{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. 

{a new wellspring of creativity and joy}

This new environment has birthed in me a new way of seeing and being.

My journal has become a repository of my new life in the desert. A living record of my days - notes and directions and phone numbers and sketches and colors and experiments and days of fun with new friends.

But not only that. Being here has relaxed me. Allowed me the time to get away from expectation, from the need to do something now or create something or make make make! I've spent my days exploring me, going farther, deeper, and have discovered a new wellspring of creativity and joy.

For the first time, I'm doing series studies. My journal pages are filled with color experiments, shapes that change as I become more comfortable, my strokes more or less controlled, my palette changing here and there. I am in love with my journaling again, in a way I have never experienced before.

The feathers series is almost complete. I can feel it coming to a close. Each reminds me of an emotion or a scene, and I marvel at how much I can feel from such simple pieces of art. I am learning what colors I like with each other and those I don't. Learning how to use color in a way that pleases me.

I am finally ready to see what others around me see - that I am an artist and have something to offer. When I speak, there are people there ready to listen.

Watch the progression, from beginning to now:

"growth"

"through the desert with the top down"

"flying over the ocean"

"the colors of sunlight"

What will the last two hold?

***

This series will be available as prints next week.

{points of two week #38: monocromatic fun}

Points of Two is an experiment in journaling with myself and Roben Marie! Check out our archives to see the previous weeks' pages.

(week 37 was eaten by time. go here to see those pages.)

This week's theme was monochrome pages -- that is, using only one color & its various shades. I chose red...which made my page pretty pink!

I just did flocking for the first time!

Granted, I had to look it up on the internet to even figure out what it is — it’s those furry appliqués you find on cards and such (technically small bits of fiber applied to a surface, but that’s a boring definition!) — but then I did it myself and wow! It was one of those wide-eyed childlike moments when I pulled back the sheet and saw the result — WOW! That’s cool!

Working with only one color range is HARD! I wanted to bring in other colors so many times but resisted because the last time I worked with one range, I had a breakthrough and knew I might have another. I gathered all my red-range supplies and got working!

Things I’m having tons of fun with:

• Tinting/Coloring printed papers with inkpads. This is so much fun, and can add character to your printed scrapbooking papers! If the pattern’s awesome but the colors don’t work, tint it!
• Writing with light Copics. You can totally do this with any markers. See how it almost looks like I used a watermarking pen (that is, the writing is almost the same shade of the paper, maybe a bit darker)? That’s just a Copic that matches the page’s background. I’m in love with writing and then writing over the stuff to give it a more graffiti/messy look. I have a little tutorial (done in this style!) for how to do it. Markers are AWESOME!
• EYELETS! I’ve had these for years and never used them! Now, I’m having fun attaching papers with them. Also, stitching papers with the sewing machine FOR THE WIN!
• Stamps! This is all Ky’s fault. But I’m now using my stamps more on journal pages.

I’m just making a big ol’ mess, mixing mediums all over the page!

But this one has a deeper meaning, too! What happens when we enter a creative winter? That is, when we have less ideas or time or need to pull back — how do we get through this period with some of our sanity intact?

Mine isn’t a drought of ideas, rather, I’m losing the studio in a little over a week. Yes, I’ll have everything set up in my bedroom out in Arizona, but that’s different...this room has been devoted to my art, and has a certain feeling. I spend more time in here than anywhere else in my house (unless you count the hours asleep in my room, but even then, I don’t think I’m in there more than the studio). So how do I get through this period of time when we’re looking for an apartment and I’ll have limited access to supplies? How do I keep the fire burning?

I think part of the answer is to remember a fire sometimes burns down to embers, but is still producing heat. The passion remains. We just need to have faith that we can add kindling whenever we’re ready for those large, dancing flames.

And the lovely Roben-Marie's page, done with my favorite color (though not on purpose *g*)! Be sure to check out her blog for the story behind her page.

{the power of the written word; a short story fragment}

I wish there were a way to convey the feel of my journal across the internet.

About a week ago, I was having wild thoughts. And usually, I just let them filter through my head, blending into one another, but for some reason, this journal came into my head. I rescued it from a box and paged through the small smattering of visual journal entries I'd done in it back when it was new. Now, two years later, the cover is creased and the signatures holding the old entries is loose.

