Porch Pick Up Freebies

I joined my local Buy Nothing group several years ago. The official group changed some, so now it’s my community gifting group. The idea is the same. When posting a gift, it’s best to explain why you need it or how you plan to use it. People get creative on selecting a recipient. Some people use number generators, name generators, tell a story regarding the item up for grabs and someone in the family chooses, the possibilities are endless.

Over the years, I have received the following:

Press on nails for my teen with a Mary Kay lotion thrown in because the other person never picked it up
A new roll of upholstery fabric, beige with green flowers, for our kitchen chairs
Wandering jew clippings that looked like they wouldn’t make it, but are doing well
An original painting by a non-famous artist that teen daughter snatched from me for her her bedroom but was supposed to go in my craft room
A Frida Kahlo print–the one one with monkeys–for the same craft room because she’s my spirit artist
Eight pound dumbbells because five pounders aren’t heavy enough
Fresh thyme to make thyme-infused simple syrup for my Thanksgiving cocktail
Fredrik Backman’s A Man Called Ove, because this was a rare for me case of having watched both movies before reading the book and that’s one I haven’t read yet
Two new chew toys because the puppy didn’t have any and we just got into town from picking him up
Calligraphy set consisting of a quill with a jar of ink because not only am I a Potter Head, but I’m also a librarian and enjoy writing
A WORKING PORTABLE VINTAGE TYPEWRITER because I’m a writer, learned to type on a typewriter, I need it in my life, and I can also use it to teach lessons at my school library

I like to think my writing skills have helped me receive these items. I have actually used each gift and appreciate them. The book is on my TBR pile, but you know, TBRs are works in progress.

I have also gifted items: a shadow box style end table for a baby’s room, girl’s rain boots with white daisies, Spider-Man sleeping bag, cardboard egg cartons fresh from the recycling bin, a tie-dyed backpack, Easy Bake Oven-only used twice, new black steel-toed work shoes, bag of women’s clothes, bags of kids’ clothes, bedding, fluorescent light bulbs, a sparkly mermaid fish tail blanket, other items I can’t remember.

They say it’s better to give than to receive, but in this case, I think it’s both.

Where I Hid My Writing

There was a hole in the boxspring under my twin-sized mattress.

A king-sized bed sat across from mine, resting against the wall. When will this house be finished so I can have my own room? No privacy whatsoever. My younger sisters shared the larger bed. I was lucky to have my own, the perks of being a first-born.

I picked at the hole a little every night. I don’t know why. If Mom were to see it, I’d probably get in trouble. She wouldn’t know because as long as I kept my bed made, changing my sheets every Saturday morning, she’d never see it. No one but me knew it was there. A little private secret kept to myself.

Eventually, the hole became large enough, but not too large, for me to drop small things into it. But could I take them out? I’d have to place them carefully. Deciding not try my jewelry, I chose something useless. A pencil.

I left a pencil near my bed one night to test out the treasure chest of sorts. This is nothing like the movies. Why can’t I have a normal house with my own room and a loose floorboard where I can hide things? (I watched too many movies, read too many books.). Lights out, I waited until I knew the other two were asleep. They conked out right away. Sleep has always eluded me.

I pat around for the pencil. Finding the hole, I slip it in, holding it between my thumb and forefinger. I tap it up and down. Move it side to side.

Flip.

I lost my grip.

Gasp!

It’s just a pencil. I’m relieved it wasn’t my good pen. How do I take it out though? Feeling for the hole, which was smaller than my hand, I popped in my forefinger. Even though the middle finger is longer, I may be able to grip it somehow. Sure enough, it dropped straight down to the boxspring lining. Dragging it toward the side rail, I carefully pulled it up and my thumb soon entered the rescue mission. Grasping the pencil, I pulled it straight out. A buzz-less game of Operation–I was good at that game.

Success!

I hid a pencil for a few minutes, until I almost panicked about losing it. You don’t even like pencils!

