday's post: about Philip Roth. Something else I got from his interview with the Raab fellow. I noticed that on the lines of information, Raab would ask Roth "What's that?" and Roth would answer, "I used to play here, with Arnie, the fellow across the way. He had a dog, Jews never had dogs or pets in those days...." and then he proceeded to recollect issues about his childhood. Not monumental, life-changing, traumatic events. Just casual, calm, routine events of life. And then he would attach the event to parts of his novels of the past. So FINALLY! I read between the lines....THERE are your sources, blockhead!

I know I've heard this before, but I must have forgotten for about five years leading to my present styimie. This here deadlock doesn't have to be. I need only look around, I've got so many stories, telltales, anecdotes, I could be writing from now until 50 years from now (if I could live that much longer). But here's the REAL crux of the matter: once you have all that knowledge and awakening of your sources, then what? Hello! You have to KNOW how to write.

You don't just transcribe verbatim the stories: two reasons. One: you can get sued for defamation of character. Two: most instances, it could promise to be fairy boring a tale, if not delivered in a creative way. Here is where the "writer" mentality comes in.

A REAL WRITER can tell stories, yes. You might say: so can anyone. What makes a writer a writer and a damn good one, is that he/she can yarn the story with panache, creative intellect, spirit, color, and chemistry that awakens the readers' senses. THAT, my dear friend reader, is what makes a writer. Not that she/he can write it down--even profusely--but that she/he can write it down in such a way that a reader wants to read more...

I rest my case. I can no longer spew: my sources tell me...nothing! My sources have been singing to me, the stoolie, like birds just released from the cage, sing to their wild friends. It's up to me, to get it out to the good guys: the readers. I just wasn't listening very well, and now that I've listened, I wasn't planning my strategy about the stories either. Now. The hard part begins. I take the source information and make it exciting to the reader, so they enjoy life just a little bit better. Higher than before. That's my job: I'm a writer.

The Making of a Writer: Pulling, pushing, wavering, crashing, rising, pull...

2011-08-11T08:43:00.000-07:00

The Making of a Writer: Pulling, pushing, wavering, crashing, rising, pull...: "'If you want to become a writer, it is very necessary to expose yourself to the vicissitudes of life.' ~ W. Somerset Maugham Recent..."

Pulling, pushing, wavering, crashing, rising, pulling, pushing...the neverending story

2011-08-11T08:24:00.000-07:00

"If you want to become a writer, it is very necessary to expose yourself to the vicissitudes of life."
~ W. Somerset Maugham

Recently, I read a story about Philip Roth in the Esquire magazine. The author has written 31 novels, many made into movies, "Goodbye Columbus" being his debut novel AND movie. What was so striking to me is the very ordinariness he appears to carry. The writer of the story talks about how Roth wants to visit his hometown of Newark, and they visit his schools, are chaparoned by two police officers, Roth chats with them constantly during the interview, he joshes with the limo driver about his massive cologne wearing, and he's just an all around, normal kind of fellow. But he is a prolific novelist, and has written tons of short stories as well.

I discovered him when I read one of his short stories in a small book of showcased authors. I had always imagined him as this scholarly sort, and once he was, much like in the movie character played by Michael Douglas, and the movie "Wonderboys." That was a great movie, but going back to my point, I often imagined Philip Roth to be that kind of man.

Philip Roth watches what he eats, is very svelte, straight, and as intense as he was a young man: he is now 77 years old. He is quick-witted, humorous, and as I said, intense.

He told the writer of the article that he has all the "issues" any other writer has: starts, stops, pulling, pushing, sometimes he throws tons of pages away after a start, sometimes he just goes cold, and when he doesn't expect it, he fires up and roars again. What he said about this caught my eye, my mind, and made me think well of him, even more than I do already! He said, "it goes with the territory." I loved that. A writer must realize that this is the territory of writing, all the jolting, and thunderous starts and stops, all the craziness between words, and the starlit nights of wildness where there comes a thought, and then come to fruition a story, only after a bout with depression or better yet, a bout with madness. It's all in the territory...

After reading about this guy, I was simply re-attracted to his monumental personality, not unlike I have been with his contemporaries, which he very normally "outpaces," if not ouliving already. Amongst those great "ethnic authors," as the article writer calls them, (Bellow, Malamud, Heller, Mailer) he seems always to be rabidly stalking about in his mind, planting the blank sheets of paper with potential forests of words with which he is consistently and constantly planning to create his stories, and that makes his interview seem--well--he doesn't seem to really be THERE with his article author, whose name by the way, is Scott Raab.

Roth answers short and sweet, gives quaint gestures here and there, described to the readers by Raab, and he seems to be wanting to get it over with once they've discussed what they needed to discuss, probably because he's got to write down everything he was thinking about during the interview.

My point is this. A writer is ALWAYS plotting, describing, narrating in his head, thinking about moves, climactic plays, character behavior, and the like--this goes on in the writer's head almost 24/7, with of course, some breaks for spews and announcements of the goings on of the moments they share with others. But let no one tell you otherwise: a writer is ALWAYS writing in her/his head, if not physically and literally. What a man! What a job! I'd better get back to work and write something down in my own thickening plot...remember: it goes with the territory, so do it!

Raab, Scott. Esquire. Philip Roth Goes Home Again. Oct.2010. p.147.

The meaning of good weather....

2011-07-13T10:59:00.000-07:00

Good weather coming.... A statement like that can mean anything to any number of people. It could mean that 1) someone is expecting sunshine, or 2) literally: good weather. It could mean that 3) someone is thinking about going fishing. It could mean that 4) the political climate is favorable to one side more than another. It could mean that 5) someone gets to go out for a change, rather than staying inside. It could mean so many things. The one constant is that is surely means a crescendo into something of value to someone.

For me, good weather coming means that I am having a rainfall of ideas, creativity, and motivation. This morning was one of those weather reports: good weather coming. I use the present progressive tense for a reason. Whenever we say that good weather is here, it means it is quickly relegated into the past. But when something is coming, it remains in movement, like a crusade of horses, stomping the earth, begging to be heard, in a stampede...and the moment rises as a climactic event. This is exactly what I mean when I use "good weather coming" to depict the crescendo of ideas, creativity, and motivation that I feel coming through me--and it is to be reckoned with! The longer it is coming, the greater the rainfall of ideas, creativity, and motivation. Now, let me give you my example of this morning.

I awoke early: 4:57, to be exact. I knew the two little Yorkie pups had to go out and do their business, but usually I pretend to be asleep and let the mister do it. Only this time, I couldn't go back to sleep, I really am not quite sure why....just a vague feeling of something stirring. So as soon as he left I went ahead and took them out. I came back in and I proceeded to pour a cup of coffee after he had gone. I simply could not go back to sleep! Normally, the man in my house leaves about 7am. Today he had to leave early, which is why I awoke so early: his alarm had no mercy on me!

At about 6:00 am, after having sat outside trying to decipher a book on the Seasonal Planting of Trees, Shrubs, and Flora, I acquired an urge to go inside and turn on my computer.

Only moments later, a myriad of love notes and arguments on the text, and tears, I found myself experiencing this rainfall; this weather coming; the rainfall of ideas, creativity, and motivation.

When this weather warning comes over a writer, it is imperative that he/she does NOT leave the moment. Instead, use the moment to accomplish as much work, acquire as much focus on the value and potential of your work as possible. Ideas will come in droves: write each one down in a 5X7 card, and place it into your index box, soon to return to them as soon as you finish the next set. Creativity is the next set, and it comes in all sorts of forms: do not ignore any of them. Whether it is to memorize a list of poems for presentation, write and FINISH a project, or sing or play an instrument--DO IT NOW! Any one of those creative thoughts, feelings, behaviors can turn into something great and powerful...work them all!!! And finally, motivation. Do NOT diminish this at all. You must not allow any Dead zone to come between you and your movement and active results. If you have to, turn off the phone, or don't answer it. Don't answer the front door either. Don't allow anyone to convince you that you need to go out and have lunch, or a drink coffee, or help them shop. Your in the middle of good weather coming, and the reward is the recognition for your weather rainfall, in the means of money, position, an opportunity you had not before this, or anything that you have been wanting to accomplish. It is through these rainfalls, that your dreams come true. Because dreams aren't dreams so that you can continue to pine for them. Dreams are meant to come true. And deliberate action makes that happen.

Remember, no matter who it is, tell them: I can't right now, some good weather is coming... They're on a "need to know basis," and they don't need to know what's up, just hang up, close the door, turn off the alarms, and go through the weather.

