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.

Did I Ask Too Much?: U2 @ Sphere Las Vegas

Did I disappoint you? Leave a bad taste in your mouth?

Yes, yes you did, but I don’t know who to blame. A bad taste in my mouth is an understatement. I was struck dumb. Numb. Speechless. What happened? I followed all of the directions. When my tickets didn’t load to my app, I contacted the ticket company two days before the event. I didn’t yell at anyone. I didn’t get drunk. I didn’t smoke something I shouldn’t. There was no tattoo I’d later regret. No zip lining in frustration from the Stratosphere.

We walked back to the hotel stopping for a drink along the way, but I didn’t want that either. I began drafting my email to customer service while we waited to order. Later, I got into my pajamas, tossed my sparkly tank over the top of a chair, worn for four concert-less hours. New boots didn’t have time to rub blisters on my feet.

I woke up at my normal Your-Brain-Is-Now-Wide-Awake time of 3:00-ish a.m., confirming it with a groggy one-eyed peek at the red lighted digital clock. I must have slept hard, I felt the morning ready to greet me. Ahh, different time zone, remember? It’s only 1:00. We’d just be getting back had we been there.

I flop back into bed feeling around for my eye pillow. I place it over my eyes and breathe deeply. Its soothing lavender scent is long gone. My brain props itself on an elbow wanting to talk. I need sleep! It presses with questions.

Can I change my flight? Will I get my money back? I mean, I did get tickets. But they didn’t work! Is E available to pick me up from the airport? I can find someone for a ride or just get an Uber. Are there tickets for Friday’s show or are they sold out? It doesn’t hurt to try. I’m too close not to go.

With or without you…

I’m hearing Bono sing. I can’t live, with or without you…

And I can’t live without trying, Bono!

Last year I was number 3,000 something in an online queue to snag a ticket for an interview with Brene Brown after he released his autobiography. I missed that one too. Tickets sold out in less than five minutes at a venue the size of a gnat compared to Sphere.

It could work out. Try it when the world wakes up. I mother myself back to sleep. Shush my brain. Go back to sleep, you can’t do anything until later. It’s fine. Weren’t you okay with not going in the first place?

Well, yeah, but that was before I bought tickets.

You’ve got to get yourself together, you’ve got stuck in a moment and you can’t get out of it…

Shhh…go back to sleep. Try again, later in the morning.

It’s just a moment, this time will pass

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.

Tuesday, September 5, 2023

I’m Okay

“I’m okay.”

That usually means something else isn’t. It always means something else isn’t okay.

E. called twice on Saturday. S. hollered through the bathroom door, over running water from the shower. “E needs for you to call as soon as you’re done! He already called twice.” We’d been messaging back and forth. He probably wants to pick something up on the way here. Ice cream, or maybe my favorite coffee.

I finished without rushing and returned his call.

“I’m okay.”

“Okay…what happened?”

“Yeah, you know that yield sign where you have to crank your head all the way back and it’s a stupid traffic flow design? The brand-new Mini-Cooper in front of me didn’t go when it was clear. We’re exchanging information now, I’ll be there in a bit.”

He sounded calm. That’s what made me nervous. When he got home, I took a look. License plate was bent. Otherwise, no major damage. Fender bender minus the bent fender. I looked at the pictures of the other car, walked into the house, and discussed the next steps, grateful it wasn’t worse.

Tuesday, April 4, 2023

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!

Friday, March 31, 2023

Things I Say

Someone left a yellow mustache on the floor.

Are you chewing on your power cord? And it’s plugged in?! Do you want a permanent Joker-style grin burned into your flesh? Take it out. Now.

Do you still have the book that was due in September?

Yes.

Where is it?

In my backpack.

Go get it.

I don’t have it.

You just said…

I’m still reading it.

But you’ve had it since September.

It’s lost.

Did I tell you about the student who kept leaning back and forth in his chair and broke his face? Put all four legs of the chair on the floor and leave them there, please.

Yes, you have to pay for the books at the book fair.

No food in here, please, the cockroaches are big and they’ll take your food.

(Lights flicker, or something randomly falls) That’s Wilhelmina, my class ghost. She can do whatever she wants. She follows me to every school.

I have an alien implant in my pinkie toe, I just can’t tell you which one.

(Student pokes around the cart of new, unprocessed books behind the circ. desk.) Put your name on a Post-It note and put it on the book you want. You get first dibs!

Wednesday, March 29, 2023

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.

Tuesday, March 28, 2023

Oak, no!

March
means
clear blue skies
popping wildflowers
grass awakening 
from winter's slumber
thick and green
twittering birds
gentle breezes
air perfumed with
blooming jasmine

March means
oak trees 
doing what oak trees do
their spiky little 
pollen nuggets
littering the ground
invading 
my headspace
tickling my throat
choking me up
making my nose
drip
drip 
drip
postponing
that evening walk
Monday, March 27, 2023

Bench Warmer

Saturday, March 25, 2023

I figured out I was a bench warmer as a third grader, before I knew there was a term for it. My parents allowed me to join Little Dribblers, our local kid’s basketball organization. All my friends joined, and they were the cool kids. I don’t remember how I ever got to the practices, I probably walked to most of them, but my parents weren’t always in the stands cheering me on. Usually, they dropped me off, picked me up, and that was that. Typical 80’s kid doing her own thing. Their work schedules often conflicted with extracurricular activities and there were two other younger kids at home. Later it would become three.

During practice I tried to keep up, watching the others with envy as their basketballs obeyed and bounced back to their fingertips for another forceful tap. I spent most of my time chasing my basketball. If a coach intercepted it and passed it back to me, I moved out of the way so it wouldn’t hit me in the head. I like to think I have a metal plate in my head that attracts moving objects. It’s still there and it still works. I was never good at catching.

My dad watched some games, but I rarely played. I learned that you have to be good to play, otherwise you sit and wait for the team to win. Or lose. Sometimes I’d go in and it seemed that just as I got warmed up, a buzzer went off or a whistle blew and there was a switcharoo. Back to the bench. Cheer the team from there.

The following year, the sign up form went home again. I looked at it, but I knew better. I wouldn’t bother. We didn’t have a smooth driveway with a basketball goal for me to practice. I didn’t get any better. I wanted to play because my friend played, but I didn’t enjoy it as much as they did. I preferred to spend my time in different ways. After all, if I was going to sit on a bench, I’d rather sit there reading a book, not wishing to dribble basketball.

Perch

I've perched at the end
of the kitchen
table
in front of the back porch
window 
facing the 
front 
door

It became my 
desk
grad school homework
nonstop
for three years.

I nested there
awaiting my possibilities
adding to the space
making it as cozy
as one can make 
a kitchen table
competing with 
family meals
kids' homework
craft projects
during down time
and breaks
junk mail
wine glasses
coffee mugs
papers waiting 
to be graded

Time passed,
yet I still perch
at the end 
of the kitchen 
table
in front of the back porch window
facing the 
front door

It has become my
desk
morning pages,
three of them
every day (mostly)
for over four years
flanked on the right
with a writing
cabinet
wine glasses
and unopened bottles
of wine occupy the 
top shelf 
waiting
to be sipped

This morning,
I changed my seat
and now I perch
on the long side
of the kitchen 
table
to the right of the back porch
window
next to my son's 
favorite seat, 
occupied only when
he visits,
leaving the front door 
behind
enjoying
a better 
view
Saturday, March 18, 2023