by susan | Nov 25, 2012 | Uncategorized
I need to apologize to everyone who knows me. apologize, and ask forgiveness.
I live in this world with everyone else, but my version of the world is also populated with every character and story I’ve ever written (or thought about writing), and it is a very full place. these people and situations live with me, I think about them, these people travel with me and have existences within my own. they’re seductive; they call to me, plant seeds, send me messages about how they’d like to appear in the next thing I write about them, remind me of what I could do differently, sometimes tell me jokes.
thus, I seem to have less need for movies, television, and communication with other humans: too much is already going on inside my head and I don’t need more noise. I like silence, I contemplate, I let things marinate and germinate and grow . . . too much outer stimulation sends me mentally reeling in discomfort.
I’m not quite a recluse, but I am not as socially active as many. I love my friends and family–they mean the world to me–but I rarely “do lunch” or meet for coffee or even gather for parties, dinner, or sunday brunches. the wonderful–truly amazing–thing is that most people who know me forgive me this. but they need to know that I am aware of the gifts they give me by letting me be me.
without quiet time, without hours of solitary silence, I become antsy, irritable, anxious. cycling helps, but as the winter creeps closer and the air turns cold and darker, my outdoor, solitary cycling hours are lessened. indoor cycling is a group experience, full of conversation and music, not nearly as soothing to my soul.
thus I beg forgiveness from all I know and love: I am the quirky person I am, I live with more people inside than seems possible, and the greatest gift all of you solid, human people give to me is the gift of space. I love you for it.
merci et je’taime, toujours.
by susan | Nov 16, 2012 | Uncategorized
like most writers, I’ve written on napkins, post-its, hotel note pads, stray pieces of notepaper left on the table. journals, spiral-bound notebooks, computers, the back of my calendar. when you need to write, you need to write.
I’ve heard of writers who select a notebook and keep an entire project contained in it, neat and tidy, often organized into sections such as character development, settings, chapter outlines, dates and facts. I more often use single pages–grabbing a new sheet for a new thought–and try to file them in a folder so I can access them again when needed, while also keeping notes and writing in the notebook-or-journal-of-the-season (not to mention computer file on top of computer file). thus, pieces of three different projects can exist alongside each other in a random notebook, which doesn’t seem to be very neat and tidy.
for my latest project–as yet still undiscussable–I decided to experiment with an organizational strategy not yet tried (by me): the single journal/notebook. before heading out of town a few weeks ago I purchased a simple, black, bound notebook with an elastic strap and set out to organize myself. I usually give my projects a one-word nickname, and I wrote this (as yet unmentionable) name on one of the first pages. I followed that with a brief paragraph about what I know so far about the project. then I skipped a few pages and headed the next pages with character names, writing thoughts and ideas beneath each header. a few pages later I jotted down more ideas, possible directions, potential movement.
then I took every other note or scene or chapter beginning I’d ever written about this project–whether on a computer file or scrap of paper or in a journal–and I copied it into my shiny new black notebook so that everything in existence about my new (as yet not conversable) project was contained in a solitary place. whee! organization, meet susan! this was exciting, a brand new way for me to approach a (can’t tell you about it) project. I packed this notebook in my laptop bag and took off on vacation . . . didn’t open the notebook the entire time I was gone . . . and when I got home, realized that the notebook did not come home with me.
everything I’d worked so hard to pull together and organize and create was lost, either in the condo, on a plane, in a TSA bin, or in some airport waiting area. I wondered if perhaps the universe was trying to tell me something (not a good project idea, forget the concept of organization, be more careful with precious things, you know, one of those negative messages).
michelle branch sings a song, I write mainly on hotel paper . . . was the universe trying to tell me that I should stick to hotel paper, napkins, spare sheets of 3-hole punched paper lying around?