I'm going back now, because the weather is still blowing south, where I am, and it's good weather indeed...a long time-a comin!

Onward...Writer...

2011-07-06T10:00:00.000-07:00

So, I try and keep from the nature of the beast overcoming me, however, it is difficult: it's my dna; it's my innate person; it's me.

I find that it doesn't take much to get me into a slump. This is not to tell you that I am a slouch, a loser, a lost soul, nothing like that at all. Writers are observant people. They are also emotional, passionate, and insightful people...at least those writers that are innately meant to be writers....The hacks don't know what I'm talking about anyway, so that doesn't matter. If I were to tell you to read some of the biographies of great writers, you will know what I'm talking about.

For a writer who is like the one abovementioned, EVERYthing matters--EVERYthing. Every nuance of human behavior, human activity, human and animal interactions, horticulture....you name it: a writer feels it.

Sometimes, I feel it so strongly, I have a tendency not to want to write, but to go back to bed, or drink earlier than usual, or have a cigarette after having quit. Why? Because sometimes it gets to be a burden. Writers carry burdens no one has asked them to carry. Writers carry burdens that are universal in nature, like the idea of losing someone, of death, of finding one's true love, of conquering a fear, of remaining behind when one wishes to leave. There are so many human issues, that most people don't even think about, or if they do, they think without emotion, plan a practical mode of operation and move passed it. But then, there are those who cannot do this. There are those people who are not accustomed to interpreting their own emotions, and they find themselves so discontented that they lash out at anyone who is near. Writers are destined to be concerned with those people.

I'm not talking about a writer who writes merely for entertainment: our publishing houses are jam packed with those hacks...and some are darn good at it. They entertain, help us lose a few hours, keep our minds vegetated like television. They are sometimes needed to alleviate pressures, like sex.

But I am talking about writers who help people see a bigger picture about life. I am talking about writers who make life seem less overwhelming because they make a reader feel they are not alone. Writers of this caliber are writers such as William Shakespeare, William Faulkner, Elizabeth Bishop, T.S. Eliot, W. Somerset Maugham, Louise Erdrich, Annie Dillard, Robert Frost, Ayn Rand, John Keats, and on and on and on...

These writers pay a very high price for what they give and leave to the world. They observe, feel, and record insights of such height, that the repercussions usually take toll on their health, mentally and physically, and sometimes even spiritually. Yet, they write for others: to help others understand a little bit more some frame of thought or particle of life. Writers of this caliber care excessively for humanity, and contradictorily hate just as excessively its dark side. Writers of this intensity record in spite of their fears, their dread, their shame, or their sexual passion, orientation, or lack thereof.

Those other 'writers' who have had it easy, and know the right people, have the right connections, give the right political praise where needed to get where they want, those are not writers: those are hacks.

When one thinks of some of the greatest writers, one reads a biography of a tortured soul, one who had many obstacles, very limited abilities socially, financially, harmoniously....but they could not stop themselves from giving everything to their writing.

There are those who cannot understand the writer who cannot do or say more than in such a way that it is written for all time...Consider John Keats who died so young, having had so much potential, but having left early on in life because he contracted a disease which ran through his family, and him having nothing but wretched finances, could not stop his impending doom. Yet, it behooved him to sit about concentrating on his poetry, while others quietly called him lazy, a ruse, a pauper....And when his poetry is read so many hearts flutter, and consider him to be one of the greatest poets of the world in his short time on earth. His poetry creates so much insight into the human soul.

Simply put: I would like to consider myself one of these, in this caliber, writers. I would dare not say I am already, because another quality found in most all of these caliber writers is lack of confidence to show themselves outright. I've had trouble here also. But do not forget me, I hope someday you will be reading something I wrote and say as we do of those writers: "I am so glad I found her writing, I have come to understand so much about life, through her stories, her poetry, her writing."

Until then, I remain in my secret corridors, typing and considering, and painstakingly, overwhelmingly, feeling and interpreting for the masses, inspite of its taking its toll on my own personal space and life.

Editing, and Creating...Always on my Mind...

2011-06-10T13:16:00.000-07:00

I was setting my papers together, getting my poems into a package to submit for publishing, and then I was also re-editing some short stories I have, as well as longing to get to my other projects.

I almost feel like they call to me: "what about me....what about me...? Will I be seen today?" A neverending work, and the title of David Eggers' book comes to my mind: "A Heartbreaking work of Staggering Genius." Satire is another thing...mixed with realism....but that's for another blog...Suffice to say, I am feeling like all this work I am putting into my projects will pay off in the end: someone will see that there is genius here.

Anyway, I was doing all these things, working on all these projects simultaneously, while working also on finishing some job apps, and finishing up my submission package for an MFA program I would like to enter, while I am still disturbed between wanting to go into that and/or working through a Ph.D program, but that brings new complications, like taking the GRE all over again, since I hadn't had use for the last one taken over 10 years ago, and then.....Then, it happens...

*****************************************

Night

© by Lydia Nolan
June 10, 2011

This is just a temporary drive,
I tell myself, because it’s the rain inside me—I know this.
The bleak day feeling—
The night that follows it here.

Just ahead, I can barely make it out...
These headlights in winter
Limit vision of the road as only
Darkness beyond the blurred windshield can.
It's night in these walls inside me—I know this.

Familiarity to the knowledge that there will be no oncoming traffic—
Insensed by the knowledge there will be only quiet for a long, long while...

If I could only make you feel this heavy thing inside me:
The pull downward, I call it:
Downward, right in the middle of my chest, and
On the depressed road that winds
Around this huge mountain of thought.

Imagine the asphalt roads are barely poured, still sticky, and wanting to harden while
You try and make your way through it...It doesn’t want you to drive through,

Because you’re not supposed to be there in the first place.
Your inner vehicle is slow and
Burdensome, yielding only for curves,
But working hard to keep it moving...
Even though it’s dark.

It happens when something happens and you do some things to make it go away.
Then, you get to this place, and you have to forge through until it’s over on its own.

There are no guiding lights, no
North Star pointing the way home.
The skies are covered with clouds;
That blanket of stars, so that only
Your headlights see your way solemnly back home.

And you suddenly realize that you are alone, but you’re not, only—but you are...
But you can’t see anyone else on the road; you can’t talk to anyone in the vehicle,

You’re alone, for all intents and purposes,
The rest of the way, but daylight—
Daylight is what you’re looking for...
Daylight comes next, you just have to keep
The vehicle inside, from veering off the road,
And rolling down the cliff to nowhere.

And no one will drive past tonight, in this warm sunny day, because:
It’s night only for you. And the day might shine outside, but the night is in you,

It’s always night like this, when something happens and you do some things to make it go away,
But it only comes to this place, and you have to forget and drive through until it’s over...

**************************************************

Well, I tell myself, that was that. I had this terrible urge to make people understand what writers go through from the inside out. I was nowhere near the real feeling of it all, but I had taken a detour from my work, if only for a moment, to write this partial sensed emotional roller coaster ride I take now and then, coming around more and more I have noticed, and I think to myself: something has got to give, damnit! Something. And after this profuse effusion of emotional communication, I have to get some lunch and watch a movie, just to get back to "morning."

The Best Way Out is Always Through

2011-05-25T15:11:00.000-07:00

The best way out is always through

Robert Frost is one of my favorite poets. He came to my thoughts recently with this quote, to awaken me from a sore subject on which I had been procrastinating.
I’ve been stuck on this question for some time now…I think as long as all my life—and I’ve lived a pretty long life. Sometimes, a crisis makes people think about pressing questions. I had a crisis that brought me back to this particular question which had been rolling and rumbling inside me—albeit yet unclear, stirring like lava beneath the surface of the earth—awaiting the perfect moment to erupt into the purpose and meaning of my entire life.

When I read the above quote it was as though Frost were slapping me across the face with the answer to the question I’ve been asking myself all those years during my vague and senseless search: How do I get through this? I was talking about life. But this was only a general set-up question. I had to actually seek further, unable to get out easily. The question materialized further: how do I make a distinction between what I must get through, and what is merely the stuff of life which always stays around me…?

I have been trying to answer this for so long. And yet, beyond even that question comes this other question that promises to make everything clear, and to give me the answer I need. It is one thing that will define me, and to which I can commit myself; this one thing with which I can live freely, and for which I can live with passion. I needed to find this one thing that has kept me from growing up—though I’ve grown old—and that promises to make me whole. I needed this one thing on which I can build upon my long-stunted character. So, I asked myself more distinctly: “What is it I want? What is the one promising thing I want, which will define my life finally; that one promising thing that will give me the drive to push through, as Frost stated?

