Self-control

Delayed gratification, self-denial, self-control, restraint.  All of these are admirable qualities and all are qualities that I struggle with on a daily if not hourly basis.  Self-discipline is another one.  I want to be organized and disciplined.  I want to avoid procrastinating.  I want to be able to control my impulse to express every emotion I feel.  I want to be able to pass by a pastry case and not want to get one of everything and eat until I'm sick.  I want all those things, but I don't want getting them to be this difficult.  I don't want it to be such a constant struggle.

It's all about paths we choose, isn't it?  Coming to the counter in Starbucks, I can choose to get a coffee or a drink with triple the calories.  I can choose to pass by the food or get something that will suffuse me with feelings of guilt before the first bite.

And then there are the near and far consequences and that's where delayed or immediate gratification and self-control step in.  What's more important to me, eating the chocolate brownie or fitting into a corset?  Simple, right?  Of course fitting into a corset is more important and fulfilling than the chocolate brownie.  But the corset is sometime in the hazy future and the brownie, in all its chocolate lusciousness, is right in front of me; available for the asking and $2.95 plus tax.  And while my brain is trying desperately to remind me of the tightening of laces, my stomach is growling and my mouth is watering, already anticipating that first jaw-seizing taste of sweetness.

I want to be good and I want to conquer the demons of indulgence and impatience, but I want shortcuts.  I want it to be easy, effortless.  I want to not want so badly all those things that I fight against every day.

I am someone who likes order. I like things to be neatened away, put together, tied up with a pretty bow, etc.  I don't like unfinished thoughts or arguments and I don't like unfinished battles or battles that have to be fought and won over and over again.  If a battle is fought and won, I expect it to remain won.  And it just doesn't seem to work that way with any of the things I'm struggling with.

Corset or chocolate brownie, indeed.

No Title

Foreword:  This post is actually dated from about four days ago, originally written out in longhand in a notebook.  Yes, I know - pen and paper, how quaint.  But now I finally have time to transfer it here so here it goes.

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Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.  Better to experience emotions to their full extent than to feel halfway.  Better to live life to its fullest extent.

Better for whom, exactly?  And better than what?  What is the alternative?  And if you've never experienced such strong emotions, then how do you know what's better?  How do you miss something you never had in the first place?

Let's say for the sake of this circular argument that I accept that it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.  When people say that, surely the "better" part that they are talking about is the loving part, not the losing.  And even then, loving someone isn't easy or always positive.

Love - real, enduring, all-encompassing love - comes at a terrible price.  The price for every moment of joyful bliss is the crippling fear of loss.  Maybe you don't feel both at once, but you feel it anyway.  You feel it late at night; at that moment right before you close your eyes and feel the ripple of fear wash over you, puckering your skin in a sudden shudder.  You feel it every time you say good bye and wonder if it's the last time you'll see your lover.  You feel it every time you expect a call that doesn't come.  That fear is always there in the back of your mind, crouching in wait until your defenses weaken and it can sink its fangs in for a brief, excruciatingly painful bite.

It's been a while since I've experienced the full horrors of sudden emotional pain and it never ceases to amaze me just how bad it can get.  I've had a lot of time to think about it over the last few days; in particular what makes it so bad and in some ways so much worse than physical pain.

Usually, with unexpected and non-catastrophic physical pain, the start is as bad as it's going to get. It might hurt like hell, you may be bleeding, you may end up with bruises or you may have a sprain or even broken bones, but unless you keep re-injuring the same place, the pain will begin to recede.  It may happen slower than you'd like, but it's a unidirectional process.  Eventually the pain will fade to a dull background ache and then disappear.  And let's not forget all those analgesics out there to help it along.  Better living through pharmaceuticals as J. would say...

Not so with emotional suffering.  In the beginning, your brain will try to help and protect you by deadening all the reactions and cushioning you.  You'll be in shock but you won't realize it for what it is.  Instead, you'll assume this is all there is to it.

Wow, that's not as bad as I thought it would be, you'll think in cautious relief.  You may even test it out by thinking about whatever it is that is at the source of your distress and because you are still wrapped in the cocoon of shock, you'll find that you feel downright okay.   

I can do this, you'll think, I'll be fine.  You'll feel positively buoyant as you go about your day, proud of your resilience.

And then it'll happen.

In the middle of a conversation with a coworker or as you are merging onto a busy highway, the shock will finally wear off.  With no warning, the full horror of the situation will explode in your mind and you'll literally stop breathing.  The impact of the hit can only be matched by the strength of the betrayal you'll feel against your own mind.  And if you've been through this before then you'll recognize that this is only the beginning.  It's just the first nausea inducing wave of pain, panic, and fear.

Unlike with physical pain, this will get much worse before it gets better.  There isn't much you can do about it or the course it takes.  You'll see the waves as they come but will be powerless to stop them from crashing over you and dragging you under again and again.

You'll want to tear your hair out, crawl out of your skin, scream until you are hoarse and your face is bloated from crying.  You'll hit things, scratch your arms, bang your head against the wall, offering physical pain as a pale substitute for this agony, but it will all be in vain.

You can't escape your mind or the gruesome images it will paint to enhance the torment.

You may choose to drink and drink hard to shut off your brain.  And you may even succeed; for a few breathlessly numb hours maybe you can make the pain stop.  But then you'll sober up and it will feel even worse than it did before the alcoholic anesthesia set in with a false sense of comfort.

There is nothing to do but keep breathing and wait it out.

Eventually the next wave of despair will be just a bit smaller than the ones before it.  Eventually the smaller and weaker waves will outnumber the tidal ones.  Eventually you won't be afraid to take in a deep breath lest it come out as a wail.

Eventually it will be over.

Until the next time.

Choices

Every start is also an end.  Every choice made is the death of hundreds of other choices, some considered, some as yet undiscovered and now perhaps buried forever.  When it comes to some choices, the sheer variety of options is so staggering that I sometimes wonder how anyone manages to pick in the first place.

Have you ever thought about the mind-boggling glut of greeting cards in a drug store?  How is one supposed to pick the best one out of hundreds of equally appalling saccharine options?  I didn't get a card for J for an occasion I normally would have because the sheer number of available bits of dead trees depressed me beyond my ability to get over it and just pick a damn card.

So, how does anyone manage to decide in the face of a myriad of options? Of course, not all choices are as numerous as greeting cards.  Some choices are simple - what to have for lunch?  Maybe I feel like a salad or sushi.  Easy, I know exactly where to go to get it.  Some days though, everything sounds equally plausible and satisfying and as a result nothing does.  On days like that I'll usually force myself to settle for something that begins to lose its appeal the moment it lands on my plate.  And occasionally I'll decide that I just can't be bothered to spend the energy on this decision and go without.

I've been picking that latter option quite a bit lately.  I'd skip lunch or dinner.  And if it's dinner, then I'm so hungry the next morning that the idea of settling on a single item for breakfast is laughable and so I skip that too.  Then lunch comes and I am past being hungry.  I'm at a point where the mere thought of food makes me slightly nauseous.  And that's when it happens.