7 emails, 4 phone calls, and 1 fed-ex account later, my black notebook is on its way home to me from LAX, where it had landed in a “lost item recovery” bin.
so I’ve decided the universe was giving me a “be more careful with precious things” message, which is actually a good message to apply to all aspects of one’s life. whether it be a journal containing bits and pieces of a (as yet undisclosed but fabulous) new project, the people you love, or a piece of hotel paper with the beginnings of song lyrics on it. precious comes in myriad forms, and exists only as long as we remember to keep it so.
by susan | Oct 22, 2012 | Uncategorized
I’ve always wanted a mentor.
someone who’d take me under their wing, provide guidance and wisdom and support, help me connect with those people I’m supposed to connect with. someone wiser, more established, someone who’s been there and done that. instead, my experience has been that most everyone I meet is in the same boat as I am in, using similar oars, being frustrated by the same currents and storms and periods of flat water and drifting. this isn’t to say that I’ve never had hands reach out for mine and offer assistance; it’s just to say that it’s my dream to have someone who knows more than me, who knows better than me, to be in my corner.
(I’ve recently had someone come into my life who is, in a way, playing this role . . . it is early, there is much still unknown, but it’s possible we may move more into the mentor-mentee relationship. I am grateful for what he and his wife have shared with me so far, and want to acknowledge this . . . thanks mark and kirsten.)
thus, in the spirit of mahatma gandhi who encourages us to be the change we wish to see in the world, I am working to share what I know, what I possess, who I am, with those who are trying to paddle through waters similar to those I choose to travel.
I have a friend who has written a manuscript–with her daughter as co-author–that is languishing in a cobwebbed computer file. it needs attention: reviewing, tweaking, possibly editing . . . it needs to be read by someone else, someone who has some experience with writing and editing. thus I offered to read it, to give my opinion of what might need to happen next, where it might go. it happens to be a YA (young adult) book . . . I happen to know someone with multiple connections in that area. I will do everything I can to help this friend and her daughter move forward with this manuscript, hopefully all the way to publication.
I have another friend who’s written a manuscript which I reviewed, offering suggestions and fixing errors and typos. she’s leaning toward self-publication, and I offered to do anything I can to help her in that process, including formatting it.
I do these things because I’m able, because I receive some internal fulfillment from doing them, and, ultimately, because these are the things I myself wish to receive. some say that the universe will respond, which would be fantastic. but even if it doesn’t, I am deeply gratified by being even a small part of the creation of a book, whether it’s my own or someone else’s. I’m quite certain mahatma would have felt the same.
by susan | Oct 1, 2012 | Uncategorized
two weeks ago I stole a sign.
it’s now propped by my desk, reminding me to hold firm, be tenacious, keep on my path. it doesn’t bother me that I stole this sign, abandoned as it was, and it brings a smile to my face each time I look at it; I therefore think I did the right thing.
background: I first saw this sign 5 or 6 weeks ago while I was riding my bike. it was attached to a traffic cone, posted there by organizers of a cycling event called Wildflower Pedalfest, a women-only (I’ll delve into this topic another time) organized ride. riding with friends, I happened to be on the same road as this ride, and encountered this bright pink, boldly lettered sign a scant mile from the top of a steep climb:
1 Mile to Go
underneath the words was an outline of a female riding a bike, the wheels 12-petaled flowers.
my clairvoyant, clairaudient friend kat has, at times, described the place I am in my life as being a spot where I’ve come 999 miles, with just 1 mile left to go. this last, final mile often feels as difficult as the first 999, but it’s a time to hang in there, be tenacious and determined, and not give up.
so . . . four weeks post-wildflower-pedalfest, the sign still sitting there on its traffic cone, I decided to clean up the environment and bring this sign home with me. I un-duct-taped it, slipped it under the back of my jersey (yes, it stuck out a bit and was slightly uncomfortable), and rode the next 18 miles home with my prize.
which is now propped above my desk, encouraging me. telling me not to give up. letting me know the top of the hill is coming, that I just need to stay on track and keep pedaling. the even-better part of this story, the part that makes me grin, is that this sign was placed only a half-mile from the top of the climb. a sign might tell you there’s a mile to go, but sometimes it’s really only half that distance. which makes the victory of reaching the top a surprising delight.
