Writing and the Art of Meditating....or is it the art of writing and...

The faithful black and white composition book I scribe in is AWOL. Now there are not too many entries of anything vastly personal and the jots for my novel are so disjointed I doubt anyone but I could hook them together into a viable tale. But the absence of this little book is nonetheless disconcerting.

I took my coffee and ventured outside armed with a fancy tome for writing. It's my 'mediation' journal (see the corresponding pic)--for those Zen Nirvana realizations that sprout when I successfully quiet the imperious piece of pink tissue between my ears, when I succeed in getting into the moment and truly living. And according to one of my absolutest favoritest writeress in the world, Natalie Goldberg, writing is a form of meditation...so here I go....

The day is blue and bright, a gentle contrast to the overhead humming birds zipping by, their throats a shimmer of crimson and emerald. Ample shade saves my too-white skin and the big quad is morning quiet for the cats to safely romp.

I looooove the fall. I love the barely warm days where the coolness of the night lingers late into the morning and the scent of charred wood blankets the early sun's set. The bounty of baking and coming feasts perfume every inhale and the anticipation of joy hints in the sacred air.

None of this day should be wasted looking for an erstwhile journal or scuttling dust bunnies out of hiding or even going to work (which I have to). It is a green, gold glorious moment made possible by the loss of a little black and white book.

Burn Out

WARNING: I AM SO BURNT OUT THAT I AM NOT APPLYING MY 500 WORD LIMIT...FORGIVE MY 822 WORD COUNT FOR THIS BLOG OR STOP HERE...

I have a story to tell you…

A funny thing happened on the way to this blog, this scathing vent to my writers group. A tale of woe and triumph. Poetry in pure motion. Something to stir the soul and rumble the heart and… POOF.

Despite the italics it wasn’t the magical fairy tale kind of ‘poof’.
My laptop overheated and shut down. The eloquent quibbling was gone. The best writing I had done in months.

I stared back at the now black screen, a shroud to the verbiage that was lost to the malfunction. A new found surge to scoff off all technology for a simpler method of communication rose and in rebellion I turned to my handy dandy composition book, identical to the ones from those 1980s elementary days, complete with pencil. Hell, I’d take a hammer and chisel to a brick wall at this point.

Enough with the machinations. Let’s get back to what I wanted to say when the computer went blank.

I am writing a novel. I am burnt-out.

There. The confession lives in the little composition book and on the landscape of my hard drive. Saying and writing I am burnt-out makes it a fact.

Backstory: Since 2007 I have been telling my writer’s group about this awesome saga I am composing that is not just one, or two, but possibly three novels. I boast I work on it daily. I delight in revealing the crafty tactics I use to inspire myself to work—like a naughty kid who is actually a good student but needs that nudge.

Being burnt-out could be interpreted that I want to stop writing this novel but the novel is technically written. It’s the revision that is strangling me. The redundancy of my own verbiage.

I have dabbled in other arts. Read other books. Even considered revisiting school. The same reasoning wins out—I am avoiding the work, the real work, the writing that must get done…

Blank. The computer screen went black and blank. There was nothing else to look at except my own visage.

I am not a fool. I know there much more writing ahead of me to get this novel published (and I’d like to take the good old fashion brick and mortar route. Self-publishing is something I am skeptical about, but I’m not done yet so it’s a moot point and another blog.) I had several lovely friends read my first draft back in 2008. Their positive criticism helped me grip the slab of marble and chip away at the crevices and cracks to make a David.

And then came the burn-out.

I have tried to wriggle my way out of the mire. To get excited about the story again. I even considered moving to Louisiana to finish (the setting being in both Slidell and New Orleans). Roll in the flora and fauna. Tire swing myself over the sloughs. Mingle with the locals and hope to run into a dew-eyed man that is the epitome of my hero.

So Cal is my home. Sorry. Transplanting myself, finding a new day job, new friends, a new apartment would only take me from what I need to be doing…writing!

The biggest hiccup in this revision process is that I have grown. I’m a waaaaay better writer than I was back in 2007. I cringe at the drivel I wrote 4 years ago. So I am re-writing a lot. I want my ‘good’ story to be ‘great’.

