Trying to Find Writing Again ...

So I think it's safe to say that I've lost writing.

This is heartbreaking to me, as writing has been my solace, my sanity, and my safety since I was a very little girl. I don't remember NOT writing ... and now I can't seem to do it.

There's a part of me that says, "Gee, you know, maybe I've said all I need to say." Deep inside, though, I know this isn't the truth.

So, then, what is?

I think the truth is that the things I have to say are complicated. They are inflammatory. They put a lens on people, including myself, who have not acted well.

That lens is strong. It's unbreakable. It's also got a "no going back" clause.

I have always had a rebellious streak. I never wanted to do what I was supposed to do in the way I was supposed to do it.

However, I also have a "people-pleaser" streak. I would hope that nothing I write would never hurt people. At this point in time, I'm not sure that's possible.

I could write about fluffy bunnies and Christmas spirit and how beautiful the ocean is ... but who really cares?

What I want to write about ... well, I suspect people would care, but it might piss off a lot of people. Intentionally lighting fires under folks is not my style.

And so I'm silent.

The other problem is that there is a novel brewing. It's very John Irving-esque, and it's largely true. Writing that novel could either kill me or save me. I'm not sure I'm ready to roll the dice on that one.

Yet it haunts me, that story that is begging to be told, that story that has never been told. Even with the protective label of "fiction", I don't know that I have the courage to go there, and so I beat myself up metaphorically every time I fire up my laptop.

Anyway, I'll stop rambling. I am going to try to write more.

I don't feel like me without writing.

A New Direction: The Philosophy of All of Us

When I first started this blog, I was in a very different place emotionally, physically, and about any other -ly you can think of.

Me in 2014

 Me in 2010

I'm going through some pretty hard-core health drama at the moment, and I have found myself unable to write.  My plan is to move this blog in a new direction, to either write about topics you (my readers) recommend or what I see on the news.  Or maybe the naked guy in a Santa jacket my husband and daughter saw at the ice cream shop yesterday.

If there are topics you'd like me to tackle, please either comment below or read through some of the posts I'm linking and ask for clarification or to look at something from a different angle.  You can contact me at kloud1026 at yahoo(dot)com.  I have got to get rid of this stupid writer's block (I intend to leave a mark on the world in some way), so please, I encourage suggestions for writing topics.

Going back to the beginning of this blog (gulp), here are some things I think might be interesting reads for newcomers ...

*  My sister and I had the most epic Facebook conversation ever.  It gets into horse urine and lettuce and really odd places. I just peed a little when I reread it ;-p

* In 1998, I was raped at a small party at a friend's house.  I can say those words aloud now, but back when I wrote this, I could only write them.

*  Stephen King on writing before he wrote On Writing; in fact, he compares it to masturbation.  Okay, he's a little weird, but best author ever, really!

*  I'm quite amused by my random ramblings about pink tissues.  Who knew?

*  This is where I honor the man my ex-husband used to be.  I forgot some of the finer things about him, and I'm sorry to report that they haven't returned.

* I got caught up on why children's television is so milquetoast these days.  It's a bit soap-boxy, but I enjoyed rereading it.

*  If you know me well at all, you know I am fascinated by Charles Manson.  That is explained a bit here.

* If you are from New Hampshire, you are probably familiar with the name Michael Addison.  I am still bothered by the potential racism in a criminal case here in the Granite State.

*  Way back in 2009, I got rather indignant at the whole "Lipstick on a Pig" debacle during the Obama vs. McCain election.

*  I used Socrates to talk about the Easter Bunny in this post.  That sort of makes it a must-read.

I guess that's a pretty wide variety of posts for you to read, if you're interested. Again, starting tomorrow, I am blogging daily.  I am hoping desperately to find something to write about since I've been blocked for so long.  Please share your ideas in comments or via e-mail and let me know if you read any of those Golden Oldies listed above.

I'm sort of laughing and crying both right now ... and wishing I had a pink tissue.

Be well,
<3 katie="" p="">

Why I Don't Love the Holidays

I used to blog a lot, then I got bogged down with writer's block, life, and foot surgery.  I took a series of "mirror pictures" the other day, and the metaphor of looking at myself in the mirror was not lost on me; it has, if nothing else, made me want to write again, which is a step in the right direction.