1 mile to go. that’s it. guess we’d all better keep pedaling.
by susan | Sep 28, 2012 | Uncategorized
five years ago I attended my first yoga class, after which I swallowed my pride, shrugged off my embarrassment, and went to another one.
since that time yoga has been part of my life . . . not a large part, but a consistent, significant part. my belief about yoga is that if we all learned to move our bodies and minds in this way, and practiced yoga at even a small level on a consistent basis, our world would gradually move into greater harmony.
laugh, smirk, roll your eyes: I know this to be true.
yoga teaches you to respect yourself, your body, your fellow classmates. it teaches you to find balance, to discover the place between enough and too much. it teaches you to breathe deeply, to remove extraneous thought, to focus on doing simple things well. it hones your muscles, it leads to improved posture, it allows your joints freedom and opportunity to expand their flexibility. it teaches you acceptance, awareness, and the fulfilling task of honoring small things.
karan, a yoga instructor whose classes are fabulous and worth rearranging one’s schedule for, is on vacation (kayaking the grand canyon) for a few weeks. yesterday’s substitute for her class was a pilates teacher, and instead of yoga–to my complete surprise–we did floor pilates. hmm. I walked in craving a yoga class, and had to–repeatedly–remind myself that I would receive from this class the fullest benefit only if I opened my mind and let go of what I thought I wanted. so I did pilates, trusting that I would benefit in ways I couldn’t imagine. ruts are to be avoided as they are known to grab your tires and, often, cause you to fall . . .
where am I going with this? why, on to editing, of course.
it’s the rare human who asks someone to take their creation and adjust it, tweak it, fix it, then return it, covered with red marks, suggestions, big bold black lines through parts of it. yet we writers are encouraged to do this again and again, from our first grade school stories through high school and college essays to whatever our next creations might be. not only must we learn the art of writing, we must learn the art of receiving, weeding through, and accepting critiques. and just as open-mindedness helps one take a pilates class when one came for yoga, open-mindedness helps one listen to feedback regarding one’s written creations.
breathing deeply helps, as does a quiet room, as does a bit of time.
and just as I can’t always know how those “hundreds” and “oblique lifts” will impact my strength and flexibility, I can’t always know how someone else’s critiques and edits will impact my work. what I can know is that my job is to trust the universe. to trust that in allowing it to sometimes shake things up for me I am opening myself up to opportunities I wouldn’t otherwise have. my body–my heart–my work–my life will be better for letting others add whatever it is they’re meant to add.
by susan | Aug 27, 2012 | Uncategorized
shortly after I earned my bachelor’s degree I received a promotion, moved to california, and met a girl named leslie bell. I really liked leslie bell. short dark hair and lively brown eyes, a tall swimmer’s body, a willingness to laugh at the world and herself, there wasn’t much to dislike. among other things, she introduced me to a little phrase that I occasionally use, leslie’s smiling image popping into my brain each time I do. she used it to describe an activity swarmed with people: it was wild–everyone and their pet alligator was there.
everyone and their pet alligator.
as silly a comment as that is, it makes me smile, thinking of cheery leslie, picturing busloads and busloads of people, dragging their little pet alligators by the leash.
now you may not have the same warm and fuzzy association with that little phrase that I do, but hopefully the point of it is clear: a group that appears to include everyone, including their wildest pet.
on to the point.
I am a writer, who, as I’ve stated before, has to write. I can’t help myself. however, I find it challenging to have the same drive/desire/destiny as so so so many other people, all of us aching to put our words out there in printed form for everyone else (and their pet alligators) to read (or otherwise devour). it seems that everyone and their pet alligator wants to be a writer.
we all want to tell our stories; we all believe we have something worthwhile to say, and the yearning to say it. I’m just one more, like everyone else, believing that I can create something worthwhile from small groupings of the twenty-six letters that form our alphabet.
it might be true that I know a few people who haven’t expressed to me their desire to write a book. but those who have far outweigh those who haven’t. we are a huge and varied crowd, each with a unique vantage point, lexicon, and way of expressing ourselves; there is room for all of us in this world. I can either feel the support of the crowd, or choose to be intimidated by its roar.
at the present time I’m trying to navigate my way through online writing communities and author’s blogs . . . oh what a tangled web we’ve woven. it’s easily overwhelming and an incredibly easy way to lose hours of your day. I’d like to think I’m building little steps and stairways that will eventually lead me somewhere, but it’s not easy to tell. I finally learned what rss feeds are, but I’m not yet ready to leap into the tweeting world: I’m just not that succinct. or pithy.
so, here I sit, surrounded by pet alligators. they seem to be kind, and of all varieties. I’m sure they have much to teach me . . . I guess it’s my job to be open to what they have to share.
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