The power to just not eat is intoxicating.

I try not to abuse it, but it's so appealing that I'm afraid I don't try too hard.  I choose to exercise that bit of control that's normally so elusive.  Because to be honest, I love food.  I love eating, I love cooking, I love trying new foods.  I've never been good at setting limits in food or anything else.  If I actively try to not eat or eat less or avoid certain foods, I fail more spectacularly each time I try.  The surest way for me to gain weight is to go on a diet.  It's a daily struggle.

And then, in the face of those never ending battles, come these glorious, accidental days.  Days when the more hours tick by without food entering my mouth and feeding my insatiable hunger by sliding down my throat, the more elated I become.  It's less a countdown and more a game of stretching the rubber band; how much more before it snaps?

This high isn't one I can chase, though.  It doesn't come through effort.  It can't be gained on purpose or by design or by choice  The only choice I have is to enjoy it when it comes and I do enjoy it very much.

Of course as with any choice we make and any freedom we exercise, there comes a price.  The exhilaration of a stomach so devoid of food that you can feel its hollowness even without thinking about it is accompanied by the fear of loss of that pleasure.  Don't get me wrong, I'm not out to starve myself and frankly, while not overweight, I have plenty of padding to ensure that these occasional jaunts leave no lasting effects.  I know I have to eat and I know I will, but just in that bubble of momentary starvation, I really wish I didn't have to.  I wish I could prolong that sensation of emptiness, that slightest touch of lightheaded vertigo, the feeling of the waistband of my jeans shifting in ways it normally doesn't.  But most of all, I wish I could prolong the sensation of feeling the bones slide underneath the skin when I place my hand furtively just above the navel and let my fingers span across my side.

So, what is it about this experience that's so appealing?  In D/s, I would refer to this state as being in "headspace". This is a pale imitation of headspace, but it's the closest I can get to it at the moment.

Being in headspace has been compared to the endorphin rush of a runner's high.  It's an almost floaty feeling of straddling the world of reality and fantasy.  When I'm in headspace, I'm able to selectively focus some senses and shut off others.  Unless I am required to watch, my eyes close and vision is eliminated.  One distraction down, more to go.  Hearing is also usually muted or at least tuned to a very narrow frequency of sounds.  I hear things that directly relate to what I am experiencing, but music, sounds from others, anything not directly related to me is gone.  Touch is there, but smell often isn't.  And so it goes.

And when everything is off except for the raw physical sensations then it is as if the skin is scrubbed raw and every touch is magnified, the muscles are moving, twisting, and expanding in ways they normally don't, and the brain is floating, struggling to cope with the overload of sensations.  Breathing suddenly becomes something you have to think about and devote energy to, because it no longer happens on its own; because sometimes you can't breathe even if you want to.

Being in headspace is dangerous because there is always a chance that you'll come out of it a different person from the one who went in or you won't want to come out at all.  The re-balancing of senses, the return of missing ones and the dulling of the ones that were a focus, is like being woken up by having cold water thrown in your face and kicked to the floor.

It's traumatic and it's unwelcome. 

It's like taking the first bite of food after six, ten, twelve hours of going hungry and feeling your jaw clench and lock up because while your body has been waiting for that first bite, your mind has been dreading it and the loss of control that comes with it.

Imagination v. Reality

First, let me set expectations for what this post is about.  I'm not talking about the "I'm twenty pounds lighter and about to get a starring role in a major Hollywood production" kind of imagination.  That's fun and all, but first, that's not where my imagination goes and second, like I said, not that kind of imagination.

I'm talking about imagining reality and then living that reality.  We all do it every day.  We have to, otherwise we wouldn't be able to plan for anything.  We imagine the series of events unfolding and figure out whether they will get us to the desired end state or not. 

"If I leave work at 4 o'clock instead of 4:30, I will gain ten extra minutes because the traffic will be lighter, which means that I'll get to the grocery store by 4:15, grab a few things for dinner, then rush to the childcare center and still make it home in time to make dinner before it's time to work on homework."

Imagine the reality of all those steps and then live them.  And you have some basis for that kind of imagination because presumably you've left work at 4 o'clock instead of 4:30 before and presumably you take the same route to and from work and you know the lines at the grocery store, etc.  There is a series of previously experienced bits of reality that help you construct that imaginary chain today and lead you to have a certain level of confidence that your imagined reality is not all that different from the reality you'll face when you get on the road at 4:05 (because we all know that you'll never actually leave at 4 o'clock... that's just plain fantasy).

But what happens when we try to imagine a reality that never previously existed?  What if you try to imagine what it would be like to do something you've never done before? And what if you have to agree to doing it based solely on your imagining of that reality?  What then? 

What do you rely on to gain a level of confidence in those imaginings if you have no support for them from reality as you know it?

Or worse, what if you are imagining a different reality from one you've already faced?  Which do you trust?  Your new imagined reality or the one that you've already lived through?  Where do faith and experience cross swords?

And when they do, who comes out on top?  That's what I'd like to know.
  

Writing under the influence

I suspect that most people seeing that header will assume that the post is about writing under the influence of alcohol or, if they don't know me, then the influence of drugs.  But it's neither...  This post is about writing under the influence of different emotions. 

Right now I am angry.  Actually, that's not quite true.  I am not angry.  I am incandescent with fury.  It's bubbling inside me like thick porridge in a cauldron; spitting its venom as angry bubbles grow and erupt.  I've tried to contain it, to tell myself that it's not worth getting so upset over, but the truth is, it is worth it.  Not to get upset over, but to get truly, properly enraged.  Screaming at the top of my voice, kicking walls, hitting, crying, and more screaming kind of enraged.  But, that's not very grown-up or ladylike, so let's settle for angry. I am very, very angry right now.

I sat down to write an email, but that would be akin to cleaning a loaded gun when you're blindly drunk.  You just know you're going to shoot someone or something, the question is just what and how badly.  So, I'm not going to write the email I was thinking of writing because I'll just end up saying a lot of things that will both hurt the person I mean to write them to and fall on deaf ears at the same time.

Instead, I'll settle for the unknown audience of those of you who read this.  So, writing under the influence...

I have to say, I love writing when I'm under the influence of strong emotions.  Over time I've noticed that it's not just what I choose to write about, but how I write that differs depending on the emotion.  When I am angry or irritated, I write faster, my sentences short and more compact.  The writing becomes less refined, more choppy, as if each sentence is a sharp bite of licorice.  I know I need to do a better job of proofreading when I write this way, but in some ways, it's more honest left as is. 

The downside to writing when angry is that my filters are all skewed by rage and I can and do put on paper things that I should have held back. Or maybe I shouldn't hold back.  There's a recklessness to this kind of writing that is both frightening and liberating.  I don't set out to hurt anyone with what I might say, but I do find that I often hurt myself with the things I don't say.  Undoubtedly there's a fine balance there, but it's not one that I can achieve when blinded by rage so I'll err on the side of caution today and I won't write or send that email...  Although I won't promise that I won't do it tomorrow.

