Rebooting My Creative Process

June 23, 2012 By

Purple Coneflower, © Joan Z. Rough, 1989

A writer is a writer not because she writes well and easily, because she has amazing talent, because everything she does is golden. In my view, a writer is a writer because even when there is no hope, even when nothing you do shows any sign of promise, you keep writing anyway.  – Junot Díaz

Here I sit, trying to get started on my memoir writing process again.  Lots of things have been happening including a trip to Vermont, visiting the places I once lived and the people I love. I’m struggling with time and the need to do everyday things, including some fun, as well as writing.  My old friend fear of failure and revisiting old memories, is visiting at the moment. I just can’t seem to get started. There is always something else more important to do and I find myself saying yes to those many distractions that come my way.

I know what I need to do. Sit down every day and write, no matter what it’s about. As a starter, I’ve begun writing in my journal on a daily basis after a long period of doing it only once or twice a week. I’ve also started a daily meditation practice, which I’d been doing but have let slide for a long time. It’s a must for me, especially now, when I need grounding instead of flitting around the ether like a lost lightning bug.

I have five weeks until my next trip in late July when I go to North Carolina to spend a week visiting with my daughter and grandchildren.  I can write there as I’ll be in a small condo and though they live nearby, we always set aside a few hours every day when all of us get to have some quiet, alone time.  But unless I get a schedule going for myself now, actually doing the writing when I’m there will a challenge.

Before our recent visit to Vermont and after the garden went into simple maintenance mode, I had a great schedule going in which I exercised every morning and then spent at least two hours writing, usually ending up with at least 500 words. It was exciting and I felt very productive.  Since I’ve been back I’ve been in stalling mode.

So here I go again, jumping into the flow, praying that I’ll go with it instead of fighting my way up-stream, which I tend to do when I’m blocked.  Wish me luck and if you have a way of rebooting your creative process, let me know.  I can use as many suggestions as I can get.

Filed Under: Fear, Life, Memoir, Time, Writing Tagged With: , ,

The Clock

May 20, 2012 By

Big Ben

The Timex on my wrist, the old Seth Thomas clock on the wall that rings the hours, and the small, black electronic cube that sits on my nightstand beeping at six AM have been with me always.   They not only denote the hour and the passage of time, they have been the enemy. I have fought with them constantly.

Stop the clock. I’ve run out of time. It’s time to eat, time to sleep, time to feed the dog, pick up the kids. Time is short, too long and are we there yet?  Forever in a hurry, I was constantly running.  But somehow I was always on time or even early getting to the places I was supposed to be.  Why didn’t I have ulcers?

One afternoon while reading a good book and needing to be at an appointment in fifteen minutes, I caved in. Tired of rushing and feeling rebellious I kept on reading even as the clock ticked away.  I finished the chapter, got in the car, and drove to my appointment.  I was only five minutes late but I had been overwhelmed by anxiety on the way, thinking I’d be terribly late.  I didn’t want to inconvenience anyone, my stomach churned filled with a load of worry stones, and I didn’t know what I’d been thinking.

Like a drunk who finally hits bottom and knows that the sauce will kill him soon, I knew that if I kept running the way I did,  it would be the end of me.  I’d crash the car, fall off a cliff and/or my heart would simply quit because it couldn’t keep up. My life was a train wreckwaiting to happen.

Changing my pace has been one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.  But somehow I’ve managed to slow the train, though it can still be easy to fall back into old habits if I’m not careful.  I do still have occasional overly busy days, but if I’m feeling overbooked I reschedule an appointment or two for another day when things aren’t so hectic. I’ve learned to say no to the one more thing that will tip the scale sending me into overwhelm and yes to breathing deeply and taking whole days when I don’t have to go anywhere but stay here and tend to whatever I want and need to do. I love those days the best and manage to get to my writing with time to spare for a nap, to garden, or read.  I still worry about being late once in a while, but I’m also beginning to trust that the clock does sometimes run slow and I’ll arrive in plenty of time without being frazzled.

I wrote this poem back in 1993 in the heat of my war with time.  I’m so grateful that battle is over.

The Clock

A tranquil pool reflects
As only water can
The confection of moon
Star lanterns
Show the way down
To the mouth of a cave

A tattered moth
Hands me her flame
Tells me to wait
Just inside at the edge
For a ferry to deliver me
To the middle of night

Aboard the vessel
The oarsman leers
With eyes that glow
In burning sockets
His mouth overflowing
Knots of squirming eels
I hold the flame closer
Easing my fear
A solitary owl hoots
At the sight of land

I am lifted to shore
By rigid talons
Left on the sand
Where a porcelain clock
Elephant high
Stands guard
Naming the hours
As they race around
An eroding track

The clock strikes twelve
Spilling sleeping cuckoos
Severed hands
Frantic numerals gather momentum
Left without time
Lifting the flame to possibility
I ignite the ticking sky

jzr, 1993

Filed Under: Dreams, Fear, Gratefulness, Life, Poetry, War Tagged With: , , , , , ,

A Changed Mind

April 29, 2012 By

Bryant Park, New York City ... a lovely place to sit and read.

A while back I wrote a post about my love and addiction to books.  I absolutely love everything about them:  the feel of them in my hands, how when I fall asleep while I’m reading, they settle down oh so gently over my heart, staying open to the page I last read. And their sweet smell often reminds me of the first library I ever went to.

