This is why I write

As I type this I don't even know if I will have to courage to post it. But I want to get it down while it is raw within me.

You may have heard about the book SPEAK by Laurie Halse Anderson. A book many people are calling it 'pornography.' Let me say for the record that I have not yet read the book. Let me also say for the record (whoever among you are keeping such records) that a book about a young girl who is raped and then too ashamed to report the crime is not EVEN CLOSE to my description of pornography.

 Here are the links to several much better posts on why this book is so profoundly important. They have said everything I could on the topic, except that they are not me. And they have not shared with you why I am crying even as I type this.

Weronika, literary agent with D4EO, on her post here contemplated the almighty question: WHY I  WRITE. Ever since that post I have been trying to come up with my own answer. It seemed like something a writer should be able to put into words. But nothing I wrote explained my profound need for words. Then the blogosphere exploded with controversy over SPEAK and finally I have my answer.

This is why I write.

I am a Christian. There. I said it. (Yes, I that word hard to say sometimes.) And my family considered themselves Christian too. As a child I lived in middle class suburbia, where the fences are mostly picket white and the weeds dare not dip their toes in manicured lawns. My father paid the bills. In advance. My mother cleaned his house and wiped the sticky fingers of his children. I was one of them, though my finger were usually between the pages of a book. I found it the safest place to escape.

The thing was every Sunday my father totted our family off to church. He sang the songs. We sang with him. He smiled. We smiled too.

Yet beyond our weedless lawn, down the hall way of dare-not-be-dirty tiles, stood a cursing man. A large looming man.  Yes, THAT man. The Sunday morning, singing, smiling, handshaking man. The man with the bills paid and both his daughters in private school.
Not only did he curse his wife, but he 'spanked' her too. His word for it. Not mine. To this day he says he was simply trying to maintain control. Trying to gain her respect. Whatever way you paint that, it's abuse. And two little girls watched year after year as their mother's beltings healed outside, and tore her apart inside.

Fear is something I knew so well I panicked when the house was still and voices soft.

Not only was my father abusing my mother, but both my sister and I were physically and sexually abused for years.

There were no listening ears because I had no voice. I learnt young that you did not tell because, as my mother said, "you might get taken away." Maybe you think it is strange that a child would rather live with abuse than be taken away, but when that is all you know the fear of losing the parents you love, yes I said love, is overwhelming. So I said nothing. For years and years I said nothing.

In my teens I tried to tell, but no one knew what to do with my story. Such a nice Christian family. My mother went to the church for help and was told she simply needed to be a better wife. (This is why I find the word Christian hard to say sometimes)

To this day my father reuses to acknowledge much of what he did. And my mother says she didn't know my sister and I were abused. But my point in telling you all this is not to judge her or even my father. It is to TELL.
THIS IS WHY I WRITE. Because I think someone needs to hear that this is not where the story ends. THERE IS HOPE.

When I was 16 I met an amazing guy, who stood up to become a man who would hold me through twelve years of marriage while I struggled with the trauma of my past. I knew nothing about becoming someones wife. And motherhood? OH. MY. GOD. along came these beautiful little boys who needed me to hold them when I could barley hold myself.

Finally I curled up in the fetal position inside and all but died emotionally.  Dependant on self-harm to regulate my feelings and escaping into my own mind to split off from any reality that made me uncomfortable I knew I was no longer coping. The strong TAB,the girl who made others laugh and listened to all your problems, she was crumbling away before her own eyes.
I was emptiness.
A black hole.
A woman with no idea how to love the little girl within her who had been rejected and abused for so many years. No idea how to mother myself. No idea how to speak about the pain, the guilt and the ever present shame. And I had no idea how to birth the woman I wanted to become. All I knew was  that I MY SILENCE WAS KILLING ME!

My husband rang around to find help for me (at my request) and was put in touch with an amazing counselor. (I write about her quite a bit on this blog without using her name.)


When the blackness curdled around I would write my about the 'characters' BEAST my pain, and LITTLE GIRL, and the battles they fought inside me. Daily those words helped claw and scrape my  way to healing. I used words and metaphor to paint what those inner landscapes of my heart looked like and as I let those words be seen I saw myself. For the FIRST time. Finally I began to heal.
.
Words paved a road back to living.  And it saved my life. Literally. Those words saved my life. But even this is not why the writing was important. It was later when I could look back at all the places I'd walked that I wondered it other people might see themselves or their pain in the 'characters' I'd created. I wondered if I might share BEAST and LITTLE GIRL with others who needed a way to see their pain and embrace the ignored and scared little person inside themselves. I wonder if my metaphors might be a voice for the voiceless.