Hopeful...  I can sort of write when I'm hopeful, but it's too close to happy and I absolutely cannot write when I am happy.  Happiness or joy are inspiration killers for me.  I don't know what to write or how to write when I'm happy.  It's as if being happy takes up all my brain's energy and leaves nothing for other pursuits. 

Writing when I'm happy is kind of like talking right after dental surgery - it's still your mouth and your tongue and you haven't forgotten English, but nothing works as it's supposed to and eventually you realize that the effort just isn't worth it.  You might as well wait for anesthesia to wear off and for your mouth to return back to normal. 

It may be a morbid comparison, but that doesn't make it any less true.  Say "No" to writing under the influence of happiness.

I can handle calm and I can write when I am calm.  I don't necessarily want or need to write when I am calm, but if opportunity presents itself, I can.  It's not the most productive or imagination filled sensation, but being calm allows me a chance to really think about what I'm writing.  The result is that what I write comes out so polished and worked over that it's almost bland.  With calm comes endless patience for tinkering with each sentence and even each word.  It's writing by design and just like "Paint-by-number" can produce a Van Gogh masterpiece, when you look at it closer, it's just a bit too neat and a bit too clinical to amount to anything.  So, I can write when I'm calm, but I won't write well and no amount of editing will breathe life into that carefully crafted corpse.

So, what's left?  Sadness and arousal.  Some of my best, most eloquent, heartfelt writing was done under the influence of those two emotions.  Sadness, writing, and arousal are inextricably linked in my mind.  Being sad makes me want to write, writing arouses me, and arousal pushes me to keep writing to keep the arousal alive.  When I am sad or mopey or experiencing a sudden bout of depression, my writing just pours out.  Fiction or diary pages, it doesn't really matter. 

I love the English language.  I am not very imaginative when it comes to other art forms, I can't play an instrument or paint or draw, but I can write.  I can turn my emotions inside out by giving them voice.  I can turn sadness into hope and inspiration.  I can create arousal and keep it percolating through phrases that have nothing to do with sex.  Words have amazing power and I can manipulate them for my pleasure and for the enjoyment of anyone who feels like joining me for the ride. 

So, what is writing under the influence of sadness like?  It's lyrical and it flows from sentence to sentence, like a thin stream of water running down a set of stone steps.  There a moment ago and then gone, already burbling on ahead, leaving behind a hint of wetness evaporating before your eyes.  It's both freeing and frightening because it feels out of control.  As the words pour out, you never know what thoughts will tumble out into the open.  Sometimes, reading what I wrote at these times doesn't feel like my writing.  It's too raw and I am always tempted to edit it.  It's not raw in the same way as angry writing is.  Angry writing aims to strike, to change, to influence and enforce.  Sad writing is like slicing open your flesh and leaving the wound open for the world to see.  It's an act of faith, an exposure of vulnerability and offer of trust.  Picture a cat offering her belly to be rubbed - that's sad writing.

And this?  What sort of writing was this?  This was substitution writing or detached writing, if you wish.  It's writing for the sake of writing.  Not very good, not very bad, just there to take place of what can't be written; at least not right now.

Don't think about the pink polar bear

It's a silly kid's joke.

"Don't think about (insert whatever silliness you like here - a pink polar bear in my case)"  

So what are you thinking about right now as you read these words?

Admit it, you thought about a pink polar bear for at least a fraction of a second and then you probably tried very hard to redirect your thoughts and maybe you succeeded, but the only way to know is to ask yourself whether you're still thinking about a pink polar bear and there you go!  It's right there, swimming lazily into your conscience in all its pink, polar beary glory.

Lately there are things that I try very hard not to think about.  You know where this is going...  The harder I try not to think about them, the more they invade my thoughts.  I bargain with  myself.  I tell myself that I'll set aside some time and really focus on those thoughts if only they would leave me alone the rest of the time.  But my thoughts, by virtue of originating in the same place as my good intentions, know me too well and don't believe me.  The longer I avoid them, the angrier they get.  They lie in wait, seething with resentment for being ignored, and the moment I relax my guard, they swarm in, ruthlessly attacking the bit of calm I was trying to enjoy.

I crave order and control and this inability to think about what I want to think about and avoid what I want to avoid feels very disorderly.  I tell myself that this is normal, that everyone has worries and concerns and doubts and fears, but that doesn't help.  The thoughts I don't want to think about snicker derisively in the background, pointing out that I'm no expert on what anyone has or is like; reminding me that I have no friends that I can trust or talk to; confirming my fears that all my worries are my own to solve and deal with.

Where do other people get answers?  When faced with multiple equally feasible options, each carrying costs and rewards, how do others decide which way to go?  How does one logically and systematically think through all the implications of a choice without getting so bogged down in emotions and fears that they instead choose the path of least resistance and just go with what they know?

Hiding from a decision is still a decision.  Ditto for running from one. 

Stalling...  I'm stalling and the thoughts that won't leave me alone know it.  They get buzzier and angrier with each passing day, more determined to break through the veneer of calm, more insistent on being heard or being considered, even if rejected in the end.  They want to be acknowledged.  They want to be validated.  But validation is admission.  And admission is the first step toward the cure.

And I'm not ready to be cured.

Beginnings

So, we are in a new year.  2013 has officially begun.  I'll try to put aside my wholly irrational dislike for the number 13 and my dread of a whole year filled with 13s and consider what my resolutions for 2013 will be.

Every "how to set your resolutions" article I've read in the last week gave essentially the same advice - your resolutions should be realistic, reachable, and specific.

Let's agree at the outset that "realistic" is a matter of opinion.  It's quite realistic for someone else to resolve to not intentionally cut and scar themselves.  It's not all that realistic for me.  Whether a goal is reachable or not is somewhat less vague and it goes hand in hand with it being specific.  Specific goals are reachable (assuming they were realistic in the first place), non-specific goals are usually a waste of time.

I have one other requirement for resolutions, and this is my requirement, not one I'd suggest for anyone else or hold anyone else accountable to.  The requirement is - no trite resolutions.  We all resolve all the time to exercise more, to eat better, to watch less TV, stop nail biting, etc.  None of these will qualify as my 2013 resolutions.

I already know I need to lose weight and exercise more. I readily admit that I watch too much TV and spend too many hours on the couch.  I have tried and failed numerous times to stop biting my cuticles and the skin around my nails.  Did you know that nail biting is now officially classified as a disorder in the DSM IV-R?  Does that mean that I can now stop stressing about it and focus on something else?  Talk about realistic...

At any rate, all of those things are the basics that most people resolve to improve.  In my 2013 resolutions I'm looking for something a bit different; something I haven't already resolved to fix a dozen times before.

And now, on to the resolutions...