So here I am ...

 
And here goes my latest attempt at musings (I should mention that much of why I've been unable to write lately is because I have so much I want to write about--gun control, the asinine faux celebrations by some groups that are downright insulting when you get right down to it, the use of technology in schools, just to name a few).

Holidays are supposed to be a happy time, right?  I always--always--end up miserable, disillusioned, and feeling downright lonely.

I should make very clear that Christmas was wonderful and incredible for my girls, which is of course the most important thing.

In terms of me personally, though, it boils down to two main things that cause me angst around the holidays.

*  My step-father passed away on December 23 several years ago.  He was one of the best, and I miss him terribly.  My mother has it even worse, and my entire family is honestly pretty down in the dumps at Christmastime.

This year I had a new wrinkle added.

I went to the cemetery on the 23rd, put an ornament on the tree planted there along with a letter I'd written to him, and then I cried a lot.

I learned recently that my stepdad loathed Pythagorus (the blog pseudonym I use for my alcoholic, emotionally abusive ex-husband), felt from the moment he met him that he was weak and unstable.  He found Pythagorus to be completely pathetic, predicting long ago that Pythagorus would self-destruct because ... well, that's what mentally ill people unable to face their problems do when life doesn't go their own way.

I realized that I am angry with him for not telling me that his take on Pythagorus was that he was pretty much a sociopath, a person that sees life only in terms of himself (which is not to say that he didn't do good things but rather that he did them so that people would say, "Wow, what a good person he is!").

In other words, my stepdad had Pythagorus pegged perfectly, knew that he would cause me tremendous pain, yet let it happen anyway.

A sense came to me at the cemetery, a feeling that seemed like a message: "You have Belle, and you wouldn't otherwise."

That is true, and my magical Fairy girl is worth every broken glass and scream and lie and cruelty and bruise and humiliation he put me through.

Coming to terms with my stepdad--who was the best judge of character I've ever met--making a conscious choice to let life happen and the knowledge that it was the right thing to do even though it would epitomize the word "bittersweet" was exhausting, and it made me miss him even more this year.

I would have loved to have a conversation with my stepdad.  I kind of did at the cemetery (I always feel like I've spent time with him after going to his grave), but I wanted more, which made me miss him even more, and ... yeah, it snowballed.

*  I love to give.  The concept of doing things for other people--specifically taking the time to find a way to show the people I love that I care about them--is a beautiful thing to me.

I don't want anything in return.  Honestly, I don't.  And people don't understand when I tell them that.

What ends up happening is that people give me things that show that they don't understand me as well as I'd expected or know how to make me happy in a simple way, which is my preference.  With God as my witness, I'd rather get a piece of maple sugar candy than a diamond necklace.

So I get depressed on that level, which of course leads me to the obvious extension ... am I doing the same thing for other people?  Do I think that I am making them happy by spending time with them or having a lively conversation or giving a gift, and it's truly just depressing the hell out of them because it's all just showing how little I know them?

*  Something really amazing was supposed to be happening right around now.  It's not.  I'm sad.  

I'm realizing writing this post how selfish I sound (I am really and truly not selfish), but I guess I'm wondering if anyone else feels worse during the holiday season than any other time of year.

Here's a specific question for anyone reading this ... feel free to respond in the comments.  What are your thoughts on Yankee Swaps?

Me, I think they're fine for work parties and large social gatherings, but not for family.  The idea of taking the time, energy, and thought out of picking out a gift for someone (which could include a homemade coupon for a backrub or an afternoon of sledding, for example, or something like what Addie did for her grandmother, taking her to see Les Miserables the afternoon of Christmas day) in lieu of spending a little bit of money on something generic that involves absolutely no thought is just distasteful to me.  I realize that this is not a popular view; I almost caused a scene at Thanksgiving when I said I would refuse to participate in a family Yankee Swap (I did try to make clear that if everyone else was good with that, it was fine with me, but I just did not want to participate for reasons that I believe you understand if you're still reading this).

Anyway, I'm rambling ... but at least I'm writing :-)

The next post will be tighter, better organized, and hopefully more thought-provoking instead of me wondering if I'm the only one to wallow in self-pity at Christmastime.     