My mind got busy dreaming up what I’d hide there: my favorite Teen Beat posters, so my sisters wouldn’t claim them and put them up on their side of the room. Piles of 80s style folded notes (is there even a name for those? Umm, yeah, folded notes, IYKYK). Neon colored jelly bracelets I hated sharing. The possibilities were endless…

Yeah, until there’s too much in there that you can’t take any of it out. Then the liner starts sagging and tears, dumping everything under the bed. That’s the first place they look for stuff.

Eventually, the hole grew enough form me to slip in various items without much effort.

And then there was my black spiral. It lived under piles of other school spirals and books and gossip-less folded notes, Seventeen and YM magazines, graded papers. I hid it well. That’s where my secrets lived. In that spiral, I wrote thoughts I dared not to share.

I tried those little diaries with locks and tiny keys that always got lost only to find out you can poke anything into the dumb little lock to open it. And there was a teensy amount of space for each day. Even my boring life needed more than five little lines. Those teen crushes were real, more than five lines real.

After some writing, I placed my spiral near the top of my stack. At night, I’d maneuver the relocation. Lights out. Wait. Slumber in the king sized bed. I rolled up my spiral into a tube and slipped it in.

Gasp!

It slipped in, but how do I take it back out? Surely, it’s flattened back out.

It’s okay. I took out the pencil, I can take this out too. In went my hand. Managing to roll it up, I pulled it out.

Success!

I tried it a few more times and left it there. To keep it safe, it wouldn’t have companions. Grinning to myself and knowing my thoughts were safe, I closed my eyes and sleep found me.

Backyard Drafting

The dogs have the zoomies. I said only one was allowed to hang out with me. Spotify playlist is trying to soothe me. Cars zoom by too loud, in a rush to get out of town or cutting through the neighborhood to avoid traffic.

The wind has picked up, hard. “It’s the cold front coming in from the north,” my husband says. Wind pushes and shoves it’s way through tree tops. Chimes clang helplessly from neighboring yards. A little insect finds my screen. Strands of fallen oak pollen, like tinsel, cling to my sweater sleeves.

The kitchen needs cleaning from dinner.

Jack Johnson sings how “it’s always better when we’re together,” but I disagree. Not tonight. Not right now.

It’s a little early, but once that kitchen is clean, I’m getting in my pjs. I have piles of new books and I’ll choose the newest one, A Book That Loves You. The alarm will take a ten day break.

I’m getting out of this cold wind. Backyard drafting isn’t working.

Like a colicky baby, writing is fussy today,

It’s in the Saying

“Close the door. Write with no one looking over your shoulder. Don’t try to figure out what other people want to hear from you; figure out what you have to say. It’s the one and only thing you have to offer.”
Barbara Kingsolver

I (still) don’t have a door to close. I now have a spare room to call my own. My craft room. My “writing” room. Except I’m still perched at the end of the table in the kitchen. My writing cabinet holds the essentials: a caddy full of my favorite writing sticks, my current notebook, a planner, some books on creativity, cookbooks, mixology books, wine, and wine glasses.

I haven’t figured out what I want to say. Yet. I’m opening myself up to whatever story wants to be told as long as I’m brave enough to tell it. Julia Cameron says I need ask for guidance, and I do, but I must be blind to it. I’m a looks-too-hard type of person, making things harder than they need to be. I also like simplicity, so maybe it’s too simple because I thrive on complexity.

However, isn’t simple…complex? I think there’s a depth there few people are able to extract from effectively, a shallow looking pool that somehow becomes an abyss. With no one looking over my shoulder, I let whatever wants to be said, be said. Some days it’s in the saying where the figuring out happens.

Despite some changes to routines, I signed up for year four of this writing challenge. My only expectation is to show up every day. My morning pages have faltered from daily to weekends, but this will bump me back in the right direction. With spring teasing us, I’ve been sitting in the backyard under the twinkle lights, taking my pen and notebook with me, a sweater for the chill that unexpectedly curls itself around my shoulder. Half finished books on writing are opening up again. My mind is opening up again.