~ I resolve to stop feeling guilty about engaging in activities that help me cope with stress.  Perhaps my methods are unconventional, but they work for me and I will resolve to stop adding the stress of guilt on top of the stress heap.  In the spirit of specificity and full self-disclosure, this means that I won't feel guilty when I:

• Use my knife in ways it wasn't intended to be used; 
• Choose to sit alone, in the dark, and drink until my brain shuts off;
• Cannot abide the company of anyone I know and want to be among strangers;
• Gorge myself on work to the point of breakdown;
• Maintain my levels of caffeine at the Energizer Bunny rating;
• Take time for myself to the exclusion of spending it with my family.

~ I resolve to allow myself the luxury of planning and organizing because that's what brings me the greatest measure of control over my life.  I will not let other people's disdain for those things deter or derail me.  I like to plan and schedule; I like to make charts and graphs and draw timelines; I like to organize and arrange and rearrange.  That's how I think and that's what I resolve to continue doing and to hell with everyone else.

~ I resolve to be more balanced in my approach to life; to see both the positive and the negative, rather than focusing on the negative to the exclusion of everything else.  I will  not continue down the path to become someone who sees a hundred things that could go wrong and none that will be fine.  I will resolve to not become someone who always only sees the risks and dangers in everything and never the rewards.  I will not become an unbridled optimist, but I also will not become the person I've spent most of my life trying to avoid becoming.  There is an elusive balance and I will resolve to learn to achieve it.

~ I resolve to not constantly offer my opinion and alternate suggestions unless they are asked for.  Lately I have realized that this is a quality that drives me teeth grindingly mad about a person close to me.  Whatever I say or suggest, this person always has an alternate suggestion.  I couldn't figure out why it drives me so mad when they do this, and then it suddenly came to me.

I think the person thinks that they're being helpful, but in reality, what they're doing is saying "I know you've made a decision, but it's not good enough.  I know better how it (whatever 'it' happens to be) should be done and I'm going to tell you how and why you should do it differently."  This constant offer of contrary suggestions is an implicit disdain for my ability to make my own damn decisions.  Is it any wonder that I'm rarely eager to talk to this person when each time I do, I feel like I have to defend and justify every thought and action?

So, now that I've figured out why it makes me so angry when this person does it, I'm going to resolve to not do it myself.  I will not assume that I know better and I will not assume that the person hasn't already considered what I'm about to suggest.  And if after all that, I do feel that I want to offer a suggestion, I will ask permission first.

~ I resolve to find time every day to do just one thing.  Whatever the thing may be, I will do it with my full attention and without attempting to multitask.  And in the same vein, I resolve to pay attention to my daughter not in addition to whatever else I am doing at the time, but to the exclusion of it.  It won't always be possible, but I resolve to try or explain why my undivided attention can't be given at present.  After all, I expect her undivided attention when I need it and she deserves no less from me.

Those are my resolutions for 2013...  Let the year begin!

Name Game

Writing Exercise 8

~ Tell the origin of your first name.
~ Were you named for someone?
~ Is it a name of your parents' own creation?
~ If you don't know, make it up...

Be as wild as you like.

Start with:  It was a difficult decision...

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It was a difficult decision because I had to settle on just one.  There were so many names to choose from, how does anyone pick just one?  I wondered how people do it when they are picking names for their kids.  I suppose if you have a family tradition of naming the first child after the father or some other similar rule-bound naming conventions, it takes the ambiguity out of the choice.  But how do others do it?  How does someone pick one name from hundreds and hundreds to be their child's name?  Then again, why did I care?  I wasn't picking a name for a child - I was picking a name for myself.

For as long as I can remember myself, I've always hated my given name.  Both the full and the shortened version.  I hated it with a sense of revulsion that I reserved for the sensation of wet clothes sticking to damp skin when you get caught in a downpour on a cold, windy day.  The sound of my name, even its diminutive form, set my teeth on edge.  My friends all knew of my antipathy - with them my name morphed into its male version which was at least tolerable or got abandoned in favor of a nickname. 

It wasn't until years later that I realized that I didn't have to keep the name I had.  It was mine and if I didn't like it, I could change it.  The realization was like an electrical shock from a faulty outlet - a sudden jolt and an enduring echo of the thought that just wouldn't leave.  So, what name to pick?

I started by setting some ground rules.  My name was misspelled so often and so hideously that one thing was certain - the name I pick will be one that no one will ever misspell again.  I also didn't want to worry about full v short versions, so another trait of my new name was going to be consistency.  Just one form of it and it will be clear, crisp, and unambiguous.

And last, but not least, it would be American.  Not a name that is so American as to be completely out of character for me, but American enough where people seeing it on paper will not immediately know who I am.  Was I trying to hide my origin?  Yes and no...  I never wanted to hide the fact that I was not born in the United States.  I am a foreigner and I am intensely proud of it.  I don't know if one can be proud of something they had no hand in... after all, I had nothing to do with being born where I was.  But I am proud of the fact that my heritage is one unique strand of what makes me who I am.  What I was trying to conceal was not the actual fact of being a foreigner; I was trying to conceal the specifics of where I am from.  I want people to know that I'm a foreigner - my looks and my accent are clues enough.  But what most cannot tell is where I am actually from and I like that.  The wild guesses are amusing too.

Once I settled on those criteria it was time to make a selection.  Some of the names I like (Alexandra, Katherine, Samantha) failed on the first two criteria of being spelling error free and not having variations.

Many of the others (Emily, Olivia, Cassie) failed on the third requirement - I am just not a good fit for any of those and anyone who reads this and has met me will be able to attest to that. 

Trying on names is not like trying on clothes or shoes.  You can't wear it for a bit and return it to the store or consign it to the back of the closet.  Picking a name is rather like picking a husband - sure, you can always get a divorce if it doesn't work out, but you don't want to go into a marriage thinking that.  And you don't want to pick a name with the thought that if you don't like it, you can change it later.  Yet, that's exactly what I did.  (With the name, not the husband, for those of you wondering)

I was so paralyzed by the fear of choosing the wrong name that I gave myself an implicit permission to change it if I don't like it.  And the name I picked?  Jane.  Simple, easy to spell, just one form and as generic as you get.  It's a name that served me well for years...  Until it was time for a change.

My name is no longer Jane, but that's a story for another time.  One thing I know for certain is this...  I love the name I have now and when it's time, I'll change it again.

(Not) Enjoying the silence

I notice that I am almost never surrounded by silence.  Silence is deafening and beyond frightening.  Silence is the unknown - what will fill it if you don't fill it first? 

For as long as I can remember, I've talked to myself out loud when I was alone.  Not because I had to, but because I couldn't stand the pressure of absolute silence.

As a child I had an old-style record player and a selection of records - both stories as well as songs - that I used to play over and over again.  I am sure that it drove everyone around me up the walls, but it kept me out of their hair so they put up with it.  I knew most of the records by heart, I could recite the long stories word for word along with the record or by myself, but I kept playing the records to stave off the silence.