Recap Via Pictures as I Try to Atone for Sucking at Blogging

I have had terrible writer's block for months.  I don't know why, but it appears to be gone now (woohoo :-)!!!!).  Anyway, so much has gone on that writing about it seems overwhelming, so I figured that I'd do a little annotated photo catch-up post (in reverse chronological order).

Today I went mini-golfing with Henry and Belle.  It was so much fun :-)  I somehow won, which was a first.  Belle wanted an ice cream desperately when we were done, but once we got to the counter, she changed her mind to a blue raspberry slush thing.  She still looks like she ate a smurf (but she won't let me take a picture of it).

 My golden retriever is petrified of thunderstorms.  She cries and shakes and her heart beats so fast that I worry about her survival.  The only thing that makes her feel better is barricading herself into a small space, and the most recent thunderstorm found her between the recliner that Belle was sleeping in and the couch that I was sleeping on.  Poor puppy :-(

This is my current Facebook profile picture.  No makeup, I was seriously sleep-deprived, and I'd been sick to my stomach early that night, plus I don't think I've needed to have my eyebrows done so desperately since I was fourteen or so.  Still, I kind of like the picture, and I really like that I've gotten to a point where I don't feel the need to look "good" in every picture.  It's kind of freeing :-)  

 Since the death of my bed (it was a "Ward and June Cleaver" original from the fifties, I think), I've been stuck with the couch.  I have a nice Sealy full-size in my storage unit but haven't had the time to get there.  In the meantime, Sonja has decided that sleeping on the couch with me is a good idea.  Um ... no.

 Belle and I joined Pythagorus on a cruise to the Isles of Shoals.  Well, we tried to, but the boat turned around about an hour in due to seven-foot waves.  Most memorable was the fact that Miss Belle, despite my attempts to convince her otherwise, wore a summer dress and flip flops (and begrudgingly brought a sweatshirt with her).  Fortunately, I never clean my car out, so I found her spring jacket and a blanket, which was a good thing because it was FREEZING.  It was a fun morning, though, and I'm glad for it because as always, things with Pythagorus go up and down like a roller coaster, so whenever Belle can enjoy her visits with him is a good thing.

 I hate awards ceremonies because it always seems like the same kids always get the lion's share of awards.  As a result, I have for years done "class awards" for every single student on the last day of class.  They are sometimes silly (one year, one of my students and I always had to pee at the same time each day, so she got the "Best Bathroom Conversation Award") and sometimes serious (the "Untapped Potential Award"), but I think it really means a lot to the kids that I take the time to honor them all individually.  One of my students gave me this the next day...just before he took his final exam, I might add :-)

 Addie graduated from high school.  I will be doing a whole post on this when I am able to.  There are not words to describe the incredible pride and the deep trauma of watching your oldest child become a high school graduate.  I'm tearing up, so time to move on ...

 We had an awesome party at the beach house where everyone came--both of my siblings and sibs-in-law as well as my two precious nephews, plus the usual suspects.  Belle was, of course, in her glory at the opportunity to boss a couple of adoring little boys around (although in this picture, they were pushing her around in a chair ;-)).

 Belle and I went to a play at my school, and it started raining so hard it was ridiculous.  We were staying at Henry's that night, but he wasn't home yet, and I was soaking wet from my run to the car from the school (I'd picked Belle up at the door, so she was okay), so I rummaged through Henry's drawers to find a dry shirt.  I took this picture to text him and tease about going through his stuff, but I could only get it to work as a mirror pic, and then it turned into "things to notice and laugh at", such as his unmade bed and his cats' eyes and the fact that one piece of my hair looks completely blonde, and so on.  One of the things I love best about Henry is that we laugh a lot.

 As Senior Class Co-Advisor, I guess there was no way I'd get out of being part of the senior prank.  However, the kids that just graduated (my secondary babies or "school babies", as I call them) are such a good group that their senior prank was shockingly ... well, kind.

 I still have the sense of humor of a thirteen-year-old.  To wit, I took a picture of my recent order of "pot fries" (which of course fell under the "Open food" category) as well as the double entendre present on a Burger King Kid Meal.