I’m also looking at other routines that have seemed to have slipped away. I re-assess. Are these things I need to continue doing? It’s okay to let some go and replace them with something new. Do they need replacing? I’m working on decluttering my space, but I also think decluttering my mind and responsibilities opens me up to welcome whatever comes my way. It’s acceptable to leave space wide open for a while. Why the rush to re-clutter?

This fourth year of slicing, I’ll focus on figuring out what to say. I’ll close the door behind me and enter the backyard in the evenings, before days get too hot and mosquitos feast on me. Pup will chew on mulch while sitting at my feet. I’ll start a cozy fire, careful not to accidentally pick up a lizard dwelling in the pile of wood. I’ll open my notebook and start writing whatever needs to be said.

Inspiration

She disappeared for most of summer break and I think she’s back, jet-lagged, holed up in her room, sleeping. It’s been hotter than usual this summer, and for central Texas, that’s saying a lot. I’m a summer girl. It’s my favorite season and I can handle the heat. I never said anything about hell. Anyhow, Inspiration left me here to shrivel up with the trees, grass, ponds. On the plus side, the mosquitoes didn’t feast on me. Didn’t miss them one bit.

Inspiration on the other hand, I missed her. It was summer break, we could hang out. All day, every day. I don’t know if I upset her because I started spending time with painting walls and notebook pages. I save notebooks for words and I think she got upset. Share the page, Chica, but you don’t have to leave. Was she jealous or did she disappear to give me some space?

I did set up a room for her. I filled it with books and a comfy daybed for when she wants to nap, stick around, read. Paint. Attempt to draw. (Shhh, I won’t tell anyone I can’t figure out what’s on the page. The point is to try). The closet is empty for her to unpack her luggage. Am I ready to see what she brought home? Did she bring me something? Did she travel across the world? Universe?

Yesterday, during cafecito with my mom via Facetime, she mentioned my writing. “I miss reading your posts every week.”

“Yeah, I kinda shriveled up this summer. I got busy doing other things. Tuesdays would sneak up on me and by the time I knew it, I missed my post. But no one says I can only post on Tuesdays though.”

“I like reading your writing.”

Okay, well, maybe tomorrow I think as I grin and sip the last of my coffee. Mom is one of my biggest fans.

This afternoon, an unexpected package arrived. I thought it was an order that shipped last week, so I checked the tracking. It couldn’t have arrived so quickly. Sure enough, it’s still in transit. Perplexed, I double checked the label. Sometimes packages are delivered to the wrong address, but this one had my name on it.

A surprise! I found a lovely box holding a literary inspired cocktail recipe book, a sticker, and fingerless gloves. I had a hunch who sent it and sent a message. A dear friend confirmed to be the sender of the package. The gloves she selected were specifically to inspire my writing. If that’s not a sign to get back on track, I don’t know what is.

This summer, Inspiration couldn’t stand the heat.

Things harden.  Wither.  Weaken.  Die.
Others go dormant
take a break
rest
find ways to cope,
stretching for every ounce of
hydration to sustain the soul
while taking a beating on the outside
cracking
struggling
looking for relief 
anywhere
staying where its cool(-ish), 
shady
coming out for what's necessary and
retreating back to safety
resilient like cactus
but even cacti need water

She came back. We won’t argue about her leaving me alone. I won’t ask about where she went. If she needed a break from the heat, I don’t blame her. Perhaps she needed a break from me. I should’ve tagged along, but I wasn’t invited. I’ll let her recuperate from jet-lag. We have a lot of catching up to do.

Where to now?

Year three. Day thirty-two. (I also posted on Tuesday, February 28th.) I knew I’d hit the inevitable wall, writer’s block is real. It’s ugly. It’s really ugly. But I got past it. So where do I go now?

I’ll take a little break (at least until Tuesday) and go back and read more posts. I remind myself it’s okay to return to past posts and comment. They’re new to me if I haven’t read them. There’s so much good writing out there.