But the paper is smooth and plentiful. Actually, the book feels heavier than it looks and is a solid, flexible weight in my hands. I even looped the rubber band around it, remembering -- and this is silly, I think -- the journal in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, how there were all sorts of bits shoved in-between the pages, the entire thing held together by a thin rubber band.

Mine has a make-and-take card in it, and sometimes, my ID.

I've been attached to this thing. It goes with me everywhere, and I can be found writing in it while out to dinner or at lectures or curled up in bed at 3am. While I've been a visual journaler for years, I haven't kept a strictly written diary of sorts for at least five years. The whole thing makes me feel like a girl from the turn of the century, one who wears beautiful dresses and lounges under trees to pen her thoughts. I write about creativity, my day, how I haven't been sleeping. I think about books I've read and quotes I've seen and issues I'm dealing with.

The process has been magical.

Sometimes, I can even be found paging through it, smiling at all the words. There are sketches of ideas and random doodles and notes and stories on these pages. I know I've been a long proponent of keeping a single journal, but for now, I am happy keeping a written journal and working out my journaling visually on loose pieces of canvas. For now, this is my happy balance.

I also wanted to share the following. It's a fragment, a beginning, of a short story I've had in my soul for years but never wrote down. This was written at 3am while in the throws of one of my plaguing RLS (restless leg syndrome)/FMS sleepless nights, and is the story of a Fibromite. I let my brother read it when I saw him over the weekend, and was amazed at how reading this little bit has helped him to understand me so much more.

(as of yet untitled story...)

This, she thinks, is my own private hell.

The chairs are padded, but just barely; she casts her eyes around the room, at the old people who sit uncomfortably with her in the waiting room. They seem as miserable as her. A woman fans herself with last month’s In Style, the loose skin on her arms wobbling in the air.

Melinda turns a page in the Newsweek in her lap, aching to appear worldly to an audience of stand-in authority. Words blur together around a photo of jumping flames, and she sees a similarity between herself and the figure standing inside the inferno. Kindred spirits, she thinks, tracing the outline with her finger. It is impossible to tell if the person is running to or from the fire. For now, they are at a standstill for all eternity in four colors.

Behind sliding glass windows, the assistants answer phones and enter records. They, too, are older. As are the nurses. It makes Melinda self-conscious, being the youngest, and makes her wonder: if she’s here at 25, where will she go at 60?

Newsweek has lost her attention. She shifts, attempting to fall into a more bearable position for her legs and back but finds each new one worse than before.

An electronic bell chimes as a man comes through the door, shuffling along with a silver walker. The clock clicks ten minutes past her appointment.

And all the eyes, wondering how she fits into their geriatric puzzle.

~ ~ ~

After the icy chill of the doctor’s office, the blazing summer heat is positively suffocating, and Melinda cranks up the A/C in her car as soon as she climbs in. As the car begins to cool, she leans her head back and closes her eyes, allowing the cooling air to blow noisily on her face.

This is no way to live, she tells herself. But what alternative is there?

Sufficiently cooled, she leans forward and back out of the parking space, heads towards the pharmacy armed with three scripts — two refills, one new. She used to get hopeful when her doctor prescribed new meds. “Just to see if they help,” he always says, but years of push and pull and handfuls of pills that do nothing but give her bad side-effects has made her doubtful, cynical. A glimmer of hope exists somewhere, but it is buried so deep inside, its tune is only a whisper on the edge of her hearing.

All she wants to do is go home. The injections make her heart beat fast and head swim, though only for two days or so. But right now, she feels tired right down to her bones; they feel as hollow as a bird’s but no lighter. A bed, book, and pillow is what she needs to remain afloat as the medicine kicks in and eases the wild waves of pain crashing violently against her very core.

TBC...

{hodgepodge #2 is here!}

Actually, it was here Saturday, but I have been so busy, I haven’t gotten a chance to write anything until now. Well, I could have written something then, but it probably would have consisted of grunts and the occasional headdesk as I waded through 27 pages of a spreadsheet trying to get emails out. Which they’re mostly out, except if your partner forgot to put in their last name, and then you’ll get your email when they email me back and voila! Swap officially out into the hands of the people.

When I sat down to compile the material for Hodgepodge #2, I didn’t have a clear plan other than a collection of journal pages from two journals and a few ideas as to where I could go. But after awhile, a theme and purpose grew between those pages like weeds through cracked concrete — that rigid purpose we seem to give things cracking under the pressure of true creative inspiration.