I cannot begin to tell you how passionate I am about books like SPEAK. It is a monumental work of importance, because it is one more voice screaming THIS HAPPENS AND IT IS NOT OKAY.
This world needs many honest, brave voices who can put into words what it is like to curl up in the fetal position with the silence killing you from the inside out.  People who aren't afraid to write about our fallen, messed up world AND still say THERE IS HOPE.

THIS IS WHY I WRITE. It is why I will listen to honest and raw feedback about my memoir. Write. Re-write. Wash. Rinse. Repeat.

If you know pain, or know someone who does, then honestly how can we stand by and let others say that books which cover this subject matter should be banned?

SPEAK out.

SPEAK did.

This is why I write.

SQUEEE! A poet?

SQUEEE!!!

I wanted to share with you all that I am to be published in the Fall 2010 issue of the

Rose and Thorn Journal. 

This will be my first piece of poetry published and I am VERY excited. My work will be available at http://www.roseandthornjournal.com/  on the Rose and Thorn website from Oct 15th 2010.

If you are a writer and would like to submit work to the Rose and Thorn journal check out their submission guidelines found below. 

PROSE:

http://www.roseandthornjournal.com/Prose_Submissions.html

POETRY:

http://www.roseandthornjournal.com/Poetry_Submissions.html

IN OTHER NEWS:

The winner of my 'A case for Sad Books Competition is Wendy Paine Miller. Find her blog All in a Day's Thought here http://thoughtsthatmove.blogspot.com/

To enter the comp you had to post another good reason why we need sad books. Wendy said:

"I like sad books. Sometimes reading one is the only thing that can spring my tears from their locked place in my soul."

~ Wendy

 I couldn't agree more. Tears do indeed sometimes get locked. Oh, the value of sad books!

Wendy, please email me your address so I can get your copy of Michael Rosen's Book into the mail ASAP.

Thanks to all who entered.

What about you? Share with me your SQUEEEEE! for the week.

Do You See Me?

"Good writing is honest, alive. The more honest and alive our writing, the more we show ourselves. The more we show ourselves, the greater the danger we're in. The greater the danger we're in the more scared we are. Hence fear is a marker on the path toward good writing." 

~ Ralph Keyes, The Courage to Write.

If you have a goal, a dream, something you are pegging your last (possibly unspoken) wish on then I am betting you understand FEAR. 

We writer's have so many fears we developed a lovely, not so honest term.  We call it Writer's Block. But it's not Writer's Block. It is Writer's Fear. 

I am never more scared then when I sit down to write. The thing I most love, the thing I say I could not live without, the thing I feel called to do and am most passionate about is WRITING. And... it scares me SH*#!*#less.

When I sit before a blank page, I am really sitting before myself. To write well, to be honest and raw enough to have something I know is worth sharing, I have to get to that vulnerable place inside. I have to peel back the layers of my skin and see myself for who I am. Then, after I have faced the reality of my own ugly feelings I expose my being and write from that place. The place where my best stuff comes from . The place where I am known to me and risking sharing that with you, the reader. 

Terrifying stuff.

This fear is so real that I often sit before my laptop in complete silence for long long moments. I am afraid. I am afraid I will have nothing to say. I am afraid that if I do have something to say, I won't be able to say it. 

I fear not being able to put my heart into words. I fear the words I do put not being good enough. I fear being a fraud. I fear everyone reading it and knowing that I am a fraud. Or worse, I fear everyone reading it and know that I am NOT a fraud. That they have seen the real me. I fear being seen. I fear NOT being seen. Thank god that fear overrides all others or I would be the author of nothing at all. 

I fear someone better than me, more skilled, more gifted reading me and laughing. I fear their rejection. I fear the reader's rejection. Since I put me on the page, I fear the rejection will be so personal I will not be able to take it. I fear failing. I fear succeeding. I fear the whole damn thing.

I develop Writer's Block. I can't do it. 

I am too busy. The kids are too noisy. It's too hot. It's too cold. It's too... I have other things to do after all. I am a mother. I am a wife. I am a sister and a friend and, and ... I am a writer. And as a writer I eventually face my fears, rip back the layers covering my vulnerability and I write. Then damn it, I share the stuff. ABSOLUTELY TERRIFYING. 