My perspective of what writers write about is obviously subjective. Nonetheless, I believe answers are found by those who know how to question, but more importantly, who know how to embrace the right questions that we ought to love: questions that disturb us, or make us want to hide, or fight; or die, or live—or push through. So, writers pursue these kinds of questions. Every writer’s questions and answers are embedded between the lines of narratives, or displayed in scenes in a screenplay, or felt by a person’s performance in a play. These are only proposals from the observer/writer who painstakingly, but lovingly construct the entire foundation of his or her own personal character—but leaves judgment and definition to each reader or watcher’s own needs.

So back to my original thought: how do I get through, as Frost states—to get out? And what am I trying to get through? I can only tell you what I would rather show you, but for the sake of surfaces, I want to go through this MFA program, to get out of my fear of living, and begin my life’s meaning through public writing.

Lydia Nolan,

MFA Program Candidate

What is the Occasion?

2011-05-23T08:22:00.000-07:00

I remember my mother when I was a small child, and then I remember my mother when I was a grown woman: what a difference a lifetime makes...

I saw two quotes today that I want to begin with:

Life is something that happens to you while you're making other plans.

~ Margaret Miller

and then:
Life is not a dress rehearsal.
~ Rose Tremain

The first thing that struck me was that they were both written by women, and that they sounded as though they should be read or said at the same time, or near the same time. The second thing I noticed was that the theme was much the same: a life lived with remorse. How, you say, did I get that from those quotes?

The first one by Margaret Miller is cynical or satirical perhaps, but nonetheless, I can feel the grating of her teeth when she says it. I can sense the tapping of her finger while perhaps smoking with the other hand, or pushing her hair back, maybe even pushing back a few tears that are being squeezed from the heart. There is very little hope in this one. She seems to have come to the end of her life, and found herself wanting...but it's already there at the finished line.

Rose Temain, on the other hand, has a bit of hope in her quote. She seems to be giving it to others, where she perhaps may be finished, yet she is giving a word of advice to others that this is the only time they have to make it right....one life to live....

These two quotes can be essays of discovery in themselves, separate and specialized, but I only wanted to use them to point my focus back to my mother.

My mother was a beautiful person as a young woman. She was a singer, and she was a very creative woman, who drew model-like figures, and could create any kind of piece of clothing from a ragged cloth. She was a tremendous conversationalist in her youth, and her smile and laughter was quick-witted and delectable....No one got passed her without some show of authenticity.

But by the time I became a woman--and being the last of six children she had--she was in her own mind 'ruined' by life. She never realized her dreams of being a fashion designer. She never sang for the masses. She never taught on the subject matter in which she was most astute. She had six children, married a minister, was poorer than a church mouse, was bitter and angry most of the time, suffered from the ravages of tuberculosis, and finally lived as an old woman, bitterly whispering nostalgically about her past and what she COULD have done with it....She told me, too, that I was going to do what she didn't...Heavy load for a young woman...

My mother was a beautiful woman. I remember as a child, how tall she seemed to me, and how warm and soft she was when I got to wrap my arms around her. She was a sales lady and wore white blouses with black skirts, and black high hills--always... She smelled of perfume like a bundle of flowers, and powder of the Gods, to a small girl.

Later, before her death, she had bruised, purple-covered legs stiff as plasterboard, with pus oozing from her pores, I don't know why. She could barely walk anymore, and was so thin I was afraid she would break if she tried. Her eyes were all that remained. Her eyes, staring at me, saying...
"You are a good woman, mija (dauthter), you are very good..."

I had a dream last night, about leaving life and not having taken care of things, which is why my mother comes to memory from those two quotes I saw. I was having a serious conversation with myself, regarding not having even the funds for a funeral had I died today....I don't want to leave a book of bills to my children...

I was discussing with myself in my dream that I should be arranging things now, as I am not so young anymore, and though I may live another 30 years....I may not live another day....I should be ready. I'm not talking about rapture, though I wish it were happening soon, I'm just talking about dying and leaving the world to your family, friends, and everyone else, and leaving it with just a little bit of goodness; just a little more kindness, love, warmth, laughter...honestly....authenticity....NOT BITTERNESS....Bitterness comes from not doing what we dreamed of doing, not being who we dreamed we were...

I miss my mother, you cannot know...I miss my father, too, but he died when I was a teen-ager, so I didn't have him very long. But I think I miss my mother so much because I know her secret and why she was bitter...Another woman's quote comes to mind:

The bitterest tears shed over graves are for words left unsaid and deeds left undone.
~Harriet Beecher Stowe

Mother's Day, 2011

2011-05-07T17:27:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking about my mother a lot lately, but now that Mother's Day is coming tomorrow, I am thinking about her more than usual.

Jovita Tarin Ruiz
(July 20, 1918 - August 6, 1999)

My mother as I knew her seemed a sad, sensitive, and lonely human being. She was married so young, to a man much older than she; 16 years older. She had six children, and never had the fulfillment of the dreams at which she had only hinted in passing during private conversations I had with her while she tried to comfort me through ordeals. She was very creative, artistic, used to sing as a young girl, and was a lively youngster in her youth. She was also very assertive and protective of the other siblings in her family, since she was the eldest of the five of them. And yet, by the time I came into the world--and being the last of her brood--I saw her as a quiet, sad, reflective, contemplative person who was not very attentive to her children.

I understand a lot about things now, since I've grown and gone through many experiences myself. I understand her. I only wish I had understood her while she was alive. She was a tortured and sorrowful soul, yet she was filled with love and affection, with warmth and insight, with kindness and patience in certain situations that called for these emotional strengths.

My mother. She was the embodiment of Virginia Woolf's definition of the "Angel in the House." Though she was not quiet by any means, she kept herself to herself; and a secret to us. She kept her true self deadened in order to make days for others alive. She moved about quick and determined, but her person was of a hollowness that is hard to explain except to those who have experienced such a person.

Now that I have lived for so many years, I have experienced such things. There were many "aha" moments, when I told myself I was sorry I did not understand my mother's personal tragedies at the time she had had them, and I wish there was some way that I could go back and sooth her sorrow. But I cannot.

Mother's Day is here again, and she is gone. But my mother is the only mother I will ever be honored to have had, and I wish now that I could tell her how much I understand.

If there was any possible way for her to even consider what goes on in this finite world--for where she is I suspect she is ovewhelmingly, infitely filled with joy, and she is surrounded by her loved ones that have gone before, and she is as she was: beauty incarnate, in the heavenly places--I would hope she might hear my heart: I miss you so, mother, and I understand.

With Love, From your daughter

TSUNAMI COMING!!

2011-04-07T11:56:00.000-07:00

Okay, I'm cheating....I'm grabbing your attention by "MARKETING" that's what they call it, isn't it?

You use something of interest to the masses, which is now in current events, no matter how low you go, you can play this card, because it attracts people who want to know about the latest scoop on whatever subject you are showcasing (in this case: catastrophes....remember which audience you are trying to attract). And do you have a scoop for them? You'd better.

http://www.tsunami.org/

If you don't have some kind of denoument for your readers after titilating them with your title, they will feel cheated.... Alas!

But! Also remember, that your particular readers are aware of what your blog is entitiled

"The Making of a Writer"

and if you have been strategizing to attract general attention to this title anyway, you know that your readership KNOWS you are a WRITER, and the WRITER has something to say about "TSUNAMIS" or something to this subject affect. So.

From the standpoint of a writer, EVERYTHING qualifies as METAPHOR. The word "Tsunami" is no different. How might a Writer use this "current" [topic] concern for a Writer's own purpose? Let me explain.

I have been on fb (sorry blogspot) for more than a half hour (not normal for me), because I suddently opened Pandora's box (another subject for another day) and suddenly got a mass of informtion. Many people are talking about Tsunamis again, since Japan (awful!) just got hit with another earthquake, and has another warning on yet ANOTHER tsunami, and the whole radioactive thing is building to a grand frenzy in people....I can FEEEL it!!!

There is absolutely no getting around mass hysteria, and it's coming, what: with the mediterranean events going on right now, Israel being bombed, the U.S. setting itself as police EVERYWHERE, but here! Japan, the starving animals: dogs, cats, dying birds, abuse everywhere, especially children, but EVERYWHERE! And on and on and on....People keep trying to keep calm, but it's building.....Again. What is my point? Here it is.

