{faces now scattered like seeds on the wind (#reverb10 - 3)}

December 3 – Moment. Pick one moment during which you felt most alive this year. Describe it in vivid detail (texture, smells, voices, noises, colors).

There are two moment from this year, but only one both makes me smile and inflames an ache in my heart. Isn’t it weird how those two emotions can exist side-by-side?

The tickets came from a mutual friend of mine and Jun’s, who got the tickets from a friend of his visiting Chicago without time to see the game.

So the four of us grabbed a ride on the shuttle to Wrigley Field and headed downtown. The bus was just like I remembered from years of college in Chicago - slightly grimy, uneven, and crowded. Our feet rocked back and forth against the seats. The ride took close to 45 minutes, depositing us just outside the park.

An hour before the game started, and the cross-streets were already swarming with fans - fathers and mothers with children, guys out with friends, girls ready to enjoy the game. Vendors operated out of stalls, metal displays holding t-shirts and ball caps and collectibles.

I remember walking into the park with my printed ticket and walking around the covered path, reading numbers and rows and wondering when - if - we would ever find our seats. The last time I’d been to Wrigley, I was on a field trip with the rest of my 5th grade class, and expected the park to feel smaller, a result of that shrinking perspective that comes with revisiting a place when grown. But as we made our way through, reading those white numbers, I could imagine myself being swallowed by the thick stream of baseball fans, a permanent member of the multi-colored snake.

Maybe we knew how lucky we were when we got to our row and there was someone there checking tickets. Or when we reached the top of the ramp and were asked to show them again.

But when we found our seats and looked up, that green jewel of a field was close enough to touch.

I’ve never experienced a game like it. Before it started, I ventured up to the brick wall separating us, the fans, from the visiting team - so close, I could read the stitched words on their caps - until security directed us all back to our seats. In a row five, we could smell the grass, the anticipation, each strike and hit.

I ate hot dogs, drank a melting strawberry daiquiri (“You have to try one, they’re awesome here!”), sang at the 7th Inning Stretch.

And when the last inning brought around our turn, when the score was tied, when the ball began to fly through the air - we collectively held our breath -

And shot up into the air as that hit was made and runs were completed and OH MY GOD, WE JUST WON!

I get tingles just thinking about it.

But I remember my friends the most, those closest friends who know me more than anyone, who get my sense of humor, who challenge me and entertain me. Those four faces smiling for the camera that are now scattered like seeds on the wind, planted far and wide.

We’ll always have that sunny, perfect ballgame. 

-

It's almost perfect that this was today's prompt - I almost gave up, feeling I wouldn't be able to do the memory justice. But any writing is more than none, and I kept going, picked that netbook up again, wrote the words, and now am smiling as I cry & remember that amazing day and the girls I chose to spend it with.

{to the writer in me (#reverb10 - 2)}

December 2 – Writing. What do you do each day that doesn’t contribute to your writing — and can you eliminate it?

I love writing.

Up until four years ago, I thought I was going to be a writer “when I grew up.” Half my B.A. deals with writing, and ever since grade school, I’ve won poetry competitions at state and college levels. Words are beautiful pearls I find great joy in stringing together.

At times, I can be prolific, writing over 1,000 words a day. Other times, I can go without for days, weeks, months. It isn’t for a lack of love or ideas - my brain is constantly bouncing with ideas, turns of phrase, small scenes I watch like movies against my eyelids. Is it any wonder I decided on a career writing television shows? There is simply something amazing about good, solid writing. And while prose calls to me (I remember being told I put too many screen directions in my first script!), the challenge of telling a story with a simple shot or exchange of words thrills me.

And yet I haven’t written one word of a script since graduating from college.

I think I felt there was no point, seeing as, physically, I wouldn’t be able to handle the long hours demanded of those in my dream profession. And I really don’t have any interest in writing films. Have a written a full-length screenplay? Yes. But the serial nature of a television show, the days, weeks, and years we get to spend with amazing, memorable characters and situations - to me, that is the most enjoyable form of storytelling.

For all the years I’ve written fanfiction (and yes, I write it. In fact, I’ve written at least 1,000 pages of it in the past 13 years), I’ve only done one original screen play and one novel when counting fiction. I’ve done a dozen ‘zine and magazine articles. 

I want to write more essays. Even if they’re seen only on my blog. I want to hear that click-clack of keys late into the night, a hot cup of tea steaming on the desk next to me. I could wear a tattered robe and growl at people, or maybe even be the quiet one.