The next day I do it all again. Because that is me, and that is writing. 

I just wanted you guys to know. Since we writer's love to pretend we are all so darned brave when it comes to this writer's gig we say we couldn't live without, I thought I tell you all. I am scared.

Every. Single. Time.

I procrastinate with the best of them. I am daily afraid. 

Good things come from that people. The best stuff I write is the stuff I write afraid. 

And I am guessing that whether you write or not, whatever passions are within you, whatever cuts closest to your bone, also scares the crap out of you.

That's okay. Necessary even. It is fear that sets my work alight. It might also be fear that strikes enough fire within you to take you where you need to go. 

So go fear.  The world needs more people who show up and be who they are. You tell me that doesn't take guts. You tell me that doesn't shake a soul to it's core. Fear has held the hands of many brilliant success's. 

What about you? Afraid?

If you Give a Girl an Edit

I thought I had nothing to say. My insides are a mash of soaking bits of my soul that need drying out and words that long since dried. Despite the mess, I have to admit, the words, such as they are, should probably be shared. What is a writer, after all, if they can't write even when the typing hurts?

So, many of you know I have written a memoir. After  receiving unexpected interest from agents and editors at a conference in May this year I gathered my dreams and started planting them in fertile soil.  Recently I have had spectacular advise from an agent on how to restructure the book along with an expressed desire to read my re-write. All of which is wonderful... and down right scary.

The thing about memoir is that in order to craft something worthy of seeping into other people's souls  the author must first open their own soul and cut to the bone of their life. Not easy. In fact, it's terrifying. And while I know I have this story within me, it takes guts to get ones head in a space to sit down again with nightmares of your past and ghosts of your hopes and re-write a memoir. Indeed  all writing, no matter the genre, takes such courage.

And that's the question. How much courage do I have? Enough for a simple re-write? Or enough to plunge deep into the Shadow Lands and emerge with a book that has truly changed me, and thus possesses the possibility of changing others?

Because I know what I want. I was never the girl who floated on the surface of life. Like I have said before, wanting hurts. Even holding hopes hurts sometimes. I guess that's where courage is birthed. On the edge of myself  I chose to both want and hope.

What about you? I am hopeful that this year will see something open up for my memoir. I am hopeful for your writing too, blogging friends. I know many of your dreams are the same as mine.
Hope with me?

X
Tab

The Vision Behind My Eyes

What would I know about myself if I was only one and not one of many?
Would I know simple things still? My height. My hair color. My skin. all the same. Nothing changes.

But what about character?
Would I understand the length and breadth of myself if other people didn't provide someone to rise above or someone to strive towards?

What about the degree of my own ability or depravity?
Would I understand the depth of my capacity for both light and darkness, to both illuminate and drown out, if there were no other voices to be heard? Would I ever be all I could be?
Would such a question even matter, you may ask?
They matter. Because there are others, those questions matter.

I am not who I am only in relationship to myself, yet I need to find me in the silence of skillful listening to the One who created me and the true whispers of self.

No one writes on the pages of life in a tunnel of isolation. Those around me constantly shape my words.  It matters what I know about me when I am with you. And it matters what I know about me when you are gone. How well I understand the depth and length, the day and night of my very being becomes my life's song. The steps I will take. The words I will write. And ultimately the me I will birth.
It matters that I see me through clear eyes. That is why a writer is never anything without a reader. A musician never heard without an audience. A soul never unwrapped outside intimacy with another and a life never lived unless you hold plenty of hands along the way.

My writing began as a way to share myself with myself. To get to know the woman trapped within. But is has become more. I want it to become more. That is why I don't post about the mechanics of writing very often or share what I am learning about plot, pacing or structure. The words I share here are me. It is another way for me to hold more hands in life and be blessed by those who join with me. It is my way to clear my vision in regards to my writing ability and my personal growth. What you read here is who I am. Never less. But often more.