I have had a tsunami building in my brain for a good two years now. Metaphorically speaking, of course. I have been trying to leave one profession to go to another profession, while being subconsciously annoyed by the talents I've had since I was a child, namely singing and songwriting, and writing all genres of stories, as I am a prolific story teller (but no one knows it). But these last years I'd been attending college to start a new career, while allowing my sales career to die a slow death, and now because of the economy, it turns out my educational goals was a bad choice....there ARE NO JOBS in teaching right now, for the newbie. Enter the Tsunami. I am suddenly endowed with a GRAND CONSCIENCE (no longer the subconscience I had mentioned earlier), which threatens to take over my quiet little educational and sales goals and professions at any moment. SOUND THE SIRENS! CALL OUT WARNINGS, EITHER VACATE OR ACCEPT THE CONSEQUENCES!

Suddenly: I don't much care for the educational credentials and past sales awards I had gotten. Suddenly: I don't care if I EVER can pay my student loans in this lifetime. Suddenly: there is a strange occurrence going on in my brain.... It's making a LOT of tumult, and I can feel the waves getting stronger. My sense of storytelling is flooding my mind, and my sense of songwriting is teaming with it! I am overwhelmed by the many avenues of creativity that I suddenly find laboring and seething and seeping from my subconscience to my conscience, and attempting to explode into a volcanic spew of creation! I SEE IT TEEMING, WRITHING, ITS BEGINNING SPEWING ONTO THE BEACHES OF LITERATURE!!! AND WHAT IS THE TITLE IN MY BRAIN?

writer, writer, WRITER, WRITER, WRITER!!!YOU ARE A WRITER!!!

WHEW! What a Convulsion! Now I've gone and done it, haven't I? I've gone and started little fires all around me! Fires I can no longr put out! And the waves of the tsunami are flooding my brain with stories, skits, lyrics, poetry, pictures in Children's books, even....Everything that has to do with WRITING and WRITERS.....It's all coming out of my brain like a fuselage filled with dynamite....and WINGS that are discovered to fly at a tremendous speed, heading right into the TSUNAMI! THAT, my readers/friends, is what I feel is going on in my head right now, and I hope that it is metaphoric enough for you all. I have even had a headache for the last few days....!

Well, getting back to normal...(whew! That was hard...) I want to say just this: I don't know if we'll be here tomorrow, as the world is quite an unsafe place to hang your hat, or in which to get too comfy...but I do know one thing, and that is that we ALL have to keep ourselves busy in the throes of living and catastrophes, and all the crappy wars, and hatreds, and meaningless killings, and angry pestilences....We all have to do what we believe to be contributive (hopefully for the good) to this planet, and I have been spreading myself out like some badmitton net. Sooner or later, it's gonna tear, so it did...Thanks to this economical tsunami looming ahead, I have begun to think about what is really important. It's not selling houses to people who can't afford them, or selling loans to people who lie to get into them. It's not teaching kids who hate the system and take it out on you. It's not getting credentials and education so that someone else can tell you that you are WORTH something. It's being who you authentically are: I'm a Writer. I Write to tell, I write to encourage, to make others feel hope, love, empathy, compassion. I have to do this, it's in my soul, my brain, and my fingers and mouth, to tell you a story, and give you my opinion....It's all I can do to keep from exploding into billions of pieces.

So let me see. I am unemployed at present, and I am stocked with credentials, for WHAT, only G-D knows; but I am here. I am here, and I have a brain-thank G-D, and one that thinks!! And by some unknowingly random chance or calling, or spiritual beneficence, I have been given a job to do. I don't know if anyone will ever pay me for it. I hope I am able to live with it, and by it, but I have to do it. I AM A WRITER.

Get to the Point...

2011-04-06T09:18:00.000-07:00

Getting to the point here. I LOVE writing, but I HATE all the distractions with everything else that has to be done, and yet: all is necessary to create the living life. No. I'm not trying to be poetic here, and I'm not consciously trying to be philosophical either.

I get up, walk the dogs, feed the dogs, make coffee, oatmeal, and then instantly I am on the comp. I go into all my email accounts, check them, get to the writers' groups, check them, input if necessary....then I have to get up and WALK! Sometimes, though (don't tell anyone) I don't do it. Everything takes so much time away from writing, and I feel that the distractions are what keeps me from actually finishing a project or packaging a submission properly. It's not easy being a perfectionist either, because anything I plan to distribute publicly, I am never comfortable with the finished product.

There are wonderful groups that try and keep you leveled: NaNoWriMo, Scriptfrenzy, Coffee Shop Writers....some of the few that I frequent now, but it almost feels I need someone typing right next to me to not allow me to become distracted with the dog bark, or to have to close the verticals so the gardeners won't create a doggie havoc, or open the window to save the electrical bill, or keep shifting the air conditioning unit to cold, to hot, to cold again, and...or...you get my meaning...

Contests (like NaNoWriMo, and Scriptfrenzy) help keep one accounted for, and contests from the Writers' Market book, keep a bit of monies in your pocket, but the dream of the team is publishing...and THAT's where a writer wants to be. Why? To have a readership and have one's voice heard about what one thinks or believes; to entertain the masses with creative story telling, and to be able to share with others insightful awakenings, and so forth....Thus, in the words of Billy Crystal in the movie "Throw Mamma from the Train:" 'a writer must write--ALWAYS.'

So true. Thereby, my needing a writing partner next to me, lashing the whip as it were by pounding the keys to my pounding and our syncopating rhythms to creative fruition...Oh well...

So I'm working on a hundred different projects simultaneously: a script, two novels, re-editing my poems for a poetry book submission, re-editing my short stories and growing them from 7 to 10 for a short story book submission I hope to get published this year as well. There is so much to do, so little free time, and essentially no cheerleaders nudging me on the shoulder, screaming: "c'mon, don't stop, keep going!" How did Charles Dickens (1812-1870) do it? And his life was no piece of pie, either! I believe he was one of the most prolific writers of the Victorian age.

Okay. So let's analyze this a moment. There are writers who write like madmen or women. Are most single? Are most childless? If they have children, do their spouses or significant others keep those kids from disturbing them? Do they have pets? Do their pets remain completely still and asleep while they write for hours at a time? Do they have houses with doors, windows, air conditioning units, do they eat? What on earth do they do to keep moving forward on that story without being easily or uneasily distracted?

I have attempted to approach some authors of poetry, novel writing, etc., but most are not very conducive to discourse regarding their helpful little sundries, or if they have a cheerleading squad, urging them on. What usually happens when I ask a question on print, or try and chat, is this: nothing. They don't answer. They are probably seeing ME as a distraction and they ignore me. Wait! I think I got it! I think what I am learning from this is this: ignore everything! Don't talk to anyone, don't feed the dogs, don't walk, and don't for heaven's sake, answer any questions on the net, the phone, from the door or out of a window....Just DON'T.

A WRITER MUST WRITE........ALWAYS!

I've heard that some writers have dolls, puppets, and hats to keep them company without exacting dutiful distractions....hmmmm....(I have a couple of puppets, and some hats and dolls.)

What comes with being a writer is a very quiet world on the outside, but a very lusciously loud world on the inside. The characters, protagonists and antagonists alike, as well as myself with them, and other paraphanalia, are roaming all about my brain, giving me sometimes excrutiating headaches about what they want to say, do, or who they want to be...But such is the work and world of the writer.

Well, this was therapy, thank you. Have to get back to work, that doesn't really feel like work, but play--only HARD play.... Yes. It's exhausting. It's exhilarating. It's creative, and sometimes....it's therapy. Have to go now. Have to WRITE.

The Devil is Already Here

2011-04-05T11:29:00.000-07:00

The Devil is Already Here

by Lydia Nolan

For purposes unbeknownst to my readers, I am going to allow my friend, Jeb Grace use my platform this morning, and I will report it for his sake, to all the people who may be interested in reading it.

From Jeb Grace:

Hi Lydia. I wanted to take this moment to write about some things that have been bothering me. I will put it in the form of a human being who I won't mention by name, who needs to VENT as well, as I need to WARN during this discussion.

Our modern world is techno-conscious more than anything else. You know it. !Phones, Usbs, BlueRay, new improved television, computer, radio, etc., etc.: you name it, we've got it technologically running...