 I had the privilege of being one of the chaperones on the senior class trip, where we went whitewater rafting and had a total blast.  The only downside was that it was on Mothers Day weekend, which ended up being okay because the seniors got us (the "mothers" who were spending their day with them instead of their own kids) cards--mine was by far the most far-out ;-).  We also got my co-advisor a lobster since she was bummed that her family was eating lobster without her.  In typical fashion, things got very silly, and the lobster's remains ended up being a mascot.  Oh, and there was a bachelor party in the cabin next door; the first night, the guys were just completely wasted, but the second night, they had a stripper.  Yeah, it was pretty damn memorable :-)  (and yes, I am in fact on that raft)

 My brother and I took Belle and my nephew Pete to Odiorne Point, which has great hiking trails and allows some really cool ocean views as well as lots of opportunities for throwing rocks into the water (one of Pete's favorite past times) and walking way out on the breakwall (which quickly became one of Belle's).  We had such an amazing time :-)

It's been a really busy few months, with a lot of good things and a couple of truly horrible things happening.  All in all, I'm just very relieved that school is out for the summer, that my writer's block appears to be gone, and that I can resume writing, blogging, and rejoining society ;-)

Character Development: Son of Late '60s Civil Rights Activists

Writing is kind of an undefinable experience. I think that's the kindest thing I can say about both the passion and frustration of my existence ... and what really and truly makes me who I am.

Yes, I have reached a point where I identify myself by my writing. Is that some sort of rite of passage? I don't know.

But anyway ...

Even before somebody told me, "Write what you know!", I did that. It was just the scope that grew, and sometimes I got swallowed up in that. I mean, I couldn't write about life as an adult when I was a fifteen-year-old high school sophomore, no matter how hard I tried.

But sometimes life or your muse or whatever hands you gifts.

The most memorable character in my completed novel, in my opinion, is Roy Pentinicci. I knew when I created Roy that he was the son of a mobster and was scarred permanently by his childhood.

As he stands now, Roy is a composite of three people.

The first and strongest influence is my longtime (and former) best friend, Andy--I think I've said before, but when I met Andy at a party when I was nineteen, I was like, "Holy crap, this guy is Roy!"

Andy is incredibly good-looking, he's been collecting many and varied sexual notches on his belt (and I'm not proud to admit it, but I own a few holes on said belt) since he was fourteen, he is street smart but not at all book smart, open to crazy adventures that you'll never forget, able to fix anything, incredibly charismatic, and really kind of a dink when you get right down to it. Andy's first concern will always be Andy, which is really kind of a tragedy.

The second influence is one of my former students, Chris. Chris had the kind of home life no child should ever have. He was eventually removed from his home, moved to a different state with a new family, and became a successful student and a star baseball player. He was a very street smart kid, and he also possessed a strong charisma that just drew people to him. Everybody listened when Chris started talking.

Like Andy, he had a tendency to look out for number one, but Chris has the ability to articulate his thanks, to understand the role that others played in the successes he has ultimately achieved in life and to be grateful for it. I still have a letter he wrote me on Teacher Appreciation Day many years ago, and I have stipulated in my will that I want to be buried with that letter because it meant so much to me.

Roy became kind because of my friend Roland, someone who is a polar opposite from the Andys and Chrises of the world. I'm not in touch with Roland as much as I used to be, which makes me sad, but unlike Andy and Chris, he has been known to read this blog, so I hope he sees this.

Roland is an introvert, a passionate reader, a mathematical genius, someone with the ability to see the world through the eyes of anybody, and an unfailingly kind person. He thinks outside the box, and his intelligence is frightening at times. He is one of the deepest people I have ever met, and I was never able to really like Roy as a character until Roland's influence stepped in.

And so life gave me three people who fit together (and it's not 1/3 + 1/3 + 1/3, by the way ... Roy is 75% Andy, the good and the bad) to create a flawed, fascinating character when combined with what I already know.

That manuscript has a dedication page, and it's in three parts--one to the girl who was my best friend from first grade through high school, one to my brother Adam and my sister Mary (they know why), and one to Andy, Chris, and Roland (you'll get their real names when the book's published ;-)).

I've flown rather far afield from my point, though, which is this: you can only sit there and wait for life to give you a character for so long.

My latest WIP has a supporting character who I know is the son of Civil Rights activists that protested with Martin Luther King, Jr. and were present at his assassination in 1968. I can't get a handle on either this man and woman or on their son.