Through My Eyes is a place for me to be seen, but more importantly, it is a place for me to see. It is a blog to share the vision behind my eyes, enriched by what is reflected back.  Through My Eyes is memoir of whatever moves me on a daily basis. Inspiration in the big and the little. Life, in all its glorious mess. I dream that you might take something of what you find here and write your own big bold words of HOPE and INSPIRATION across your own life. I pray you do. :)

I passed 200 followers a little while back.
Thank you. For taking the journey with me. And for sharing whatever you do of your own. We are not the only one. And yet, we are not simply one of many. :)

~

PS- Click the facebook badge or twitter fed on this blog if you care to connect with me there too http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=1258498368
 http://twitter.com/tabithabird

Got to Tell you Something

First let me say a MASSIVE thank you to all those who visited my blog while I was away in the USA attending the Pen to Press Writers Conference. I will immediately be getting around to all your blogs tonight, as well as welcoming my new readers. Thank you for joining. You are very important to me. What is a writer without readers anyway? :)

I am now back in the land of OZ. My boys survived nearly two weeks without Mommy, as did the house, my dog and my husband (not necessarily in that order :)

The conference was amazing. I have to say that I was totally unprepared for the response to both my writing and my book. Nothing has happened yet, (and there are no guarantees that anything will) but I had a lot of requests to submit my entire manuscript from both editors and agents. So I am doing a mini happy dance, trying to remember that this writing journey is indeed a long one. Patience and I are getting well acquainted with each other. I'm not going to say we are best friends yet, but we are on solid speaking terms.

Tonight I would like to shout out some amazing people who have helped me grow as both a person and a writer.

Esther. You know who you are. You know what you have done. Thank you. You get that thank you needs to be a bigger word.

Wendy Prior. She has read more versions of my memoir than any person should rightly have had to read. Guys, if you don't follow this girl's blog then go follow her now. Right now. Before she is famous. She writes young adult and has a truly amazing story cooking at the moment. Not to mention a beautiful writing voice. AND she just placed in the top five on Rachelle Gardener's blog for best one line summary of a story. Well done girl! She is one step away from an agent snapping her right up. I will one day be able to say I knew her when...

Deb Shucka and Carrie Wilson Link. Two seriously cool women who have both written their own memories. They run workshops for anyone looking to sharpen their writing skills and I have benefited from both their insight and support.

Karen Walker. Another amazing published memorist who has read my book and given me the benefit of her insight. She is both honest and passionate about life and living well. Her blog is a bright place to be.


Suzanne. For putting cool into writing. And for wading your way through really early drafts of my work and still offering to read for me. Her work is amazing. I can't wait to see her in print. She is one step away people. I am sure many of you already follow her blog. If not, go follow.

There are others who support me and have helped me remember to breath during some really difficult times. Thank you to all of you. Sorry if I have not mentioned you by name. You are no less important. And a huge thank you to you, fellow bloggers. Without who I would have no one to share the ups and downs of writing and no one who appreciates what it means to truly love words. You all make me tear up. Go hug a book people. And send good thoughts my way. I know I am sending them yours. May this be the year for many writing dreams out there to show themselves real. :)

Love Tab

I said yes

WHERE I AM
I am re-writing my memoir for the third time. No, not editing. I am re-writing.  I WISH I was editing. Oh to just move around paragraphs, trim out a chapter or two, bait hooks, and tighten sentences, pacing, plot etc (yes, even memoir needs plot) 
Editing seems like the promise land, flowing with milk and honey. Don't tell me if it is not. I need a light. What I am doing is taking a huge sack of wet stuff and trying to build pyramids. Okay, it's not that dire. And I am sure I'm not the only one to travel down tunnels and then wonder if they picked one that has no light switch and never surfaces. But re-writing sucks. The words feel cloggy and I wonder who the hell wrote this thing in the first place. Where is she? And what does she have to say for herself? Of course she is past. And I am blessed to have walked passed that me and know now what I did not know then. But growth leads to re-writing. Massive rewriting.


WHY I AM HERE
On the radio yesterday I was listening to this guy talk about the things we say yes too in life and what that means for us. 
I said yes to marriage. 
It means I get to be with him in the sunshine... and when we crawl through fog.
I said yes to kids. It means I get to wipe their hands, kiss their bumps and bruises and read stories. It also means I get to listen to a toddler not having a sleep in the middle of my writing time.
And if you follow that logic through to all areas of life, it means that whatever I am doing right now, I said yes to at one point. I don't have to do anything. No one twisted my arm. 


And here's the thing. 
I said yes to writing. 
I said yes to the fun of sloshing though words and playing among sentences in the first draft. And I also said yes to the third re-write. And the forth. And then the fifth etc etc. I said yes to the editing. Yes to the frustration that comes with trying to birth something you feel is bigger than yourself. Yes to the moments I would doubt my own abilities and need to talk myself up... or down. Yes to the hard feedback and honest truths that have pruned my words and shaped my abilities. Yes to the hours and hours and hours of clicking away with no one but the keys under my fingers and the voices of 'characters' in my head. 
I said yes. 
The end. 
And also the beginning.