On the other hand, our moral, ethical reasoning, spiritual origins have become regressive almost to disappearance. We are much more intuned to EVIL, SPOOKY, GORE, mischievous behavior, watching videos of bullying, girls fighting, pornographic titilations, come on.....are you blind? You know what I'm talking about, you can pretend all you want, but you know...deep inside: you know.

Ms. Joy Grace: When I was a child, my mother would remind me that the world was simply not fair, and that the result of the world we lived in was to be blamed upon the devil (little D intended). I remember thinking, how sad to be hated by so many people, so much. I even felt sorry for the devil in many ways. He was misunderstood, couldn't help himself, he felt neglected, anonymously used, secondary to his colleagues, treated without the rightful height he should have been, and so on and so forth....yes: I felt sorry for the devil.

As I grew older, I was too busy attemping to follow "the other side." I would read the Bible regularly, do what was considered right, never cheat, always wait my turn, never ask for more than I needed, never pushed in front of anyone who I thought might not be as "passionate" about something as I, nor "creative," because they deserved a chance as well. I would do everything I was told, took all the criticism given, used all the criticism to strive to be better, and so on and so forth.

60 years later, I am still trying to make peace with the powers that be: but just when one gets a chance to shine, suddenly, one finds oneself discriminated against for not knowing the right people, coming from the right place, going to the right schools, having a funny laugh, or being too short or tall, or being too old, too fat, too ugly, too dense, too socially inept, too brown, black, yellow, poor, too uneducated, too simple, too unpopular, too untrendy, and on and on and on....how interesting...there is only a very small portion of any of the best goods to a small portion of the PERFECTLY qualified few...

Mr. Hopeless : I've been thinking that I should look for a good lawyer to represent me on my student loans. Now that I've got the bill and must pay it, I can't because I can't find even a job with all the many credentials I've racked up because I haven't any of the above 'credentials' Ms. Grace spoke about. Those are after all, the real qualifications. The icing on the cake today was when I tried to use my screenwriting software that had come to me by mail, (opened oddly), and finding out that someone else has registered my product (I paid for), and that I can not utilize the product's resources because "I don't own the productt!!!" Just wanted to try and bring back hope and what happens? My hard saved few hundred dollars while I was in school....What kind of people steal other people's monies, dreams, and joy?

Ms. Grace: I wish I could tell my mom and dad, but instead I'm going to be completely honest here, which is not recognized for the politically correct syndrome to which we've become accustomed.

There is only one reason why the world is not fair. Because those that try to be upstanding and honest, show integrity and patience in the system and are true believers in their parents, their God, and their good intentions--while being so--are also laying down ans TAKING IT: being spoon fed these instructions of "wait, be patient, don't be pushy, wait until someone calls you..." while those OTHERS who have no qualms about cheating, stealing, murdering, taking advantage of others, accounting for what is not their doing if it turns out good, and not admitting those things that turn out bad; these others are always with you. They are the ones that "get a job by knowing someone" or "taking stuff from the company because they've given their time to it" or "cheating on their taxes because big brother gets too much of their hardearned money" or they sleep with their friends spouse because their friend doesn't take care of the spouse right anyway, the spouse SAYS so" or "they took the extra change or steal the shirt or blouse without mentioning the mistake or having empathy on the employee that will probably lose their job" or . .. do I need to go on?

Mr. Hopeless: I'd also like to add something. We have military because we want to try and protect a little space of our own to progress into the country we want to model for the others, but then our own people start to turn on our own government chanting that our government is secretly conspiring against us....(who starts those stories?), which is why we have to pay taxes for those good roads, safe freeways, and the most advanced systems in the world.

WE have policeman and policewomen because we want to make sure the laws of our lands are upheld, but then our citizens look for ways to find weaknesses in those protectors because "they think they're something special," or "who do they think they are; they're just like you and me..." or "did you see that? They hit that person who was stealing or killing, or abusing children, or whatever!"

Ms. Grace: Doesn't anyone notice how we are bringing into fruition the prophetic biblical quote: The good will be evil, and the Evil will be good?

And then it occurred to me...my mom and dad was right: the devil is already here!

He plays the martyr, but he's really very hateful, suspicious, prideful, calculative, manipulative, stubborn, destructive, shrewd, and very, very creative....which is why only the devil can turn things around as the devil has...Evil is Good, Good is Evil.

And then I realized who the DEVIL is: people who hurt other people in any way they can; not because they are thinking about it, but because they are thinking only of themselves, and if someone who is ignorant of the killing game, gets in the way, they are expendable. (No one likes talking about negative things, I know....which only makes us remain oblivious to it...or at least keep it from our conscious minds).

Mr. Hopeless: There is so much to be said about this, and I KNOW that even my few words here will be misconstrued by those woremongers that like to pick apart anyone who is trying to bring good about, and destroy them as well. Maybe it's easier to be quiet and stay out of the limelight; (don't let the devil know where you are, else he finds you and makes 'light' of your plight).

Jeb Grace: Yes, we laugh at those who try and go to church each week, who try to teach honesty, integrity, and so on. We laugh at those same ones who are giving into the pressure and going under through drinking, suicide, catatonia, or whatever they do to forget, to put their head in the sand, to give way to those who HAVE NO CONSCIENCE and don't mind stealing and cheating, and murdering the spirits of those who wait patiently for their portion.

Ms. Grace: The world can NEVER be fair as long as those devil children are running loose around the world. It isn't in us to kill them; that's wrong! But we can stop participating with them....Somehow this whole worldly scenario reminds me of the story "Lord of the Flies." In fact, it is a direct metaphor for what is actually happening in the world today! And it's been going on for too long, which is why it's just getting worse!!

My parents also told me about the Christian rapture, which is just another way of saying those that care will no longer be here participating in the world...the spirit of 'good' will be no longer...

Jeb Grace: When that happens the world will be chaos....! Don't forget: The Devil is Here Already. Stop blaming God, as you might see G-d, or God, or Jesus, (or however your belief system works). Even all those who portrayed the nature of God's goodness through Buddah, or Mohammed, or Ghandi, tried but we go back to omission whenever those guys leave us....

Instead we follow fearfully those who portray the opposite: the Psycho Money Climbing, slimey backbiters that are called corporate or wealthy 'beneficent' people (it's a disguise). They only do just so much to be recognized....just like their father the devil! The World will soon be over as we knew it....It's not G-d's fault, it's yours!

It's ours! It's our faults for saying, doing, nothing. For compromising in order to receive the 30 PIECES OF SILVER ('fake remuneration') that gives us the sense that we have the 'right to live.' We all breathe, we all function--why can't we think about this carefully? Instead we let things go on like Rhuanda, and the Holocaust, and various hateful acts against homosexuals, children, and women by destructive animal type people who no one seems to CARE TO STOP...! We worry more about their rights in prison than we do the ones that got hurt by them!

Ms. Grace: It's time for a revolution, but a quiet reclamation of our righteousness. Maybe we should stop participating in THEIR world, make our own bartering system, help each other, and make a good world reflection, juxtaposed to theirs; THAT would be a rapture indeed!

Do Something RIGHT! Do Something COURAGEOUS, Do Something that gives your weaker brother a chance to believe again. Just DO SOMETHING!!Jeb Grace

Thoughts on Absurdities Humans Are Capable of...

2011-04-04T16:31:00.000-07:00

I came across a site accidentally while doing some research. It's easy to forget those horrible things in History no one really wants to remember, for our insensitivity to it after awhile.

I had written a poem about children. When I think of children, I think of how resilient they seem, yet so fragile. I think about their moody blues, their silliness, their moments of clarity struck in their faces like hearing a ghost story. I think about how children love to run, especially if where they are running to, is for something sweet, or tasty, or fun, or mischievous sometimes...but they love to run.

And then I came across this site, and I felt sick. I cried. I thought about the many, many tiny little feet running to their death. And I wanted to take it all back. I thought about the REASON for their death: because they were the wrong kind of religion; the wrong kind of people, culture, language....whatever...but the wrong kind nonetheless. But they were also children. No one protected the children. Their parents couldn't because they were being killed the very same way. I thought I would share with you today how my heart felt about this terrible subject of the Holocaust, and why we must NEVER FORGET!

Image Compliments of

Michael V. Metzger

Little Feet

© Lydia Nolan-Ruiz

My G-D! Look at all those little feet!

Driven in the cold, driven, those little feet!

Never to go to carnival or a picture show.

Little feet burn dry, wading in the snow—

Dirty, aching, driven running feet into the cold. . . .