I don’t know. Lately, I’ve been wanting to write poetry again, if only because it’s something I know I’m good at. And more scripts. And more stories. More articles to share my experience, to inspire and enlighten. Heck, even more fanfics (I have one in my head I must write for a friend)!

So, what’s stopping me?

Most of the time, it’s me. I stand in my way by making plans and then sitting down to watch a movie instead of curling up in bed with my netbook and writing. Or I run errands and decide not to stop at Starbucks for a half-hour for writing time. I think I need to give it the same priority in my life I give my art or experiments. Just...write. For the hell of it. For fun.

For myself. 

{between two sides (#reverb10 - 1)}

I'm participating in #Reverb10 as a way to reflect and figure out where to go next. This is for yesterday's prompt; I'll post for today's tonight!

At the beginning of this year, I used Christine Kane’s one word workbook to discover what word would best encapsulate what I hoped to achieve in 2010. I chose:

I decided to mark 2010 as the “beginning” of my professional career in art and writing, to officially make the transition from hobbiest/crafter to professional artist. I remember going to Dick Blick in downtown Chicago with Dawn and, when I renewed my discount membership, answering the following question:

“Are you a hobbiest or professional?”

“Professional.”

I may have said it off-hand while chatting with Dawn, but I felt so much power coming from that simple word. Professional. I felt I had made such a giant leap by not only saying it to myself, but declaring it to the world.

What does it mean, exactly? That I am working towards something larger than myself. I am creating more and more, making a commitment to myself and my dreams in big, bold letters.

It was in January that I lost my job, and aside from a few tough months during my move across the country, I have been able to make ends meet with the income generated through Etsy sales, online workshops, and the generosity of my blog readers. I’ve tried to stop being such a horrible procrastinator, to work regular hours (as in, I sit down at 10am and work until 4), to take weekends off, and to invest in myself.

But looking back on this year, I think my word really was this:

Faith in the universe to provide for me as long as I was being true to my heart (but not provide if I wasn’t doing something). Faith in myself and my art and my voice in being one that people are interested to see and hear. Faith in my family to get through a year and a half of difficulty. Faith in myself to drive across the US to a new home. Faith that I’d end up where I was supposed to be. Faith in friends.

It is a hard thing to cultivate. I feel, though, that in the last month and a half, meeting up with three wonderfully artistic and different women, that I may just be getting there. Knowing I need support and a good ass-kicking every once and awhile is one thing - being truthful and humble enough to ask others to help you out is another. I thought I’d be seen as weak or unmotivated or silly and childish (I’m younger than everyone!), but had to have faith in myself as a worthy creative soul and in my friends as true friends to open up and be myself.

This is still an area I need to work on, and hope to continue doing so in the coming year. I gave myself a year to try this professional artist gig, and I may, just may, give myself a lifetime.

As for next year, I pondered for awhile. What did I want to achieve in 2011? How did I want to achieve it?

I use my words for comfort. When I felt jealous over the success of others, I reminded myself I was just beginning. When things turned difficult, I remembered faith. What, if anything, can comfort me now that I’ve felt the small flickering fire of empowerment?

I considered Perseverance, a reminder that hard work will bring me closer to my goals, but that work doesn’t need to be hard or despised. Or Hope, that bird singing in the soul that can hug when I feel alone? How about Poetic, a reminder to nurture the side of me that loves colorful (but not purple!) prose?

And then a concept came to mind that I’ve been learning without even trying:

There are many definitions of this concept, rooted in Taoism (also written as Daoism; try combining the sounds of T and D to get the proper Chinese pronunciation). I learned this my sophomore year of college in my Asian Philosophy class but never could really grasp it. Here’s a definition I personally like:

"No action," "no strain"; doing only what comes spontaneously and naturally; effortlessness.

I learned recently how to create art without putting too much strain on my body; before, I’d spend hours in the studio, struggling to create in the traditional way, only to be hurting come morning. And when creating workshops last year, I’d film and edit in a two-day period, then slip into a flare-up.

So this year, I am practicing Wu Wei. Which is to say I’m not practicing, because it’s kinda weird to explain. Let me try this example:

When I was working and in a lot of pain, I used to go to many doctors and take a lot of pills in order to force myself to feel and get better. Except I didn’t, or didn’t to the level I wanted.

Later, I started working and stopped taking so many pills. And through working, through not trying, my health improved.

Does this make sense?

I “hibernated” artistically (something I’ll be discussing in my next newsletter) and tapped into a wealth of creativity and energy I didn’t know was there. By creating without a clear destination, I discovered pieces of myself I can teach...a much easier process than focusing on finding something to form a class around.

So let’s see how this goes.