I have some posts saved as mentor texts, suggestions for writing structures, techniques people used, stories that stayed with me. I make a plan, more of a mental note, to stretch myself during National Poetry month. There’s more than just free-verse, but I like to take the easy way out. I found one I’m eager to try and many more I’ve never encountered. It’s time I play a little harder.

Do I join a writer’s group? Create my own? Might as well give it a try. I’m a bit nervous about that since I was a member of a book club years ago, The Book Club With No Name. If that’s any indication of how that turned out, my hesitation is warranted.

Year three, you’ve been good to me. Thank you to everyone here, TWT for creating this amazing space, and to Chris Margocs of Horizon 51, who brought me along for my first ride three years ago.

I stocked my Writing Pantry with mini-bottles of bubbly. They’ve been chilling in the fridge. Summer’s flirting around here, so off I go, a toast to many more Slices!

SOLSC Glossary of Terms

Blurking: looking for new blogs to follow, often by looking at lists of blogs other people follow, especially when posting comments on a Slice

EMS: early morning Slicer

Mindbloggling: those great writers who use crazy awesome techniques and make you think about deep issues. These posts require several readings.

PMS: post-morning Slicer

Seasoned Slicer: Slicers with more than five years of Slicing experience. They are excellent mentors, lead workshops, suggest new structures, are members of other writing groups, suggest resources, encourage us all, and are great writers

Slicer Butt: numb sensation in the glutes from sitting for long periods of time (especially on weekends and spring break) writing, reading, and commenting every day for a full month

Slicerism: terms Slicers use such as Slice, SOL, and “Oops, I accidentally put two spaces between the period at the end of my teaser and my permalink, my bad!”

Writerly Craftivity: the ability to seamlessly weave artsy projects into writing such as quilting, bird watching, knitting, dancing, music, art, gardening, opening a bottle of vodka…

Writertude: looking on the bright side of choosing random topics for writing such as allergies, pickles, or rats. Often helpful when hitting the wall (or an empty Writing Pantry)

Writing Pantry: where you go in your mind’s eye to pull techniques, tips, structures, words, images, for a new piece of writing

Writing Pantry

I didn’t go shopping. Well, that’s not true, I have something in mind, but I don’t quite have it yet. I pop the door open. Seems the same items are there. Haiku. Six word memoir. Free-verse poetry. I use that one often. I need to add spice. You know what they say about spices, sometimes you need to throw them out and get new bottles. Fresh is best, but dried works too. These are a little too dry, though.

I’ve gone through so many cookbooks, it seems. I recycle some recipes and change them up, add my own flair, but those have also become a little, yawn…is overused the right word?

I’ve gone through phases of phrases, word play, restocked the staples. I mean, how can you ever go wrong writing about experiences? Small moments? Big ones. Hot. Cold. Just right. Even Goldilocks had to take a nap.

I peruse the shelves looking for something new.

Why don’t you try that one?

Well, a lot of people have used it. I know, I know, my version will be different, but…

Work avoidance issues?

Yeah, probably. Sometimes I want to come up with my own thing.

Sometimes you need inspiration to lead you to your own thing.

True.

Looks like you need to restock. Go somewhere different. Watch a show or two. You hardly ever do that. Take nap. Read a book you hold in your hands. Sit outside.

Can’t go outside. Allergies.

Yeah, okay. Do something you haven’t done in a while. Remember some of those Big C activities you started doing three years ago? Paper bead making. ‘Zine writing. Family game night. Writing and sending snail mail.

Oh, yeah, a bunch of those kid crafts I didn’t do as a kid and my own kids didn’t want to do? Yeah, I can do that.

There ya go! Take a break. Do something else. While you’re at it, make me one of those mocktails you concocted using herbal tea and orange infused simple syrup.

Can’t argue with that, but I’m adding a little extra to mine. Off I go the the *writing* cabinet.

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