As I got older I switched to cassette tapes, radio, and eventually CDs.  It didn't matter what the sound was, as long as there was something burbling in the background.  In college, my radio was as close to the door of my room as I could get it - as few steps as possible from the hallway into the silence before the announcer's voice filled the room.  These days, it's TV or Pandora.  The moment I come home, I flick the button on the remote.  Maybe that's why I can't write at home.  I can't concentrate with the TV on and I can't turn it off, petrified that once the silence falls, all I'll be left with is the clamor of my thoughts.  And I fight so hard to push them to the back of my mind, to not let them rise to the surface that the inanity of TV is infinitely more welcome than the loss of that particular battle.

A couple of months ago I came across a song and fell in love.  It took a few times of hearing it before I realized just how much I like it and then it was like a drug.  I spent a couple of evenings just playing the song on a loop for hours.  The song, in case you're wondering, is Mortal by Baskery and it's playing on a loop now as I'm writing this.  As loud as I can stand it, drowning out the sounds of the cafe around me.

Listening to it now brings me back to the first time I fell for the song and therein lies the problem with my obsession with certain songs and pieces of music.  As I fall in love with a particular piece of music it becomes inextricably linked with that bit of my life.  It's like eating so much ice cream at once that you make yourself sick and then can never eat that flavor of ice cream again.  It's a self-poisoning of sorts, but then I've never been good with moderation, my mother can testify to that first hand.  It's an enduring source of wonderment to me that I never took up smoking or became addicted to alcohol or drugs.

But there is something that I'm addicted to...  It's an addiction that I fight on and off multiple times each day, the more stressful the day, the harder the fight.

I look at the faint scar on my left forearm and shudder.  So faint now...

It's a fight that I've lost before and will lose again.  I hope.

Regrets of 2012

This morning I heard an advertisement on the radio for an upcoming daytime program.  The topic was "Your biggest regret of 2012".  I wasn't planning on listening to the program, but the topic stayed with me and as the day went on, I realized that the question percolated in the back of my mind.  A little chime would go off once in a while, What Do You Regret? 

Nothing.  I regret nothing.

I don't think in terms of regrets.  Left to my own devices, I tend to focus on the present and on how it affects the future.  Regrets are a waste of time, although I will agree that there's something to be said for understanding where you went wrong so as not to go down the same path again.  That's not quite the same as regret. 

By definition (yes, I did actually look it up), to regret is to feel sorry about something that happened; to wish that something hadn't happened and another thing happened instead.  Now what use is that?  To me, regret is akin to spinning in place.  It's the proverbial hue and cry over spilt milk.

"I regret the inconvenience..."  Did you cause the inconvenience?  Yes?  Then apologize straight out.  Don't use 'regret' as a cop out.  I'm sort of sorry I screwed this up for you, but I don't have the guts to come straight out and apologize for it so I'll just throw a crumb of regret your way and walk away feeling good about myself.

"I regret all the various things that are going wrong in my life..."  Did you have a hand in them going wrong?  Did you have a chance to get them right?  If you did, then don't regret it, just do it better or differently next time.  If you didn't, then what are you regretting? 

Regret is throwing up your hands and giving up control.  It's saying, I'm not going to take any action to fix or change things.  It's admitting defeat.

Perhaps that's why I don't have much use or respect for regret.

Free-associating

Why am I here?  Here being one of the many local Starbucks cafes.  I'm here to write and I can't write at home.  No, not quite true - I *can* write at home, but I lack the self-discipline to turn off the TV and focus on my writing to the exclusion of all the other distractions.  I'm here because I forced myself to get off the couch and venture out into a dark, wet and cold night with the intent of writing. 

It was a dark and stormy night - isn't that the most hackneyed opening for a story?  I don't think I've ever actually read a story that began with anything as banal as that.  Then again, if I had picked one up, I would likely have put it back down again.

Beginnings...  so many possible beginnings to a story.  Or to the next phase of one's life.  The lack of foresight, the lack of knowing which beginning will lead where, can be absolutely crippling.  It can leave one fumbling in place and never truly beginning anything for fear of starting the wrong thing.

Do you even know where a beginning of something is until you're actually engaged in it?  Whatever 'it' happens to be...  An affair.  Something that starts with an innocent glance, a friendly touch, a laugh a bit too warm, a few words a bit too risque but still under the guise of workplace humor.  Don't most affairs start in the workplace?  Stands to reason...  That's where you spend most of your time surrounded by other people, trying to be on your best behavior.  Or not.

Do you know when an affair begins?  Can you look back and find the moment?  You know the moment I am talking about.  This is that moment that stands out so clearly in your mind days or weeks or months after it began.  Some call it a moment of no return, but that's not always the case.  It's not the moment of no return, it's the moment of commitment.  It's the moment when you commit to leave the touch at an innocent flirtation or add the smile that says that you've committed.  That you are committed.

Commit a crime.  Commit to a relationship.  Commit code to the trunk.  Commit someone to a mental institution.  A single word with such a dizzying array of meanings.  It's one of the strangest intricacies of the English language and one that I am still coming to grips with.  English is not my native language, but as languages go, I couldn't have wished for a better one to adopt as my own.  The layers of meaning and nuances that one can achieve are breathtaking.  But then there are words like commitment and I just want to hit my head against the wall - is it a verb?  Is it a noun?  Is it technical?  Is it romantic?  What the hell does it mean???

Something, nothing, everything...  Language is a weapon and a tool, although that right there is redundant.  Weapons are tools.

I wasn't allowed to use tools when I was a child and I so desperately wanted to.  I wanted to be just like my dad, to do all the things he did.  I wanted so badly to be grown up and to be able to help and fix things, but I was a child and I was a girl. So, two strikes against me and no tools allowed.

Language is a tool I learned to use without quite meaning to.  I started reading around the age of four and I was so good at it.  Without bragging, I was an amazing reader.  I had a clear voice and great diction and, horrific panic attacks notwithstanding, I was constantly being volunteered to speak at public events, to read passages from memory, to recite patriotic propaganda.  I was a good little pioneer.  I was good at many things at that time and I didn't value any of them because no one around me did.  I was expected to be good and so I was.  End of story.

Being able to do things, almost without trying, was part of who I was and I came to expect it of myself.  Language as a tool...  And then I lost it all.

Loss is another one of those amoeba words - it has no shape without context.  Loss of self-esteem.  Loss of weight.  Loss of a partner.  Loss of fear.  Loss of virginity.  Say the word enough times and it sounds funny on your tongue, having lost all its meaning - no pun intended.

Some words have shape and heft - no one mistakes them for anything other than what they are.  They are unambiguous - love, hate, war, hospital, greed - they are also no fun to use.  They carry the weight of all our assumptions and they are already so imbued with meaning that using one in a sentence is like dropping a heavy stone into an aquarium.  It causes momentary ripples and then it just sits there with everyone else edging their way around it. 

I don't like obvious words.  I like words that carry within them the hint of confusion, the chance of a misunderstanding.  Chameleons that change their colors and shade everything around them.  Words like 'commit'. 

