words

I got some writing advice last weekend.
From non-writers. A fair amount of whiskey was involved. And, I asked for it. I was feeling stuck on a particular story ending and decided to solicit some help.
For me, talking about a story in progress ranks pretty high on the discomfort list, right up there with dental work and public speaking. It's hard to talk about writing and I don't want what I'm working on to sound trivial or unimaginative.
But, I asked, they answered, and I took mental notes. I made revisions this week, and now I'm letting them settle. When I go back in a week or two, we'll see how it feels.
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Trying to find the thread, man. It's a lifelong quest.

tentglow

Finally had some time to get out to the coast last weekend. Even though the weather has turned mercifully cooler, there's still a burn ban, so the only fire possible was the candles I posted outside the day tent. I enjoyed a day of outdoor work: finishing the driveway gate, pulling out brambles, clearing the septic field, sweeping and scrubbing. Then, a gentle hit from the pipe, and it was beer o'clock. Birds rustled blissfully in the misty alders, and nearby, a frog croaked.
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Scroll down for today's writing soundtrack, dj Shmeejay.

looking for patterns

I broke a necklace and a bracelet over the weekend.
My rental car got a flat tire.
My alarm didn't go off this morning.
And as I waited for the bus, a man boarding the D-line got his foot caught in the disabled ramp and screamed like a stuck pig.
A pattern of unfortunate events?
Who knows?
Good things happened too: I saw pink-glazed clouds at sunset on Sunday, I went dancing and played a card game with friends, I heard frogs croaking on a coastal visit, and yet all I remember is the broken chain, the mad rush to shower and get to work, the screams of an agitated rider.
C'mon now. The pattern is life.
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my shrink, the ceo

My shrink runs our sessions in a very businesslike manner.
We meet at the same time each week. We work through the same agenda: ritual breathing to relax, recap of last visit, any new business, then on to the topics at hand.
She wears variations on the same outfits--1970's Mary Tyler Moore chic, loose slacks with matching vests, long-sleeved stretchy shirts, no prints.
Once a month we analyze where I'm at, with 3 separate measures.
And for gnarly problems, she busts out the white board.
It's a lot like work, only the project is me.
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For so many of the situations I bring to her, the answers are the same, too.
You have little to no influence here.
You can choose understanding, acceptance.
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I've been discovering the photos of Saul Leiter. Snapshots of mid-century NYC. I'm drawn to the layers, the filters--windows of a shop or a taxicab, rain or snow, half-glimpses of a face or a hat or a breast. He evokes such  feelings of recognition and longing.

"you're"

Yesterday

Yesterday I was all set to write about rain and unwatered lawns and the beauty of chaotic vegetation.
Then came a windstorm, power outages, an absence of internet, gashes of rain, and late in the night, desperate times for a good friend.
Today is better only because it is light, and I don't know whether the light can find its way through the darkness coiled around a frail human heart, blanketing and choking out all reason. I have wept and talked and begged and texted and called the authorities and run up friends and wept some more.
If only my buddy knew how many people love them, care about them, enjoy their sarcastic cackle and funny/sad poems and passion for sports and music. I've said it, I've texted it, I've tried to burn it into a fevered brain. But, I'm scared. There are other factors in play, chemical, genealogical.
Now, I'm afraid I can only wait.

Anfang

I've been thinking about the importance of first lines. A first line that grabs the reader by the lapels and says, "Hey you, I got something you want to hear." I don't even mind the bait-n-switch first lines that end up being  not quite true.
Now is the place in the blog entry where I'm supposed to cut and paste some of the great first lines of literature, but I'm going to resist doing that. It's too easy. And honestly, a lot of first lines aren't that great, either because we've heard them too often: "It was the best of times etc etc.," or, if you haven't read the piece of fiction, the line doesn't mean much to you anyway.
I guess I'm saying it's a matter of personal taste. I'm resolved to think more about it, and do more about it.
c'est tout.