What came out was an exploration of my adolescent phase, that rough, transitory period between first learning of art and excitedly copying the “masters” and the later phase where your own creative inspiration pours freely onto the page.

From the introduction:

Everyone knows the difficulties we encounter during our teen years, no matter where you’re from or your current age. You’ve gone through life as a child, always depending on your parents for love, protection, and guidance. Think of them as those artists you admired when you started, the ones you copied in order to get your footing, take your first steps. They’re there to teach you the ropes of life, give you advice, teach you how to make a PB&J sandwich and ride a bike and swim at the neighborhood pool.

These pages are raw. Like you’d expect of a teenager’s diary, there’s angst. Happy days. Doodles. To-do lists. Life was mirroring this transitional period in my life. There are essays to help guide you, exercises to boost your creativity, and a hand to hold when you need to laugh or have a good cry.

This isn’t a phase you go through once — you will continuously circle around as you continue to explore, and it is no less painful the second or third or forth time you go through this. It’s a shedding of the old and the birth of the new; a messy, painful, exciting process that plunges you into the dark Unknown of your own soul, and it’s up to YOU to get back out of the labyrinth, emerging as a reborn artist.

Writing for and working on this issue really brought that idea home for me. Lately, I’ve been going through a transitory phase myself and the darkness has really frightened me. Yes, I have faith that I’ll come out the other side (mostly) intact, but the shedding is the hardest, when you circle through again, because I thought I’d found my identity as an artist. Instead of going from replicating the work you admire, this second pass has me shedding my own work I’ve grown to love. I was comfortable and — this is a dangerous place to be in — complacent.

I never really thought of that word much until my brother said, “You can be comfortable with recovery, but when you get complacent, that’s when trouble happens.”

Look at the definition:

complacency - A feeling of contented self-satisfaction, especially when unaware of upcoming trouble; An instance of self-satisfaction

Looking at it, you wouldn’t THINK there’s anything wrong with that, but if you give it a minute, you’ll realize that there’s no progress, no discovery, no exploration or play or fun. You’re just going along in the same old way because it’s comfortable.

But I digress. This is material for Hodgepodge #4! But it’s something I’m living right now, and working on this issue has helped clarify and take away a bit of the Unknown I’ve been walking through.

I created the cover for this one by hand, doing the kind of art I’ve been drawn to, a twist on my usual style, new techniques and materials employed in different ways. I love that I’m constantly experimenting, going to myself to play and discover rather than looking up the answers online.

I've experimented and found what colors work in the background and which don’t...

I posted this shot on Facebook over the weekend. I love seeing what materials are around when my favorite artists create, so I thought I’d take a similar shot! There’s, of course, stuff hidden from view, but most of what I was using was captured.

And huzzah! The darning foot for my machine! This has made all the difference when it comes to freehand stitching, and my fingers are now safe from being poked full of holes. ;) This is quickly becoming one of my favorite techniques. 

I sat down with the intention of creating a cover, and ended up making a piece of art. I just want to sit down and make one of these every day; there’s so much coming out when I work like this, and I can’t figure out why it’s easier for me to express myself on canvas “pages” instead of in my journal. But that’s okay — we create where we’re drawn to and let the Divine take care of the rest.

If you’d like to get your hands on a copy of Hodgepodge #2, head on over to the Shoppe for an instant download. You can also grab #1 as well as the three-parter of Page by Page.

As for me, I’m off on another adventure out in the cooling end-of-the-summer air and talking trees...

{a chicago & artist love letter}

taken on State St. in downtown Chicago

When Dawn got in my car on Thursday, us meeting in person for the first time, it felt...right. I expected some kind of, not discomfort, but an acknowledgement that, while I’d spoken to this person on the phone, Skype, and via email for years, I’d never physically shared the same space with her.

But when I drove up and she jumped in, it felt like we’d been getting together for years. There was no awkwardness, no adjustment phase, just two girls going out to have some fun!

There are just some people you click with, that get you and you get them. What’s lovely about Dawn and mine’s friendship (and this is only one example out of many!) is that we both bring different things to the table artistically. Sure, we overlap in areas, but I still have so much I can learn from her and her from me (hopefully!). Our styles aren’t really the same, the supplies we love are different, but our approach to art and journaling aligns perfectly.

Thursday was spent in downtown Chicago, at a huge 2-story Blick, then over to the first Paper Source. We caught a yummy lunch in-between and I introduced her to Frango mints (the best chocolate mints, still made by Macy’s, but a Marshall Fields original). We drank Starbucks together and chatted about life and art and family while trying to get through rush-hour traffic.