I can commit adultery.  I am committed to my work.  I should be committed.

Chameleon words for a chameleon of a person.

Blankness

Few things are more frightening than the vast blankness of an empty page.  Whether it's a page in a journal or on a screen in front of me, the feelings it inspires are the same.  There is the promise of boundless opportunity - I can fill this page, I can make it come alive!  There is the dragging languor of indecision - what do I write?  And on their heels are the twin fears of disappointment and failed expectations.

Writing is a war against the blankness. Each carefully crafted sentence is part of a plan of attack, each molded paragraph - a tiny skirmish. 

Yet, all too often all the hard won skirmishes add up to a lost battle; a page filled with beautiful words but devoid of meaning.  A full frontal assault on a vast castle only to discover, after the gates have been breached, that the castle is crumbling from the inside, the cattle and crops are dead, and the villagers left have the plague.  A Pyrrhic victory.

The truth is, this war cannot be won; it can only be advanced, battle by painful battle.  Or I could stop fighting.  I could say that I've had enough and walk away, but that's not in my nature.  I won't admit defeat and I won't let the blankness win.  Sentence by sentence, skirmish by skirmish, I will be victorious.

Even if the victory is only over myself.

My condiments to the chef!

Writing Exercise 7

Mayonnaise, Pickle, Mustard, Soy Sauce, Relish, Hot Peppers, Ketchup

Use all of these words in a piece that starts: His taste in women was...

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His taste in women wasn't particularly adventurous, but we made it seem more so through our game.  The first time Paul likened one of his girlfriends to mayonnaise, smooth but mostly flavorless, Kurt chose to be amused rather than offended.  From that day it became a ritual for us to nickname his "friends" after various condiments. 

There was Mary Ann, an all-American cutie who loved baseball games and hanging out in a pub any night of the week.  She was never without a ball cap pulled low over her blond hair.  Her signature look was a t-shirt (short sleeves in the summer, long sleeves in the winter) and a pair of comfy old Levis.  She seemed to have an unending supply of trinket jewelry and team jackets, but one thing that never changed was a pair of bright red sneakers.  Paul proclaimed Mary Ann to be Ketchup.

Next came Callie.  Kurt met her at a bikers' retreat and she was every bit as feisty as his favorite Harley.  Wearing short leather skirts and flimsy tops, she was as tough as most of the bikers she hung out with.  Barely five feet tall, she had a way of looking at you that made your insides squirm with unease even if you've done nothing wrong.  We all agreed that she wasn't one to cross and when Kurt inevitably did, she set fire to his prized collection of porn magazines.  For that and her attitude in general, Mark christened Callie Hot Peppers.

After Callie Kurt took a hiatus and we were beginning to wonder if the game was over when Lorraine came on the scene. Lorraine puzzled us for a while.  She could be sweet as honey one moment and then turn on you for seemingly no reason.  She drove Kurt crazy with her jealous rages for days on end before suddenly declaring that she didn't give a fuck what or who he did.  Kurt shrugged when we asked him what he saw in Lorraine, but valiantly soldiered on.  Lorraine didn't have a nickname until the day Kurt showed up for an outing sheepishly trying to hide an angry red gash just above his right eye.  Walked into Lorraine's temper, was all he said and in response Suzy declared Lorraine to be Relish.  Although we all laughed, Suzy's explanation made perfect sense.  Sweet, sour or unexpectedly spicy, you never know what you're getting with relish until you pop open the jar and get some on your tongue.

Kurt was the one who came up with the nickname for Sherry.  For reasons he refused to explain, Sherry became Pickle.  We scrounged for clues to the source of the nickname, but to no avail.  Kurt wouldn't tell and wouldn't confirm or deny our guesses.

Perhaps because of the inexplicable nickname, Sherry didn't last long and Kurt was on to Andrea.  Andrea's personality didn't lend itself to easy nicknaming, but we persevered.  She didn't seem to have any distinctive habits or hobbies.  Her interests could have become fodder for our imaginations, had she ever divulged what they are.  In speaking with her, she seemed determined to say as little as possible and yet, her presence was quite noticeable.  She wasn't particularly likable, but we couldn't pinpoint what we disliked.  Finally, walking home after one particularly awkward triple date, Kevin blurted out that Andrea is Soy Sauce.  When pressed for an explanation, he pointed out that she was all right in small quantities but intolerable in large volume.

And then there was Lucy...  At their wedding, Paul stood up to give a toast.  Many of the assembled guests knew about our game, but none knew of the nickname we picked for Lucy; not even Kurt.  Paul spoke about Kurt's long search for a partner and about how much we all liked Lucy.  He told everyone how well matched Lucy and Kurt are and we all smiled and nodded, knowing what will come next.  Paul revealed that in the spirit of continuing the food tradition, we all agreed that Kurt is most like a hot dog - maybe a bit tough and leathery on the outside, but all goodness inside.  And so it was that Lucy became Mustard - the perfect complement to a great hot dog.

That kind of a day...

I'm drunk...  Not by accident.  Not slowly.

No, I'm drunk very deliberately and very quickly with an almost scientific precision.  Because I drink fairly rarely, I worked hard at figuring out exactly where the tipping point is with various types of alcohol. How many glasses of wine does it take before I am buzzed?  One and a half.  How many before I'm sick and throwing up?  Two and beyond.  I don't get drunk on wine - I get depressed or I get sick, there's no middle ground.  I don't drink wine unless I want to become very maudlin and cry.

Today I just wanted to get f*cking drunk and very quickly.  I wanted to shut off my brain and to do it basically on demand so my choice of poison is potcheen.  What's better than Irish moonshine?  90 proof - two shots, swallowed quickly, and I can't hold my head up, I can't walk, I can't really do much but sit right where I am and wait for the waves of gentle wooziness to pass.

The room is tilting slightly as if I'm on a ferry and the cat appears to be floating on the arm of the couch.  I'm making spelling errors in every other word but I'm just sober enough to notice and correct them as I go.  I type "blindly" and being drunk, it's even more important not to look at the keyboard because otherwise my brain tries to tell my fingers what to do and the directions get all scrambled so my eyes are closed as I'm typing this. I only open them when I feel that I've made a typo.

So, why drink tonight?  Because it's just that kind of an evening and it's been that kind of a day.  Hell, it's been that kind of a week.  My week has been an hourglass of irritations, frustrations and upsets - all of them dripping down into an ever-growing mountain and today, the mountain just got to be too much.

And why drink at all?  Because if I don't, I can't shut off my brain.  It keeps spooling back over the day and the week and all the negative things it brought with it.  I try to distract it with reading or TV, but like an obstinate child focused on a toy he wants, my brain just doesn't listen.  All it wants is to endlessly replay all the bits of the world that I want to leave behind when I come home.

I wish my brain had an off switch...  and I guess, it does.  I'm done.