This is what I know:

The boy does not like to talk about his parents.

He feels tremendous pressure to prove himself in a world that his parents fought for him to belong to, and he resents that pressure, although he doesn't realize it.

He suffers racist acts, including a burning cross placed on the lawn of his dorm and fairly regular posting of slurs on bathroom doors.

He is fiercely brilliant in the classroom but turns on the Eubonics when he is out of his teachers' range.

I know that his parents travel around the country on a lecture circuit, sharing their experiences.

They do not trust what they see as the tenuous truce African-Americans have with America.

They are disgusted by Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson.

They are shocked when two of their son's (white) best friends get in a physical altercation with a bully at school who refers to him by a racial epithet, facing expulsion in the process.

They feel an obligation to "make it up" to their son's friends, which is a bit awkward for everyone involved.

I cannot for the life of me write these characters with any sort of dimension at all. It's like writing about Roy before I met Andy, and I am very frustrated.

I am not a sloppy researcher. I have read extensively about this time period, about the people who would be their peers, about the tribulations faced by a child of activists.

Yet I can't seem to make these characters--either the parents, which is bad, or the boy, which is even worse--come alive.

Anybody have ideas, suggestions, or even some criticism? I love my work in progress, but I'm at a roadblock that I can't seem to get around.

Um ... help!

Poetry is not my Medium, but ...

During my daily blog-reading, I came across a post by the witty and wise Jinksy sharing a poem meant to shake a friend out of a glum mood. The piece really resonated with me and made me think about sharing a poem I wrote a few months ago when teaching villanelles to my Poetry class.

A word about poetry and me, by the way. I love poetry, read it for pleasure all the time. However, I struggle with writing it--as a writer, I am a novelist and a blogger; my ventures into other forays make me feel awkward. When I found out I would be teaching Poetry class this year, I kind of freaked. I was 100% comfortable with the reading and analyzing part, but I wasn't sure how I would do at teaching the writing process since it is something that I myself struggle with so much. I needn't have worried ... my students, to a child extremely gifted poets, taught me more about the writing of poetry than I could possibly have taught them. "Just do it," they said. "Don't you always tell us that you can make bad writing good but can't do anything with nothing?" Having my own words thrown back at me was the best thing that could have happened. I started writing poetry ... I operate under no illusions that it's GOOD poetry, but at least it is.

And here's the one I'm choosing to share with you ...

“Far More Mind Erasing Motor Booty”
(KL)

I dream of you when winter’s here
And of one chivalrous New Years Eve.
I wish that you were always near.

Friend, please know I hold you dear;
My heart is no longer on my sleeve.
I dream of you when winter’s here.

I know that I’ve shed my last tear;
The past is gone, no reason to grieve.
I wish that you were always near.

It’s more important, with the changing of years,
To know that you will never leave.
I dream of you when winter’s here.

Can I possibly make it any more clear?
Strings of my life were made for you to weave.
I wish that you were always near.

When I’m with you, I have no fear,
No limit to what I might achieve.
I dream of you when winter’s near.
I wish that you were always here.

My Students were Teachers Today, and I Had Writer's Block

We did a quote quickwrite in one of my classes today. The quote, from the Roman philosopher Seneca (although my first thought, after locating the quote on a Google search on a focus area, was, "Hey, that's the last line of the song, 'Closing Time!'"), was:

"Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end."

To me, it seemed incredibly deep and brimming with directions to go in. I was really looking forward to writing about it, analyzing it with my students, having a great discussion. I wrote the quote on large paper and read it aloud twice. I then started timing two minutes (that's what our quickwrite discussions are--basically, the kids and I respond in writing silently and individually to a given quote for two minutes then talk about it in a whole-group discussion and see where things end up) and realized almost immediately that I couldn't think of a darn thing to write.

Total block, and on a quote that I had chosen. What a dolt! So basically I just listed questions on my quickwrite sheet and kept a much closer eye on the clock than I usually do. Talk about being able to relate ... WOW!

The best part, of course, is that many of my students wrote amazing responses and contributed to a valuable discussion. I don't think it was a wasted quote or a pointless effort ... it just surprised me to be blocked so suddenly and completely.

It was a true privilege to watch my students surpass my own ability today : )