But I am sick of my use of the English language. The ways I have abused: ‘would’, ‘has been’, ‘seemed’, ‘that’, ‘dark’, ‘I looked’, ‘she glanced’, and many, many more. Which parts are too long, which are too short? Is the introspection too wordy? Is my hero too perfect, my antagonists too cartoony?

My eyes may as well be staring at the black screen again. I don’t even want to open the file to revise it any more.

I can only compare it to a good relationship that has hit a blip. Maybe I need an exotic vacation. Or a wild affair away from the drudgery so I might return refreshed and ready. Sloth tends to disguise itself as a good intention for me and I end up straying further, only to return after a long absence defeated and feeling more burnt-out than before.

The victory is I don’t want to give up, not after 4 years. I made this commitment to myself; I want something to show for it.

It is a valley I have barreled down into. The mountain peak is icy and implacable and I am laden down with heavy loads; doubt, perfectionism, burn-out.

There. Said it again.

I don’t have a solution but I won’t leave you on a downer. It ain’t much but it is something.

I have a Voice. I want to share it; I need to share it.

I have a story to tell you…

So What's YOUR Excuse???

Ugh.

So, yes, dear reader, what is my excuse? I promised to blog at least once a week. Cuz you all want to know what’s going on in this, er, maundering mind. I also promised not to bore you. I will keep the infernal whining to a minimum of 500 words. No more, no less.

Excuse the typos and bad grammar, i.e., the use of ‘cuz’ as opposed to ‘because’. It is the result of feverish revising of my novel. Yes, to all of you who have heard previous lamenting, I’m still working on it 3 years later but again, I reiterate, it is hard work writing a book. I want it to be (cringe) as near perfect as possible before handing off to the benevolent souls willing to read it for me and offer feedback. Then I’ll be diving head first into the deep blue sea of literary agents and publishers and I don’t swim very well. Especially when undertows of ‘is it good enough? Does it suck? Should I bother’ threaten to drown me.

And art. Always art. When the pen goes dry I reach for a gouge. My ‘Music Muse’ triptych begins taking on another form, this time in linoleum cut prints. The Girlz have seen life as oil pastels and collages. Soon they will be seeped in ink and crushed in a press. But first, I have to gouge. God willing there will be a show in December and again Doubt rears its evil little head; ‘maybe no one will like them, I shouldn’t bother, who do I think I am anyway???’

I don’t like wasting time whining. I’d rather be working. I’d rather be living. My pouts took on a different light last week learning about the sudden death of a high school friend. Yes, I know I’m 40 and my comrades will be passing but my class lost 2 great guys this year way too soon. Such events would throw anyone into a dark place. Mine was a bluesy tailspin and for a few moments on Wednesday morning I wondered if the Muses had abandoned me. If the right words would continue to find my page. If pain might over-ride the creative flow that had been coursing so fervently…if those nasty inklings held any merit…

Pain, I have learned, is mandatory in this life. It’s Suffering that is optional. My lost classmates had one major attribute in common; the lives they lived were to the fullest. The loved they bestowed was the greatest of legacies.

There is a difference between whining and mourning. There is a difference between perfectionism and fear. For now it is November 14, 2010. It is a magnificent morning. The leaves are burning orange against the bluest of So Cal skies. And my hands itch to get back to work.

God bless Dal Jones. God bless Victor Spirov. Now it’s back to my bad grammar, gray shreds of linoleum and blogs that don't exceed 500 words.

501 words, to be exact.

To Blog Or Not To Blog...what a silly question

It's been too long since I've launched my thoughts into cyber space. Sloth, exhaustion, indulgence, turbulence, there are a million reasons why I haven't blogged. In the end, the blame rests with me. Again.

Art was my first love; I learned to draw long before I ever learned to read but I fell in love with words too. Somehow, my fickle nature rationalized a way so these two loves would need each other to co-exist. The writing is far better when I’m drawing; the drawing more lucid when I am writing.

I am deep into the revision of this first novel and I battle with Perfectionism, the greatest hindrance to getting anything done. It was a sad epiphany the morning I mused that my perfectionistic tendencies are only a gauzy veil of low self-worth.

So this is where I plan to cut loose. To free segments of my maundering mind like so many white doves at a holy event. And if I can't think of anything to say about yours truly then I'll talk about an artist, a writer, or someone who IS interesting but I swear to keep it under 500 words. My attention span isn't much greater than the next guy...

Check back often and leave a thought or two of your own.