You may have already won

Writing Exercise 6

You have received a believable-looking, business-sized white envelope in the mail.  The return address is from a company called Peerless.  Printed on the envelope, in bright red letters, are the words "You May Have Already Won."  Tell the story of what it is you may have won - or what it is you didn't win.  Tell what you do with this envelope.

Start with:  Life takes some funny twists and turns...

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"Life takes some funny twists and turns and you just have to go with the flow."  Rebecca drew a thick red line through the sentence and grimaced.  If this is how the whole piece was written, she was wasting her time reading it.  She could already picture cliches tripping over cliches, propped up by bits of homespun wisdom.  What drivel.  Some days the effort it took to get through the articles the editor threw her way far eclipsed the measly amount on her biweekly paycheck.  She sighed and picked up her coffee mug, wincing at the disgusting taste of the lukewarm brown sludge.

She skimmed the rest of the page, smiling in grim satisfaction that her initial conclusion of the article's quality was correct and put it aside into the "write a rejection letter" pile.  She contemplated getting up and making more coffee but decided she couldn't be bothered and reached for the next envelope from the stack her editor sent over while Rebecca was working from home recuperating from recent ankle surgery.

The envelope was addressed to her by name which was unusual as most people wrote directly to the editor-in-chief if they put a name on at all.  Maybe one of her prior rejects who bothered to read the rejection letter to the end and remembered her name?  That would be a novel approach.  Intrigued in spite of herself, Rebecca picked up the letter opener and then noticed something else.  The envelope was missing a postmark and the return address looked like a company instead of a person.  Company's name was Peerless Entertainment Group and the address looked to be downtown, in fact, just a few blocks from where Rebecca worked.  Rebecca turned the envelope over and felt her heart sink in disappointment. On the back, splashed across the expanse of white, were the words "You May Have Already Won" in bright, lurid red typeface.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," she muttered.  Undoubtedly she won a cruise or a similarly exciting venture.  Her mood souring, she was about to rip the envelope in two when her attention was drawn to a tiny black line of text hugging the edge of the flap like a trail of ants heading to a picnic.  Rebecca tilted her head and read Open the envelope, Rebecca.  What have you got to lose?

Well, that was an unusual marketing gimmick.  Of course, they knew each recipient's name so it wouldn't be that difficult to automate the "personalized" touch, but still...  Rebecca paused, then steeling herself against the inevitable disappointment, she ripped the envelope open.

At first the envelope appeared empty but then her fingers brushed against the thick edge of a stiff card.  The card felt to be about the size of a formal invitation and as Rebecca pulled it out, she could feel the delicate embossing on its face.  The words Peerless Entertainment Group were embossed in matte black type on the cream card.  She flipped the card over and read the bold, flowing script:

Congratulations, Rebecca,

You just won a new life.

And then the doorbell rang.

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Those were the days

Writing Exercise 5

Finish this story.  Start with: "Back in 1938, before..."

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Back in 1938, before my little world was turned on its head all I cared about was avoiding marriage to Shmuel Wasserstein.

"A son of a rabbi!" my mother nagged me, always in the tone that implied the exclamation mark at the end.  The crowning achievement for a moderately attractive, "You're no beauty queen, bubbala!", seventeen year old girl.  So what if the smell of him made me want to gag and he had the laugh of a hyena?  He was interested and to my mother that was the end of the discussion.

"What to discuss?" she would say, throwing up her flour covered hands as if genuinely bewildered by my stupidity, "You need a husband, his family is interested, he is interested and you with your...!"  She'd tail off as if even her impressively extensive vocabulary of both English and Yiddish expressions was powerless in the face of my stubborn refusal.

Father stayed out of it, only intervening should our raised voices interfere with his studies.   

"Torah is not be to disrespected by this caterwauling," he would say mildly, coming out of the study into the kitchen where most of these exchanges took place.  His appearance usually meant a reprieve for me as my mother would immediately turn the full brunt of her well-acted 'disappointed parent' routine onto him in a rapid-fire torrent of Yiddish and English, allowing me to escape to my room.

What did I want?  Truth?  I had no idea, but I knew I didn't want Shmuel or any husband for that matter, not then anyway.  I had just finished the level of schooling my parents considered appropriate for a girl and it was time to get married.  And Shmuel was "interested!".  I overheard my mother say once that Shmuel's interest in me was practically a mitzve on his part, but then Father shushed her and I pretended that I hadn't heard.  Was I really so without charms for it to be considered a good deed on Shmuel's part to be willing to marry me?

These arguments would all end the same way, with my mother accusing me of bringing shame on myself and the family.  How much longer could I hold out in the face of her incessant badgering?  And worse, what could I offer in return?  What else was there for me but to give in and marry?  Always, at the thought of going along with the marriage, my throat would close up with choking panic, followed by the feeling of drowning that dogged my nightmares as the arguments escalated and became more frequent.

And then suddenly the answer was right in front of me and it was so blindingly obvious.

I could go to Palestine and serve my time in the Holy Land in a kibbutz.  There was no way my parents could say 'no' to that.  Even Shmuel's parents couldn't object to their future daughter-in-law spending a year in the Holy Land before wedding their son.

I could see Rachelle again...  And just like that, my vision suddenly cleared.  I thought about Shmuel and other boys from the yeshiva and shuddered with distaste.  I thought about saying good bye to Rachelle six months ago when she was heading off for a year in a kibbutz.  I remembered the warmth of her hug, the barely suppressed tears, the softness of her hands as she held mine in hers, the unspoken question in her eyes, the trembling of her lips as she kissed me on the cheek and made me swear to write to her.

I couldn't stop a wide smile as everything fell into place.

I knew exactly what I wanted now.

In need of perking up

Writing Exercise 4

When in need of perking up, some folks go boating, some play air hockey, others listen to loud music.  List four things you do.

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I have trouble thinking of myself as "perky".  I'm not perky.  I can be happy or sad, down or excited about something, lethargic or intensely passionate, but whatever else I am, I am not perky.

Now that that's cleared up, what are the four things that I would do if I were down and needed to snap out of it?



Bookstore... I would go to the nearest Barnes & Noble and lose myself in the books.  Fiction, cooking, writing, magazines...  The reasons for why I'm down might guide my selection, but in general, just being in the bookstore itself is often enough.  It's the endless possibilities, the sense that there's an almost infinite amount of knowledge right in front of me and available for the taking.  New books, new worlds, new hobbies, new interests.  A bookstore for me stands for all of that and that's where I would go as one of my places.

Office supplies...  If I don't have time for a bookstore, I would go to an office supply store.  Office Depot, Staples, one of those.  Office supplies are my therapy.  I don't even need to buy anything, just wandering around the store and looking at all the shiny notebooks, pens, folders, sticky notes is enough to settle my mind and bring a sense of peace.  I don't go near the electronics, just the tactile supplies, the things that I never had growing up or at least not in this dizzying variety of colors and styles.  I can spend twenty minutes slowly wandering through an office supply store and leave it feeling ready to face the world again.