My G-D! Look at all those little feet!

Run! Run little feet! Don’t gaze upon the piles!

Down you go—the moon aglow—piled on the deep, deep heap—

Slide into the massive grave, grave so dark and deep. . . .

Every hurried stride your unknown torture.

Every movement closer to your fate unknown.

Under clouds and cold, your G-D in Heaven:

Shortly, meet the Lover of your soul—

Who can fathom depths of such a hatred.

Who could plan so carefully, evil intent.

Hardly a life's breath, G-D created to be sacred.

Exterminate? What evil humans can invent...

What I wish is sacred love and sanctity,

For those little feet that took hatred and murder away
Resurrect our sorrow in place of inhumanity

Resurrect all the little angels—all eternal day

All the little children, driven, running on those little feet...

Kiss these little feet, envision spirits lost in haste,

Little striped angels will we be good enough to meet

Running finally to a cloud of peace and joy, and space…

(...Please forgive our idiocy....)

footnote: Please check out this site, read and remember, so that it will not happen EVER, any more...
http://isurvived.org/Memorial-CHILDREN.html

"The first to perish were the children, abandoned orphans

The world's best, the bleak earth's brightest

These children might have been our comfort

From these sad, mute, bleak faces

Our new dawn might have risen"

- From "Song of the Murdered Jewish People"

by Yitzhak Katzenelson

Why do Writers Procrastinate??

2011-03-27T12:34:00.000-07:00

As a writer, I would like nothing better than to sit immediately at my desk, in my office, and WRITE!

I visit my social groups, yes, but then I want to set my mind to its many writing tasks.

Then I remember: without the body, my mind would have no place to conjure its creative monsters and magic, so "you and I, brain, have to work this bodice, if only to the minimal, to keep us alive--hate it! BUT..."

So I go outside, breathe the fresh air, put on my IPod with my many varied artists who go along with me, and begin walking around the one mile trek through my complex. It's safe, it's quiet, and it's measurable. I took 20 minutes to make that effort. Then I went back in.

After my oatmeal and OJ, I am able once again to enter into the write domain, and pursue my work. For the moments prior, I must contemplate what it is I've got to do first....
Sometimes this takes a long time....like....30 years!

Still THINKING??????

Now I've got to make some choices here. I've got a lot of poetry to edit ...for final preparation to seek publishers ....
PLEASE !
PUBLISH MY POETRY!
SO I CAN GET OUT OF THIS
ANONYMOUS BOX!

And then I've got my childrens' book I need to look for a home as well. And then there is the screenplay, the script, the other novel, more poems, and.... (I had pictures and other things to show you, but I've been on this blog for hours now trying to make the html do what I want it to do, rebooting for freezes, removing unwanted overloaded temp files, and ........................!!!!!!!!!!!!)

..........Being that it's Sunday, I should rather prepare for lunch. We'll have hotdogs and coke (and a little tv) instead....y'think? What d'ya'think??

Okay, okay.....I've procrastinated enough just THINKING about all the projects, and probably could have begun one with 20 minutes into it already..........

... I think I'll start with the poems...

I've got ANOTHER site to present still more of my work, where publishers about my work, can peruse my working titles which are to be perused as works in the making...and: http://www.author-l-nolan-ruiz.com/ and, well.... I will be uploading my poems just as soon as I get some..........uh..... time (ahem...)

A Writer's Home Office (and Colleagues)

2011-03-25T11:23:00.000-07:00

I am trying to preserve my sanity in being continually alone in my little home while writing. I am actually quite a social being, but being a writer does not afford me much of that part of my personality.

For one thing, I'm unusually intense. if I'm writing I can't be bothered with anything else. NOTHING! So the object of this blog is to tell you how I manage somewhat of a "social" atmosphere in the privacy of my solitude, whenever I feel a bit stircrazy.

First, a writer has to make a space. I have two bedrooms: a "master bedroom" and a "guest" room which I have turned into an office. The two bedrooms are opposite sides of the condo, so neither obstruct or distract the other....So let's talk about my "space for writing."

I've created my office in the "guest" room, which can still actually work as a guest room, since it has a couch on the opposite side (which we'll see later), but for now and as long as I'm in this condo, this is the office. I've set it up to view the outside patio, for inspiration, as all you writer's understand we need.

And so, you can see how it is quite comfortable.

Part of a writer's comfort is to be visited once in a while by colleagues. So I have visitors who are silent, but their presence felt nonetheless.

Alfie is the oldest of the group. An 11 yr. old black furry cat. Alfie loves to tease the two dogs I own as well, because he's bigger, and because he's in need of another feline companion. But only two pets are allowed. I just couldn't give him away, so he sleeps in (and pretty much owns) the office when I am asleep at night. I leave a "peek-a-boo" area on my desk and the window vertical slats partially open so he can watch for strange critters in the middle of the night!

And then there is Edison, who is going on 7 yrs old. He is feisty to say the least. He and Alfie do not "play" as they are both males and seem to believe each as the king of the roost. They walk carefully around each other.

And Finally, there is Chloe: the love of Edison's life (though he is quite cruel at times to this lovely little canine--who is somewhat mentally challenged). Chloe loves Alfie, and they frolic often. Edison merely overlooks them, but in the end of the day, both Chloe and Edison sleep undisturbed in the "master" bedroom closet together, as Alfie sleeps in the office.

So now you've met my colleagues.

These dear friends are who egg me on to continue my writing. They sit and gaze at me night and day. They paw at me whenever they need to eat or take a little walk out back. Sometimes they even bid me take a nap and we all hop up on the giant bed: zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.....

No matter, they are valuable to me, as you can see....And they are inspirational.

The next thing about a 'comfortable office' is the view a writer needs to be able to take once in a while.

I have purposely situated my desk so that it looks out onto the patio, where I can see as well the mountains passed my carport (and the gas meter man or the mailman).

You, dear reader, cannot see the beautiful view as well as I can, but I will note the view here in pictures for you.

By the time I finish explaining to you about my lovely office I have now to tell you the bad news: I'm moving...Yes.

I hate moving, and I especially hate leaving my office after I've got it just right.

It seems, unfortunately though, that I have been moving only too often of late.

I make a beautiful office, but can never stay long enough to actually finish and publish my work in it!

Such is my life for the past two years. A transitory shambles. Thus I move until I can find the place in which I will finally be able to settle.

The coming move will take me quite far from this place and it pains me to make another move altogether as this will be my fifth in the last two years. Furthermore, the next one coming is only temporary as well.

This does not seem a like a plausible, nor a professional thing for a writer to do when in my case I want so much to FINISH!!!

However, it is something that has to be done. After the "temporary" place, I hope to be in a "permanent" one (wherever a teaching job will be nearing and accepting me on staff).

I'm good at creating a posh and comfortable place to write. In fact, I thought perhaps I have missed my true calling and I should be a writer's designer instead. Oh well....

When I get to my "permanent home" I shall do create once again, the office in which I will stay (I pray!)

For now, I continue as I am, and I hope to finish and get published soon, so that my "permanent" home can occur more quickly and I can continue and FINISH writing!

Love to all! Keep close please (and if I publish, please buy my book, I guarantee you it will be entertaining no matter what kind it is!)

Such is the life of a Writer....

Socalnovelist@yahoo.com

Falling in Love with Dead Men.

2011-03-23T10:44:00.000-07:00

Alright, I will admit: dead men are more attractive to me than live ones...

Why, you say. Because of many reasons. But before I tell you why, let me show you a few of the dead men of whom I speak. The first dead man is:

William Faulkner
1897-1962

Let me give you an excerpt of his speech for the Nobel Prize in 1949:
"...He must learn them [issues of the heart] again. He must teach himself that the basest of all things is to be afraid; and, teaching himself that, forget it forever, leaving no room in his workshop for anything but the old verities and truths of the heart, the old universal truths lacking which any story is ephemeral and doomed - love and honor and pity and pride and compassion and sacrifice. Until he does so, he labors under a curse. He writes not of love but of lust, of defeats in which nobody loses anything of value, of victories without hope and, worst of all, without pity or compassion. His griefs grieve on no universal bones, leaving no scars. He writes not of the heart but of the glands...."

Does anyone realize how prophetic this is!? WWII had just ended and alll everyone worried over was about being annihalated by the atomic bomb. Thus, the human race forget about the issues of the heart; the true issues that lead to atomic bombs, and war, and annihalation of the human race. We have gone no further with the issues of the heart. We are all greedy for wealth and renown. Many say, it is because once they have these, they will do good for the rest of the world, but when it is gotten, they forget. Faulkner saw this because of his acute observation, and stellar ability to communicate his heart to everyone listening. I love him for his directness and acuity.