About a year ago my husband bought a Kindle. Wearing my high and mighty jeans, I asked him why in the world he would do such a thing. He advised me that when traveling it would be easier and weigh much less to carry his Kindle in his pocket downloaded with several books rather than to lug along a suitcase stuffed with reads he might not even get to. Being who I am and stuffed into those very tight, judgemental pants, I said, “Well yeah, I get that but I know I will never enjoy reading a book on an electronic gadget.  It looks and feels awkward and it isn’t soft and floppy like a well-worn book.

A few months later after trying to find a comfortable way to hold the Kindle in bed, he gave up.  It fell out of his hands several times onto the hardwood floor as he was falling to sleep. He also didn’t like not knowing how far along in the book he was.  He missed that comforting bookmark that let him know immediately where he was in the story without having to open the pages.  So, off the Kindle went to a friend at Christmas time who still hasn’t used it.  I didn’t say a word.

At work on my memoir, I’ve been reading loads of books in the same genre.  One of the things successful writers tell the rest of us is to read, read and read some more.  It helps immensely with developing our own style and finding our own voice. It can also be very inspiring and we may find ourselves writing immediately after reading a piece that is very moving.  I’ve found that works particularly well when I’m writing poetry. Often when I feel stuck, all I have to do is go to one of my favorite poets and read several of their pieces. I’ll be off and writing in no time at all.

However, my read list on Amazon is most often way out of hand and pricey. Especially if I have 20 books lined up on it. I could go to the library but lately the books I’ve been looking for aren’t available. So when I saw a review written by another writer about a new memoir and it sounded like something I’d enjoy, I took Amazon up on their offer for me to download it for free on my iPad.

A few weeks ago when I went to New York, I not only took along a few books that I was in the middle of reading, I also took my iPad. On the train ride back home, I found that I’d packed those books I’d had little time to read away in my luggage and couldn’t get at them.  But tucked away in my purse was my iPad with a downloaded book on it.

I’m sweating and getting a bit uncomfortable because I do have to tell you that I’ve changed my mind about reading books on electronic gadgets. People like me who are considered by some to be outspoken (: and use words like never and always, don’t like to be found out.  And here I am telling on myself.

I turned the iPad on and started reading.  I read the entire five and a half hours I was on the train. I didn’t quite finish the book, so back at home I put it on top of the stack next to my bed and finished it off several nights later.

I’m still breathing and the world did not end.  I still love real books the most and prefer to read those.  But, I really do get the point about how much easier it is to read a book on a Kindle, Nook or iPad while traveling.  Especially when they’re free.  And if they’re not the price is usually much lower than the newly published hardcover edition.

So the next time I go off on another travel adventure I’ll download another book or books to take along. You also need to know that I’ve traded in those tight high and mighty jeans for a pair of light summer sweats that tend not to embarrass me as much.

Filed Under: Addiction, Books, Life, Memoir, Poetry, Writing Tagged With: ,

Seeking Balance

March 17, 2012 By

My growing garden.

 I was feeling blocked, unable to unplug the movie I’d been screening in my head.  Writing a memoir is difficult work, especially since I’ve spent most of my time for the last month reliving parts of my life that were less than pleasant.  I needed a break from the past.

This week, the days were in the mid-seventies and eighties, sunny with a few clouds, but only a drop of much-needed rain. It was almost perfect gardening weather. I did a tad of pruning and pulled weeds. I bought four gorgeous hellebores in full bloom and this morning tucked them in the ground on what was once a bank of nothing but Ivy.

In Charlottesville, as in most regions of the state, there is more Ivy than any other kind of plant. It can easily overtake a stonewall and bring it crashing down. It can kill trees, shrubs and any plant that decides to take it on.  Last fall I hired a man to pull up all the Ivy on that bank and we built a small patio on top of the rise. This spring my project is to fill the empty garden space with shade loving plants. Hellebores that often bloom in late January, ferns, and hostas are the most likely candidates. But there are many others that will not be overlooked. Since doing my daily memoir writing was not happening anyway, I figured it was a good time to start.

The garden is a perfect place to come to terms with what’s bothering me. Among the plants and the promises of spring I can do some inner weeding.  When I spend time outside with plants, allowing my hands to dig in the soil, my mind and heart opens, awakening to earth messages and spirits sent at this time of year to heal the land and its creatures after a long, dark winter.

Here in Virginia, the winter has been a warm one. The two snowfalls we’ve had are the joke of the season. Now the land is alive with trees and shrubs that usually begin blooming in mid-April. Today we had our lawn mowed. It no longer looks like a typical hayfield in late July. I’m anxious to go off to the nurseries and find more plants for my garden.  Spring officially arrives early Tuesday morning and I’m ready to dance into the new season.

My hands and fingers are happy that I’ve dipped them in the warming soil. But now they again itch for the keyboard. My heart and mind are clear, ready to process the next part of my story. I will gently place the words on the blank screen that awaits them, and this time I will try to be continually mindful of the state of my emotions so that the wall that I ran into a few weeks ago doesn’t stop me from moving forward.

For me, balance is the key.  I am not like the tightrope walker who gracefully dances her way along the wire while balancing her umbrella on the tip of a finger.  I need stops along the way where I can take the time to recompose myself.  The garden is one of those places.

Hellebores planted today.

Filed Under: Gratefulness, Life, Matters of the Spirit, Memoir, Navigating Through Life, stories, The Garden, The Seasons, Writing Tagged With: ,
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