WHAT I AM GOING TO DO ABOUT IT
So I am honoring my choices. I need more time right now to finish this third re-write. I need focus. I need to stop crying about how hard it is and how lonely I feel. I need to remember all the times I have been my own hero and dragged myself through trenches to find me, a stronger me, pulling me up and out. And need to write the words I have, with the time I have, the best I can. And then be opened to doing it all again. 
And I am. 
Because I said yes.


So I am unplugging until the end of March to finish this draft. The draft I already said yes to. Because after this I think I will be in the Land of Editing. And then I can split my words between my memoir and this blog. Right now I am struggling with that. BIG TIME.


A huge thank you to all of you who visit me and leave such encouraging comments. Thank you. Really. You have no idea...


See you at the beginning of April, or sooner. Hopefully sooner. :)


Tab



 [image]

All in a Row

I don’t stand in rows, unless I have to. Unless that would be considered good manners. And patience. Then I Row Stand with the best of them.

But otherwise…I don’t understand rows. All that clustered sameness. All that fitting into other people’s boxes and shoes. All that waiting… waiting…waiting.

When you make your own line. You’re first. There’s no one to follow.

The first time I made my own row, I trembled and shook.What would the Line Makers say? Whose footprints would walk down the beach before mine? Where would I go now that I wasn’t waiting for the person in front of me to move?

Freedom. Ahhh… the sweet skies above. Limited only by myself.

So I re-wrote my book. Saying all the things I wanted to breathe and forgetting that it was for other people. In those moments, the writing was for me. And it felt good.

Then I bought that dress. The one I passed by because it was too… beautiful.

I asked Matt to hold me. Because I felt like it. I wanted his arms. And I let myself be held.

And I shaved my head. Yes, really. I have always wanted to do it. I thought it would be pixie like. I left just enough hair to have hair and wispy bits beside my face. But I wasn’t sure when I met my new reflection. She was pretty. Not like me. Not at all. I wished I were her. I wondered what it might be like. I am looking forward to finding out. Because now she doesn’t look like someone who waits behind.

What about you? Where do you stand on the issue of rows? A time to line up and a time to start your own line? No need to head shave… unless you have always wanted to. Then perhaps you should :)

PS- I take no responsibility for shaved heads as a result of this post.

PSS-No snails were harmed during the taking of this photo.

[image courtesy]

Story Flesh

Story flesh you live inside me. In all the things that make me smile.

Tea cups in the rain. Cupcakes behind the baker's glass. Goldfish circling, orange and black. Colored bottles on an open window sill. New pencils in their packets like a neatly boxed rainbows.

Little things that mean nothing.

This is where the story sparks.

In moments too small to even capture, that's where my writing grows.

Story flesh you aren't destroyed, even inside my Green House of Grief. Pain, a hot bed of healing.

The feet that once stamped in puddles without gumboots, the back flip that didn't land well and the eyes with blueness dripping, became the dew on my early morning grass. I lived under the sadness, but emerged with words. Fern fronds. Life. Even under the rocks carpeted with moss.

Story Flesh, apart of who I am. Even when I didn't know her. Even in the tears. Alive, over, under and beside me. Nice to finally see. The Story flesh; I always hoped I had.

A second skin, a first skin.

My skin.

Me.

What about you? What grows on you and in you? Do you have Story Flesh?

[image courtesy]

How do you come to it?

"You can approach the act of writing with nervousness, excitement, hopefulness, or even despair- the sense that you can never completely put on the page what is in your mind and heart. You can come to the act with your fists clenched and your eyes narrowed, ready to kick ass and take down names. You can come to it because you want a girl to marry you or because you want to change to the world. Come to it in any way but lightly. Let me say it again: you must not come lightly to the blank page." 

-Stephen King 

in his book On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft.

I came to writing not knowing I could write. I came to writing to answer a question within me that didn't seem to have any other expression or way to be heard. I came to writing because I couldn't think what else to do with the burn inside, the thunder in my head or the silence that was strangling my life. I guess I came to be seen. But I also came to see. 

I came to writing unplanned, unprepared and unknowing. I threw my soul on the page and I let the words take root before my eyes. I let wild things grow in sentences and edited the jungle later. I let the first draft be just that, a first draft. The blank pages reflecting turmoil and joy and tragedy, all the colours and gray scale of life. I just wrote. 