My kitchen...  If I can, I'll cook to clear my mind and get away from whatever is bothering me.  I love cooking.  Not baking.  I don't bake.  Baking requires too many rules and my life has enough rules and regulations in it already.  I love cooking because once you have some sense of how ingredients will behave, you can experiment in just about any direction you want.  Cooking consumes me leaving no room for anything else.  I can have the TV or radio on in the background but it's just noise.  When I am cooking, my entire world is reduced to the ingredients in front of me.  The results of what I make are almost irrelevant.  What matters is that for the minutes or hours that I spend in the kitchen I feel like I'm in full control of my life. 

Meditation...  I don't meditate in the more conventional sense of the word; it's more like self-hypnosis.  This is my last resort and I will employ it before I go to sleep.  If I've had a horrible day and I cannot shut my brain off in the usual ways, I'll go through the steps of my self-hypnosis.  I imagine a long hallway with many open doors on both sides and a single closed door straight ahead.  I walk down the hallway and imagine each door closing as I pass it, secreting behind it part of my bad day - work, personal issues, anything - so that by the time I reach the end of the hallway and am standing in front of the final door, everything that I've been carrying around with me all day is gone; safely away behind all the doors that are now behind me.  The final door leads to a sanctuary and each time I do this I get to decide what I want the sanctuary to look like.  Some days it's a small private library, other days it's a luxurious bathroom with a tub, still others it might be a bedroom.  Whatever works for a given evening, I will draw it in my mind to the smallest detail and once I enter it, I can feel myself physically unclench and usually I am already drifting off to sleep as my mind finishes putting the final touches on the sanctuary of my dreams.

The ideal place to write

Writing Exercise 3

Describe the ideal place to write.  Be very specific and detailed.

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The ideal place to write...  There are two places, actually - one is what I imagine would be the perfect place to write and the other that fits the reality of my personality better. 

First the imaginary place...  In my imagination, the perfect place to write would be at home, in my kitchen.  I can imagine myself sitting at the table with a cup of coffee, one leg folded under me.  My cat curled up on a cushion on another chair.  Sun slanting through the window, birds chirping outside.  Peacefully quiet with maybe a bit of music burbling in the background.  Nothing moving, no distractions, just me and my laptop. 

Now for the reality...  In reality, my ideal place to write is in a busy and buzzing cafe.  Crowds of people around, constant movement, low grade noise that I cancel out by plugging in my headphones and turning the music on loud enough to drown out everything around me.  The distractions are numerous.  Inside, people are laughing and talking, sliding in and out of chairs, brushing by tables in the overcrowded space.  Outside, cars are passing by the giant plate glass windows, flashing their lights, occasionally idling to wait for someone.  And right by me the coffee grinder buzzes on and off, the frappuccino machine grinds away, music on the storewide stereo keeps changing in volume and tempo from time to time.  There is a constant stream of distractions and it is only through fighting and pushing past all of them that I am actually able to concentrate and write.  Some of my best writing took place in circumstances just like this; in places where the sensory overload is so high that I have no choice but to escape inside myself, put up a glass wall around me and let the writing pour out. 

My ideal place to write is a place I want to escape from.

Resolution Revolution

Writing Exercise 2

Note: So, on this one I had to actually do it in the book itself as there is a page with letters sprinkled through the lines and it's not something I can faithfully replicate here.  Here is the product of the exercise.  The given letters are in Bold Yellow to stand out just as they do in the book.

Use each letter as you get to it.
Start with: New Year's resolutions make me...

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New Year's resolutions make me wistful for a better me.  Logically I understand that there is nothing special about the End of a year - each day is a new opportunity. Why then does the 1st of Yet another year fill me with such hope and dread?  I'm prEdisposed to self-improvement.  Always have been, but there is a speciAl kind of urgency with each year that Races past.  Some things I'm now past improving on, but I still resolve to do them.  Some might call it optimistic Rather than delusional; perhaps it's a misguided attempt to be kind.  PridE and total unwillingneSs to give up or admit that something is beyOnd me is really what drives me to make resolutions, be it New Year's Eve or the middLe of the week.  WithoUt resolutions and goals to push yourself To achieve, what is the point of getting up in the morning?  So, perhaps I take it to an extreme on occasion, but no One is privy to my resolutions but me.  So what if they are unrealistic or undoubtedly bouNd to fail?  In the end no one will know that I've resolved to do anything more than to get out of bed and soldier on... one unrealistic resolution at a time.

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Writing exercises

There is a treasure trove of books about writing out there.  And I've bought or tried more of them than I can count.  Books on style, books on writing specific genres, and of course books full of writing exercises intended to exorcise the most stubborn of writer's blocks.

Most of them are like recipe books - you pick one up at the store and flip through it, fingers sliding over glossy pages with full page photos of food so delicious looking, it makes your mouth water.  And then when you get home you realize that the dishes that looked so good on paper take half a day to prepare or contain greens that your significant other will not touch under pain of death or that the list of spices and ingredients extends a full page and before you know it, you've lost interest in the book before its lovely pages even had a chance to develop creases.  Not that I'm speaking from personal experience here or anything...

So, back to writing exercises.  I'm killing time today between flights.  All in all I have about twelve hours between the red eye that brought me from Seattle to Boston and the evening flight from Boston that will take me back home to Seattle.  To kill time with some sort of productivity I picked up yet another book of writing exercises and I am going to try a few of them.

Norbert (that's him on the right) who is my companion for the trip will be a witness to my efforts.  Somehow I think he'll be less judgmental about my writing than I tend to be. 

Writing Exercise 1

In each group below, choose one word that appeals to you

1. Alabama - Banister - Carousel - Diesel - Exorcist
2. Flatulence - Garage - Harried - Insensitive - Jambalaya
3. Keepsake - Lamb - Massage - Nonsense - Oriole

Use these three words in a story.
Start with: Sometimes I feel just like a gerbil, running around and around in his wheel!

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Sometimes I feel just like a gerbil, running around and around in his wheel!  All that effort and expended energy and for what?  Every day is a carbon copy of the one that came before it and worse, oh so much worse, a blueprint for the one that will follow.  Something has to be done...  I know it, but the mere thought of the careful planning involved is enough to send me to the kitchen and the comforts of cooking something long and complicated.  Something with multiple ingredients and even more steps.  Something like an authentic Jambalaya from scratch.  I could even make my own sausage, god knows I have the time.

When I'm cooking I can almost convince myself that the wheel has slowed down a bit, that the scenery has changed or at least paused long enough to become nuanced, to offer options.  Options of escape.  The more intricate and complex the recipe, the more spices and exotic ingredients it involves, the better.  The wheel almost stops when hours go by in the quest for perfection in a single dish.

Only it always starts up again...

All right, enough of this nonsense, the banisters won't shine themselves and there's a pile of laundry waiting in the vicinity of the basket.  Maybe roast chicken for dinner with homemade garlicky roasted potatoes and wilted spinach?  Would garlic mask the taste of arsenic?
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