Another wonderful dead man is (as I shared with you yesterday):

Albert Einstein
                                    1879-1955

Einstein also won the Nobel Prize, but for Physics, unlike Faulkner's prize for Literature. Why is he loved? Read yesterday's blog.

Another one is:


John Keats

1795 -1821

A Romantic Poet, he died way too young (24) and actually wrote more meaningful than many elder folks at such a young age. His poetry was filled with insight about love, loss, and hopeful, memorable thoughts. He was passionate and lived only long enough to see his family through death. So it was, that he was destitute and his friends saw him through his own death. What friends. But friends like that come when someone like John Keats is a good friend himself, which apparently he was. Read his short bio, it only encompasses about 20 years of his short life.

Another dead man is:
Robert Frost
1874-1963

I believe Frost was a very private and difficult individual to understand, especially in person. His poems, however, say much of his constant dilemmas in life, and how he saw the labor of his journey through it. It seemed to him to be rigorous, indeed. It is evident he did not share much with those closest to him; his son committed suicide. Frost suffered over that all his life, and remained with one woman the entire length of it. I see those elements as those of a serious minded, reflective human being, who learns from his mistakes. His poetry, like John Keats, gave evidence of a great heart of passion and longing, and yet a steadfast, disciplined pace of which their poetry depicts. How can one not love such men.

Another man was:
Shel Silverstein
1930-1999
, and yet another was:
Pablo Neruda
1904-1973
and yet another was:

Langston Hughes
1902-1967
and yet another was:

William Shakespeare
1564-1616

Alright, alright....you get the picture.....WHY these men are so worthy of my love, and EVERY womans' love...

                                                                ********************

Do you understand why some dead men are more attratctive than live ones? Because we find out AFTER THE FACT.....We find out AFTER they are dead, what sensitive, intellectual, deeply moving and passionate, and truly authentic men they are! That is, if a woman was born or raised into reading after these kinds of men died. Thank God for books, and the meaning of saving words for posterity...

I tire of going on with this muse, for she is pining deliberately from boredom. However, there is a thread of resemblance that goes through these once living souls. They are not men that give up easy. They are men of heart and passion, and every one of them were idealistic in their deeper soul, while none of them withheld themselves from the larger forum of humanity as they secretly longed for more love and beauty in life itself.

What this says of these men is that people remember men like this. Men who leave hope for nobility and charity, and apathy, and wonderment, as well as depict in their words those human weaknesses such as disillusionment, broken-heartedness, desperation, and loss. These men shown the real humanity of which we are all capable.

Unfortunately, the men of today use too much of their time and energy on material and valueless things. What living men can learn from these deadmen, is self-authenticity as a noble human being of which everyone is capable, and how to lead women from frivolity, to athenticity....(women have become frivolous as well, I admit).

Until living men use these qualities of authenticity without fear, and have the courage to be REAL LIVE men, they will not find women of the same caliber. Women are direct reflections of the men in the world in which they live. This is why I would rather live in deadman's land: there aren't too many of those authentic men around anymore.

Forget the 'tool' mentality: the muscles, the brawny car, the money coming out of the ears, and the prestige...All of those things are nice, yes. But sensitivity, authenticity, integrity, and intimacy with love are far greater and you will be remembered when you're dead, too.

Okay, 'nuf said. I'm going back to work.

2011-03-22T11:00:00.000-07:00

We spend our whole lives in contradiction.

We teach our children to look for one person

In the whole wide world...one's soulmate.

And to love and live with that one soulmate forever.

By contradiction, we look over and over again

For that one person to be our soulmate,

While passing through so many souls, as though
They had no value...as though rejection of them didn't matter...

We love them for a while, live with, and learn from them,

Then keep going; doing it over and over again...searching for
Perfection...

No wonder our children don't do what we teach them...

~Lydia Nolan

I have been thinking about many things while I am writing, and living, and doing...One thing struck me today. Why am I blogging at all? I know it has been in my nature since I can remember, to want to tell others what I think, what I know, how I know things, who I trust and don't, and why I love and feel so much...Initially, it seemed natural for me to want to post a blog. But then, I begun to feel that what I wrote about was mere fodder, and valueless stuff, when compared to other blogs I've read. Perhaps I needed to find a more important subject than being a writer...

There are blogs that keep updates of various pertinent issues in life, like scandals, celebrities, murderers and their judgments; funnies, sad or meaningful stories....and then I look upon my own: what have I offered to anyone of value?

I have spent my whole life asking this same question in everything I do. I feel many things, and want to do many things. But I do or change nothing. I live wondering had I done it, would it have made a difference to anyone? Or, would I have been able to see any fruits of labor, or could I possibly be led into more and more important places of value to give of myself more as well?

Each person I come to know I feel deeply for. Not necessarily a lustful love relationship, though that has happened in its time past, but more so a friend in the world; a common bond of sympathy, as Einstein had put it...

Albert Einstein: born March 14, 1879 Died: April 18, 1955 at Princeton, New Jersey.

http://nobelprize.org/nobel_prizes/physics/laureates/1921/einstein-bio.html

It was only a few years ago that I read this lovely excerpt of Einstein's, and it touched me so, for I knew that was exactly how I had felt most of my life. But I didn't do anything like Einstein. In fact, I see that all I have done has never amounted to much. The only thing I could really be proud of in any form, or feel my true value came into--though it could be argued by those ones--is the love I have felt for my children.

Einstein's words said: "Man [woman] is here for the sake of other [human beings]...Above all, for those upon whose smile and well-being our own happiness depends..." And I think about how young I was when I had my daughter...I was 17: hardly an age for a mother, particularly for a person who is cognizant of the smile and well-being of their tiny and precious baby...I wish I had been as I am now...

Einstein also said: "And also for the countless unknown souls with whose fate we are connected by a bond of sympathy..." And here I find my most heart. I see back to the children I bore, their raising, the ways in which I understood my destiny and plight as a mother, and theirs as my children. How I do wish I could start over again. For I understand so much more than as a young girl, and even when I had the last of my children--I was older, but I was still latent in my understanding...

Finally Einstein says: "Many times a day I realize how much my own outer and inner life is built upon the labors of my fellow [humans], both living and dead, and how earnestly I must exert myself to give in return as much as I have received." And this brings me to a vast sea of faces in memory, those to whom I owe so much, who lived and labored--some tirelessly, and without remuneration or renown, or even acknowledgement--and I feel a great sympathy indeed, for us all. For we strive to live, to love, to find what we believe we must find. And through all this, we make so many errors, while trying to teach our children what is forthright and lasting, and becoming of a noble soul. Yet, we cannot blame them for not believing us wholly, since we too struggle to find ourselves--they too, are struggling to find themselves.

I am satisfied to be a one in the many, who owns a tiny plot of influence where I can give or bestow on those who may need or want it. I am satisfied now to be one with the many, and to be able to live in that connectedness "by a bond of sympathy..." for our struggles, our sincerities, our fatalities, and our hopes & dreams, to find what is forthright and lasting, and becoming of a noble soul...

Between Chapters...

2011-01-20T13:21:00.000-08:00

Whoever said it was easy to write a novel was a liar, or they had a ghostwriter.

Novels take time for many reasons. The novelist has to first have an audience, hence, in which genre does the novelist write to gratify her/his following. The novelist must also have a story within her or himself that will actually FIT the specific genre, toward which her/his audience are led to read.

Once the genre is determined the story must be carefully plotted, and characters carefully fleshed out to fit the plot; not one protagonist and one antagonist, but many, MANY other characters (since this is a novel) that will help carry the plot to its end.

Then, there is the carrying of the plot structure: how many complications will be enough, and how many subplots will there be to make the characters move toward the main character's plot, to carry it to the next complication. These are the every day pages; the routine business as usual life events that we really don't think about while we are living within these events. But the novelist HAS to think about these minute movements because everything leads to the next movement, or plot complication, or to the climax of the novel, or to the denoument and all the tie-ins, etc.

So. Let's take a deeper look at novelists, shall we? Some novelists have been raised very well. They have been taught the good things like discipline, and steadfast application, and have been guided by those caretakers that have rallied for, and spoken to the young storyteller, making it much more easy to lay down a plot, and focus most of their lives to what they had at a very young age, already conceived as their purpose in life.