Now that I have a healthy appreciation for the art... I have not changed my approach one bit. I don't think it is the only way to come to writing, or even the best way to come to writing. It is rather like the joy my baby derives from a bowl of spaghetti. And really, what is pasta if you cannot mash it through your hair and spread it around the table? And oh so much the better if the deliciousness creeps up the walls around and splatters on the floor below. That's me and writing. It ain't pretty, but I enjoy squeezing the pasta between my fingers. I like mashing words through my hair and so much the better if they end up spread from my office desk to the back of the house. 

But I  will say this- although I roll in the pleasure of the whole writing process, I am humbled that I get to add my words to this world...even in small ways. And I hope I never take that for granted.

What about you? How do you come to the act of writing? What works for you?

Where the Wild Things Are.

Have YOU battled your Wild Things?
The night Tab was pounding her fist on the desk, becalmed in the Sea of No Short Stories, she put on her writing suit and made waves of one kind or another. Several cups of tea later not a single story was churning. No ideas. Nothing. Zip. Nadda. The Sea was flat and glassy and refused to bubble with any thing, wild or otherwise. Her husband bravely poked his head into the office.
"Do you want to stop for dinner?"
But Tab looked at him and said, "I can't write this stupid *#&%(@#$ short story!" Her husband said she was being a tad over dramatic, a bit of a Wild Thing herself. So she stomped off to bed without eating anything.

That very night, as Tab calmed down and ceased stomping about the room and decided to give up and just let her ideas flow when they were ready, a forest of words grew and grew and grew until her ceiling hung with the vines of thoughts and the walls became the world around with all its possibilities. And ocean tumbled by, with a private boat for Tab. She returned to her computer and sailed off through the night, eager to discover where the Sea was leading. She sailed in and out of weak ideas and almost over a year to a place where the Wild Things were.

Despite her lack of control over the creative process and the fact that she really had to just go with the Sea, she faced those Wild Things even as they roared their terrible roars of self doubt and gnashed there terrible teeth of frustration and rolled their terrible eyes and showed their terrible claws.

And Tab said, "Be still."
And she tamed the wild thoughts running through her head with a magic trick of starring her doubts in the face until they were frightened and called her the most Wild Thing of all. And made her Queen of all the Wild Things.

"Now," said Tab, "Let my own wild rumpus start!"
And suddenly those previously antagonistic Wild Things began to howl with her at the moon and swing freely though the trees and vines of thoughts and create a wonderful dance with words on the page.
"Now stop!" said Tab when she reached her word limit set by the non-wild college and she sent the rest of those wild ideas to bed with out any more food for thought.

But then Tab, Queen of The Wild Things, was lonely and wanted to share her writing with someone who loved her best of all.

Then from all around, from far away across the world, Tab smelled something good to eat. So she gave up being Queen of the Wild Things, having achieved all she set out to achieve, at least for that evening.

And the Wild Things cried, "Oh please don't go, we'll never show up again, how we love you so!"
Again the Wild things roared their terrible roars of self doubt and gnashed their terrible teeth of frustration and rolled their terrible eyes and showed their terrible claws.

And Tab stepped out onto her private boat and said, "Don't be stupid, I'll be back next time I want to write a short story!" And sailed back over a year and in and out of days, into the night of her very own office. Where her wonderful husband had dinner waiting. And it was still hot.
The end.
(And my apologies. I needed the download!)

To check out what true literary brilliance looks like from the real Queen... um.. King of the Wild Things, Maurice Sendak, click on over to amazon.com and order a copy of this rambunctious tale,
Where The Wild Things Are.
Do it for your..self..um..kids!
And read often with a lots of vine swinging and laughter.

Oh, and if like me, you find pounding your fists does not produce any kind of writing at all, much less a string of phenomenal literary wonder, then give it up for a bit. Then grab the first words that come and be content to ride that boat where ever it may lead. Get it, type something, type anything and remind the Wild Doubts inside that you are a writer, you are a writer, you are a writer...

Moral of tale( though I hate tales with morals): The short story for my college assignment is complete... and thanks for letting me write off some steam :)

Writing Blabberings -The Games We Play with Words

Meaning is in the eye of the beholder.

I love words, I always have. I make it my personal endeavour to find creative uses for as many of them as I can. And I thought my word choices were imaginative... until I had children. Then I realised that I am a mere dwarf among the true giants of this language game.

