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My Little Obsession

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If you know me at all, you’ve probably seen me with one of these close by. They are small notebooks, 8.35 in x 6.5 in. They’re made by Studio C and are called Ideal Books. I love these.

I have about 9 of them now. Maybe more.

Within those pages are magic— the magic of my stories. I now prefer writing in these, at least to get me going. And if I’m stuck, it’s within those pages where the muse kicks back into gear. Sometimes they contain a letter to a friend. Notes on the webinars I’ve been taking lately. A to do list like above. And once in a while, as I’m scribbling away, I come across pure gold. Because there are pages scattered throughout where the princeling has drawn pictures in Mommy’s notebook. Some were drawn while we were in the car are he was bored. I’d pass back the book (pen handily clipped to the front) and let him go for it. It makes for a lot of really nice surprises while writing.

Now, if you’re able to see the list I attached above, I have to admit a few things. First of all, the first 3 things had already been accomplished. I believe in making sure that I have some sense of accomplishment LOL. 6-10 all have to do with writing, although 7-9 are the only ones dealing with short stories that I’m actually working on right now. On those, I only worked on Broken, but.. But… I finally finished it. WOOHOO! I finished it! I finished it! AND, um, well, it’s going to have a part 2. But I finished it and sent it off to Beta’s!

So. On my list there were 3 items that I didn’t even touch. I thought a bit about two of them (which does count, but not for this list), but nothing was written down either in my lovely note books or on the computer so I’m not counting that. But, all in all, I’m happy with my little list and with what I accomplished today.

Stories can save your soul…

When the princeling was about 4, he started having horrible nightmares. I mentioned that we could go somewhere in our dreams and meet.

And thus, the candy garden bloomed again.

Fountains spilling Skittles, a Sprite stream filled with Swedish Red Fish and gummy sharks. You get the idea. I wrote a flash fiction story about it. The Princeling adds to it, or subtracts, depending on his current likes. He is now 8.

When I was in the hospital in June, he was with my sister in law. In talking on the phone with him, he asked me, sobbing, where to meet him that night. “Do you want to go to the candy garden?”

Sniffling, he replied: How about a candy ocean? The sand is sugar, and….

And we were off. Something amazing happened that night, something amazing that touched my soul in a way no other story that I ever have come up with has.

The Candy Garden is imprinted on my son’s soul. And when we’re separated, he knows, deep down inside, that he can go there and find his mom. It’s an avenue for our creativity to go wild, together, but more than that… It brings my child comfort.

So yes, one story can make a huge difference. Even if it’s a one off, a way to sooth a child at bed time. It can grow, it can morph and take on a life of it’s own… And can feel like a warm hug on a dark and scary night when you’re miles from your mommy.

Beauty for Pain: Poetry as Catharsis

The very best writers pull you in. They take all the pain of life, and they return it to you with beauty.

I have lots of imaginary conversations in my head. This one was about poetry, about how you can take the essence of something incredibly painful and return it transformed. Does the act of transformation also take away some of the pain?

I’m basically a happy person. There have been times when I went through hell. I haven’t really written about them, because every time I tried I got angrier and angrier. As a single parent, I couldn’t just walk around wanting to punch something 24/7. But those attempts were all more of a this happened and then this and then…

Not trying to do anything other than record.

I brought it up briefly in the novella I’m doing, but quickly brushed it aside. It’s there, but not present.

The one thing I have not tried is poetry. Of trying to take the pain and turn it into something beautiful and possibly unrecognizable.

I think it might be time to try it. Just as soon as I finish Camp Nano.

Take care my lovelies,

 

Wyn

Hello, You

Hello, You,

I see you. I know your going through some hard times, I know that you’re hurting inside. I also know that there’s not a damn thing I can do about it except for say “I love you, I’m here for you,” I know that the hard part is up to you, but I need for you to know…

I love you. I love your kindness, the way that you care about everyone and show that care. I see the jewel that you are; flawed perhaps… but that just makes you more interesting. It is the flaws that make us who we are, that gives our wings flight.

I see you.

I see you struggling, trying to balance who you are with who you used to be. The struggle to find the ability to make it day by day. That sometimes, it seems to swallow you hole. It’s like you’re swimming in the ocean, in the middle of the night, and can’t see the shore.

Hang on. Please, hang on. Because I promise you…. The dawn will break. It might not be when you want it to, it might be later than you think you can hold on. But I promise, the dawn will break.

I see you. I wish I could save you. But for now, I leave you with this,

 

The dawn will come.

 

A Stranger Grief Than This…

Driving home the other night, I saw a man at the base of an ancient tree. He was on his haunches, his shoulders bowed with grief. In front of him, against the tree, was a white cross. He was planting flowers– spring flowers– at the base of the tree. From the comfort of my car, I watched as he created a shrine to a loved one. The music on the radio conspired with him, and… it was a moving moment.

Third person poignancy.

I have a mini-shrine in my room. Two collages of my mom, some of her tea cups, a thimble. Off to the side of the shelf where they are, is a picture of my mom at the Japanese Tea Garden in SF. She loved that place. But the thing is… this mini shrine… I barely look at it. I didn’t even think of it as a “shrine” until.. well, the other night, when I started thinking about shrines. It could be because it’s been up for so long. It could be because it’s been 20, 21 years.

The hard edges have worn off my grief. It no longer crushes me under its unforgiving weight.

And yet, my shrine still stands. I may change it up tomorrow, or may leave it. But I think I’ll take my boy, and go to the local Japanese Tea Garden….. and let him discover why it was one of her favorite places. I can walk in the peace, meditate…
Well. Lets be honest. I have a 7 year old boy. I can trail behind him, taking deep breaths. Because no matter how hard, life does go on.

And it is ok to enjoy it.

Journaling

Do you keep a journal? I did for years… through good times and right up until the point when I gave up my own voice.

I think journals are wonderful things. A repository for all the odd ball thoughts.. that I actually have followed up on. One night, I was writing in my journal by candlelight (pre kid days LOL) and it started a whole thing on what it felt like and what the light did and how people had been doing it for time unknown…. That eventually found itself in a story.

But then I just started writing pages and pages of I Hate You, and I knew it was time to quit for a while.

Now, I have a pretty pink leather bound journal. The inside pages are teeny tiny squares. a grid. It is not spiral bound, which is different for me, and I can tell you right now that I will not be writing on the backs of pages. Too risky— would hate to break the binding and loose all those beautiful words that I will fill it up with. It’s also awkward.

So why am I having such a hard time starting? It’s not fair! Everything is going too slow, and yet way too fast. I just can’t make sense of it all, and don’t know where to even begin.

But I’m a writer. And in order to tell fictional stories, I feel that I need to come completely honest with someone. Or something.

 

Even if it is a pink leather journal that has groovy paper but the wrong sort of binding.

 

So, am I the only one who prefers a specific type of binding on journals?

 

Oh crap. Who’s gonna hide it from my son? Can you imagine reading your mom’s journal? Actually, I think it might be cool to read my moms…. Would you want your children to read your personal journals?