Then, there are those novelist who lived the life of a child running with scissors, maiming and being maimed by sporadic and inconsistent symbols and signs, masquerading as guidance and care, but really taught the good lesson of inconsistent consistency, and undisciplined discipline. Fortunately, these kinds finally find their way to the novel board--late perhaps, but found, nonetheless.

Viewing these two origins does not make life any easier for the novelist, oh perhaps a little for the former, but still, there is much work to be done.

I admit I am in the second group, thus my sense of discipline is somewhat lacking, and I have to leave the chair of imagination often enough to keep my sanity. Hence, the activities for sanity follows.

I like to think that when I get bored of my own day to day stuff in the novel, I can turn to another source to renew the spirit as it were. So what I do is this. I finish up a shorter project, or edit another one which is in a different genre, or I write more poems. There are so many ways in which I keep me from pulling my hair out when I am stimied on some area of the context or content of the novel. Or sometimes...maybe I'll just take a walk...

I was working on a children's book as well. I'm almost finished and will let you know how that works out while I'm still writing 'the NOVEL.'

The Dance

2011-01-19T10:26:00.000-08:00

Our greatest challenge is to DO today, what we have no surety we will or can do tomorrow. Why is it a challenge? Because we tend to become frozen in fear, worrying about what will BE tomorrow, and that makes us DO NOTHING today. One way to keep ourselves from becoming stimied in fear is to do ... the Dance.

If we make our list of what we will do today, we ask ourselves, "and then?" Next, we tell ourselves what we will do after that project is done and at that point we find ourselves asking once again, "...and then?" We go through the 'routine' of what some may call imagery, or others may call apprehensive plotting, or still others may call 'speculating in advance, but we are also looking to see if there may be pitfalls..." and while in every case, we keep plotting, we come to an imagined obstacle, or crossroads, and become stimied or fearful, and so we stop; we either put it aside (procrastination) put it on the back burner (distraction), or we find something else to work on (memory loss). Whatever we call it, it is still an imaginary future we see, good turned possibly bad, and we don't do anything with it at all. While all this is happening we have not been there in the present. So if we are looking at this 'future place,' having all these issues with our future thoughts, what is happening in the present?

The abovementioned scenario of our imaging or speculating is not meant to tell you that you should not do it: you should. It's a positive response to a negative present sense of loss of purpose. But it also must be moved forward along with the present. And what is the present? The practical part of the future, right? Aha!

As a writer, I find myself looking always for quotes or anecdotes to feed my inspiration and give me motivation to carry on; to plot my future path. This is what I call the "Dance."

Sometimes, I even go to funcions or cultural events, to ease my present mind of anxiety (some of us call boredom), and in some of those times, lightening will strike--not literally, but metaphorically.

At a Pow Wow, I watched this young boy dancing with all his regalia, and the props in his hand that represented various things throughout the dance, as did his steps, turns, regressions, and progressions. Yes, the Native Americans have their understanding of each part of the dance, but I came to a realization about the dance myself, which is so Native American of me, because I do have Native American (Apache) blood in me.

The Dance has stops and starts, turns, shudders, bows, and upward looks as simbolizes prayer. The Dance can be viewed as a human being on the path, or journey, of the road of life. In every person's walk through life we have obstacles of various orders and sorts: pitfalls, fences, people who are dangerous, heartaches in love or purpose, losses of people, hopes...just many different events that change our way, or at least delay us from the end result--in terms of the dance interpretation, into which is the journey of life we follow, to the spirit world. How we maneuver is how we will faire at the end of the journey, so we carefully dance in such a way that we make it passed those obstacles, whatever they may be, and keep moving forward. The goal is to finish the dance as the Great Spirit meant us to finish it, and if we do, we are successful, and we are where we should be.

Envisioning, speculating, and plotting is part of the dance. We are trying to move forward, but we get stimied by fear, so we dance our way through the journey, per se, by creating some type of movement forward--in the present. But make no confusion about the activity--we are dancing our way through the journey, to get to the finishing line: our own set beliefs in our end. BUT remember this: the Dance is the present moment. The Dance is beautiful with its regalia (health, happiness, beauty, youth, love, and so forth...) and it is coursed with perfect rhythm and style, as our present life should be. We don't stop, we Dance...We get up, we hug our families, we clean our homes, we work on our projects to completion, and then we eat dinner and love our loved ones, and so forth....the present Dance. The sidesteps, turns, etc. are the obstacles. Don't be afraid of them, Dance through.

Why novelists could be suffering from "Writer's Block"

2011-01-15T15:09:00.000-08:00

I had wondered why I would have begun to experience "writer's block" again, after finally breaking through in the last few months, having had writer's block for at least a good year prior to the breakthrough. Let me explain.

I had suffered with writer's block for a long time, and having begun to discuss with a therapist this issue, the therapist and I found a breakthrough, and I began writing again. In fact, I had a wonderful story/plot/whole novel come to me, and I began it during the NANOWriMo event in November. I began my novel, attempting to write 40,000 words in 20 days (I came into it late in the month!)

I was doing great, having NOT finished for WriMo, but having accomplished 25,000 words into my new novel, when I suddenly found myself completely 'BLOCKED' again. I didn't know why. But I realized something about me that I had not realized before. This realization made me aware of something about writers being 'blocked.'

I kept finding myself hemming the issue I was 'stuck on.' I was stuck on a very deep level, subconscious, philosophical issue, here, by which--I had never realized--I was deeply, deeply consumed. One of the major issues in my mind at all times, is the philosophical foundation I learned at childhood. What I do or say must always first be tempered by the question to my self: will this endeavor I begin be corrupting, disturbing, or irresponsible to the general public? Or, will it be beneficial, growth-producing, and elevating to one's soul or mental maturity?

Why I explored this is because my novel is about a serial killer vs. a police investigator with some very strange ties and twists. But I did not explore my subconscious right away. It wasn't until I began to utilize some of the therapeutic tactics I was given by my therapist, to see why I was having 'blocks', that I began to realize this issue.

I realized that I was disturbed by some of the content about which I was coming to write, that I was unsure how to preset it in a thrilling, yet hopeful way, which is based on a true human being, and it caused me to stop and become blocked at that juncture....I was subconsciously deciding whether I wanted, or not, to put those things in the book, as to why it had to be there, and if it would help or hinder the plot. But I had not actually looked openly into myself about these plot complications, so instead I became 'blocked.'

As I came to meditate on some of these things, I became aware of my dilemma. Once I could speak to it directly and openly, I began to work out the plot, wrote some notes, which I believe were effective, and right after that I began to write furiously again. So I was 'un-blocked.'

Writers at times need to take a look at themselves as to why they are blocked, allow every thought in their subconscious after having discovered them, (do not hold back), and look soberly at each one, see what it may be that is bothering the novel's progression. It's a wonderful progression once you find this. And, it has become for me, a very useful tool.

I will be looking back at this whole 'block' scenario, for my next area of frustration in this or any other section or plot complication, or another novel, and I believe this tool has given me the impetus to know that I can achieve my goal: the completion of my novel. Now. How many novelists do you know that will tell you honestly how they go about writing a novel?

A Change in Venue

2011-01-02T12:13:00.000-08:00

You are Here. You WERE at the Drop of Reign (pun intended) I had power over; just one drop in the vast sea of souls.

But now, I have intended to make a change. You are Here, now, at the embarkment of a new journey. The making of a novelist. Myself.

I will explain my blow by blow into this realm of newfound and foreign activity. I have been writing for years, but never a novel. Though I thought much about it, I had never had the guts or the patience to see it through.

You will be my confidante and my supporter, those of you who wish to journey with me through this new experience. It's a new year, therefore, a new journey. Take it with me.

This year I plan to finish what I've started years ago. I have a new series coming up, beginning with the first novel. Prior to this, I had a life novel: my rendition of the Great American Novel. I need to finish this one as well. I realized something very significant that made me do this change in venue.

Had I finished long ago, my desire to write these stories, I would have been a renowned author--I am sure--by now. Novels have to have meaning to readers. I think mine will. I believe in me, and in the readers that will benefit from my stories. Hence, the change in venue.

No more simple little drops of thoughts on the Reign of Life. Now, these thoughts will be positioned into an applicatory work of art that will explicate a philosophy of life--mine.

Hold on, and if you dare, or care, keep tuning in. You will not be disappointed. Now. I must get to work--for--you--my dearest reader.