But on Friday, during the Artist’s Vendor’s Fair, she truly shined. It was in the way she smiled at a little girl looking at the Doodle Diaries. How she was patient when students came up to ask what they could look forward to the next morning, at her first class — the first she was to teach in-person.

I loved being able to show her around, to help, to be there for her, especially since I’ll be leaving Chicago, the city I was born in, went to college in, have walked through. Being able to share it just before I left really cemented how much I’ll miss this place despite hating the snow and weather. There’s a lot of history here — both sides of my family are from here, have deep ties to the city we call home — and while most is good, there’s just enough negativity to drive us across the country.

Maybe I’ve romanticized this place. Perhaps it is nothing more than metal and glass climbing towards the sky, highways and tollways twisting across the landscape like slithering grey snakes. I love how the sky can be a perfect blue with white clouds. The forests kept in their fenced preserves. The old buildings and streets I can rattle off in order. The giant library I lived next to, gargoyles protecting knowledge from the roof.

And I was able to share a slice of that with a friend I feel I’ve known my entire life. My last gifting of the city I know and love before I put it behind me and head towards the sun — and, ironically, the same city Dawn lives in.

For now, I’m happy and hopeful and grateful for the two days I spent in the company of an artist friend. 

{what is and what will never be...}

This essay came out of my Morning Pages. It is not edited, nor have I gone over it to make it "pretty;" it is raw, authentic, and revealing.

In a week, I'll be halfway to 26. It's an age I never really thought about; the gap between early 20's and 30 one that was supposed to be a blur of late nights spent writing and 18 hour days in sunny southern California. At 22, I was there – the late nights spent hunched over a keyboard or mapping out acts in scripts, days on a TV lot learning from those before, who'd done it.

I learned I don't want to write scripts. I didn't enjoy hammering out storylines about characters I could care less about. This revelation came as a surprise, as writing with other people's characters was exactly why I'd gotten into all that in the first place. I think it was the pressure of having to live up to something established with a much harsher group of critics. I couldn't indulge, or be silly.

What I learned was that I wanted to help develop ideas. See that seed grow and blossom. While others focused on their scripts, I became a sounding board, talking through ideas and plot devices, finding joy when something just clicked for them. Did my own script suffer? Absolutely. But at the cost of discovering more, and it was 100% worth it.

But as I lean toward 25 ½ (counting as a child, but unhappy about the halfway mark instead of overjoyed), I haven't done anything with all that. Instead of sunny LA, I'm back in the midwest, sitting on the front porch of the house I came to age in with nothing to show for my college education but an overdue final bill and student loans on the edge of default.

I'm not here against my will. Seeing the work I'd have to put into the field I'd chosen, I had to make a choice: push my body to the limit and live the current dream through a haze of painkillers and constant relapses, or go home and allow things to unfold at a slower pace.

Since I'm here in Chicago, and not LA, the path I chose is obvious.

While most of the time I'm cursing my body for it's shortcomings, broken bits, and imposed limits, I am deeply thankful for them. They force me to slow down. I remember my first weeks living downtown, how everyone moved so fast along the crowded sidewalks, pushing past me and my leisurely pace. I saw more, observed, and felt more, moving slower. Yes, it took some time to reconcile the reality that I simply couldn't move with everyone else, but the beauty of what going slower revealed – I felt fuller and more alive.

And so, nearing 26, my days are spent writing and painting. Giving advice to friends. Teaching. In the years since my big decision, I have gone from not being able to work at all to 30 hours a week on my feet. I took it a day at a time, listening to the rhythms of my body and the voice of the Divine answering my prayers for guidance. My days are bursting with possibility tempered by a disease that gives me no choice by to pace myself, go bit by bit. I have to live now, pay close attention to how I'm feeling and reacting to what I'm doing. If it hurts, I stop – plain and simple.

If only everyone had this internal sensor to guide them, they wouldn't be stuck doing things they don't enjoy, going through life at a breakneck pace! I must weigh my choices carefully and decide if they are worth the consequences.

And I did. Sitting here, listening to the cicadas buzz, the chirping and songs of nature, I am content with the knowledge that life will unfold for me as it will. I'm in no rush. By listening to my soul, I've embarked on an uncharted path I can take my time to explore and experience, the Divine at my side, helping me along the way.