My two year old has me beat hands down. He not only appropriates whatever word he feels inclined to use in the place of words that we might ordinarily choose, he also invents his own words.

Googies are blankets. Big Daddas are tractors. Heblicobta's are, no, not helicopter's, they are planes and some times birds. Butterflies are ants or really anything that creeps on the ground and moos are anything from horses to pigs. Interestingly, moos are never cows.

See, he is not restricted by all the language rules we adults rave on about and beat our heads in trying to follow. He just lets the words flow.

And while I am not advocating that we all start re-inventing the English language (although someone clearly needs to overhaul the English spelling system), I do think I write better when I stop trying to search for the 'correct' word and start fleshing out images in my head with normal words used in unexpected ways.

I love the quote by 'Pegleg3941' in the comments section on KM Weiland's blog.

"Forcing people to see common thoughts in uncommon ways is a lot of fun. The tough part is making people enjoy the times you play with their heads."

I couldn't agree more. And, yeah, I must admit I don't always enjoy the trip around the mountain we have to take to deceiver the meanings behind some of the words my toddler uses. Oh, he understand what he said alright. What the heck is Mummy's problem? He asked for a 'flocwif' ten minutes ago and still hasn't got what he ordered! I'm left madly searching through the fridge where he is pointing and stomping his pudgy legs crying, "flocwif!"

So, I guess all writers take the risk that their unconventional word pictures do in fact convey the image intended and not just a general angst whilst sending people on, um, searches through their fridge???

Oh, and by the way, a 'flocwif' is a sandwich. Just in case you ever find yourself looking for one.

The Burn Within

How do  you know?

How do you know when you have found the 'stuff' you want to write about? I have been asking myself that question a lot lately. I don't necessarily mean the genre, but I guess that could be apart of it. I guess I want to know what it is that tells you that you have hit on a story that is incredibly important.  Because lately, I have this burn... 

Inside I have this massive feeling of an ache so deep it simply has no words yet. My eyes feel heavy with tears that have no known cause and I find myself praying things like, 'Lord burn my heart with the stories that burn your heart, because I want to write what matters to You."

The Words

I was speaking with a woman last night about the space that I pull my writing from. It is a place of both vulnerability and strength, a place of not knowing, but needing to see. There is no internal editor present when I write from that place, there are no harsh voices telling me to turn around. It is a place that quivers and groans within. In my mind I get the tail of an image and when I pull, feelings follow and  intensify into words and grow on the pages as I write.  I can't escape from that kind of writing. I have tried. I can ignore it for a time, but eventually I find myself sitting down to let the stuff within pour out. 

Sometimes I wonder what's wrong with me. Surely not all writing is this organic? Maybe I am doing this 'writing thing' all wrong? But then I feel that burn...

I find the more I care for myself, the more I can open my heart up to hear the pain in this world and the more I want to write about it. 

I used to hate non-fiction works.  But then I went and wrote an memoir! And you know 'they' say that you should read at least something in the area you write. But until now it has been too much for me. Almost as if other people's hurts and joys flooded my soul and left me gasping for space to breath. Now I find I have some space. This place deep within that I pull words from that is now hungry to hear what other's have said in their writing.

That burn within seems ready not just to write, but to read, in a way I couldn't before. 

The Books

I have in my hot little hands two amazing books that I have picked up in the last two days. 

Still Alice by  Lisa Genova who asks the question, 'What if you were to lose every memory you every had?' The novel is based on the true story of 'Alice' a 50 year old professor and her war against the rapid and aggressive early onset of Alzheimer's disease.  

The other is a book closer to my heart. 

Today I'm Alice by Alice Jamieson is a raw and gripping memoir the shattered memories of her past abuse and the missing hours of her life that she can't account for. She describes her raging against the voices in her head that become full blown personalities and then at twenty- four she is finally diagnosed with Multiple Personality Disorder.

I am half way through both of these books, not able to set either one aside to finish the other first. No doubt I will have them both read by this Friday. I'm Still Alice will be  my Friday non-Fiction pick, so I'll post more then.

Until then, I wanted to encourage all the writers out there some of who are now reading my blog ( I am humbled) to keep writing what matters to you. Because ultimately I think these stories a place on our hearts for a reason. 

Your Words and Books?

So writers, what burns within? Do you ever find yourself writing stories you know you can't keep locked away?  And readers, ever find words that seep into your soul from the books you have read? Words that won't let go?

 

Writing Blabberings -My Words

I haven't posted much on my writing, but I thought it was about time that I did. My friends and family aren't really even aware of what I have written; I seldom talk about it. I guess I still struggle to think of myself as a writer, even though I have been published a few times in various magazines. Basically, I have a completed manuscript and another WIP that I am about 30,000 words into. But there is a whole lot more to my writing than that. My first book never started out as a book. What I mean is, I didn't sit down to write it thinking that what I was writing would ever turn into a book. It just grew.

I really have to tell you a bit of back story for this to make any sense. Mid way through last year I was going through a pretty horrendous time and I started seeing a counsellor. In our first session together she asked the question, "Can you tell me what you pain looks like?" I guess she hooked my imagination and some hidden part of me that knew exactly what pain looked like and was pretty desperate to tell someone. That's where the writing started. I wrote a description of  'Beast', a metaphor for my pain, and a character that I could begin to face and deal with. I sent that writing to my counsellor, but I discovered that I had plenty more to say. 

I used to think that pain was at its best when it didn't exist. But pain did exist in my life. I thought I would cope better if I could find a way to mute it, numb it or ignore it. I sure as hell didn't want to focus on it. But through my writing of 'Beast' I began to wonder if that wasn't a lie. What if the strength of pain was its ability to point me to something deeper within me? What if acknowledging it, turning to face it and embracing it could tell me more about who I was and why I hurt and start me on the path to healing? 

I dared to find out. I created a whole world around Beast and linked what was happening in the 'cave of my heart' to the trauma and issues I was dealing with in real life. I made room for Beast to be what he was in my life and wrote through the eyes of pain.  Some 100, 000 words later I had a really rough memoir of this specific time in my life and the hope that I had found. I began to muck about with the writing, chunking it into chapters, refining the thoughts, strengthening the characters and tightening my use of the metaphor and the the inner world I had created. I fleshed out the scenes that occurred in the real world and made sure that the linking back and forth between the metaphor of Beast and his world and my actual life was clear and purposeful. I paid attention to the visual imagery I created with Beast and the other characters that I imagined living with in my heart and began to use them to show what it was actually like to live with depression and battle self harm without needing to be graphic or shocking. I began to realise I had used words to convey what some people who suffer through trauma and issues surrounding mental illness are not necessarily able to. I had words. Maybe others didn't? I began to think the book might be important beyond the immediate value it had in my life.  I had the book professionally edited. My editor agreed. 

I went back, reworked the book, this time from a technical perspective. Too many adjectives? Did I repeat myself? Did I rely on 'crutch' words? Where was the writing flat? Empty adverbs? Was the dialogue realistic? What did it sound like read aloud? Could I get rid of some suffixes? Did I over use was, is, am, were, being and other 'to be' words? Did my writing 'tell' or 'show'? And the list went on and on... as anyone who has ever revised a manuscript knows.

In short, I went back and remodeled the book. I made damn sure I got conversations that had occurred as accurate as I could. I was obsessive about being true to myself and making sure that every word that I'd written,  whether I was talking about Beast and his world in the cave of my heart or actual situations, were rich with honesty. As best I could, I took off the glasses tinted with rose and looked around me for the first time ever. Some of it I didn't like seeing. But I realised that the book would have no power if it didn't let the reader in. It was gut level type writing, pulled from places I didn't know I had within. The edit was hard. Letting go of it was harder. I titled my memoir 'Beast' and entered it into a competition for unpublished manuscripts. I won't hear anything until later in the year, but I am quietly proud of it, whatever happens. I am under no illusions that the book is actually finished though. It made it to the competition in the best form it could for the time I had to prepared it, but I still think it went a bit too raw. It does, however, give me time to sit back and re-edit the work. I have another editor working on it at the moment and plans to submit it for a professional manuscript evaluation later in October. So, there you have it. I wrote a memoir. I wrote 'Beast'. Who knew I had that in me? God did I guess!

Since then I have been doing a lot more writing. Most of what I sell to magazines, especially the articles that I am most zealous about, are non-fiction pieces usually about some one's life. I think that is my specific passion. I would love to write a novel one day, but for now non-fiction writing is what seems to burn within. Up until 18months ago I didn't even realise I was so enamoured with writing. I'd never given air to that particular little dream. But the writing finally breathes. 

Where to from here? I don't really know. Of course I have hopes... but I  am learning to trust, that like everything to do with this book so far, God's plan and timing for it will be perfect.