Life Influences Art

As much as I'd like to think that I have not let my past 'create' me, I have to admit that it does influence me.
It's an integral part of my writing that I cannot deny.

When I begin to write a difficult scene and I need an emotion to ground that scene and make it real, I think of an event from my past that brings it to me.
Even so, I often push the past aside and ignore it. I refuse to let it make me into a statistic. I refuse to let my past make me into one of those people who wallows in remembered pain and anger.

Yet, there are still times that it rushes over me full force. It's as if it has taken over, a flashback, a bad 'trip' that suddenly forces adrenalin through my system and I see scenes from past events as if I'm still living that moment.

One of those moments happened to me recently. Sitting here thinking about it again I find my hands shaking and my heart pounding as I type away at the keyboard, channeling it all into words on the page.

My sixteen year old son has not been raised in the same environment that I had to endure. I've done everything in my power to keep it from him, to protect him and give him a better life than I or his father were ever offered.
We went so far as to move our children away from the only place I had ever known as home. I left behind people who still don't understand why I was so desperate to leave.
It's a culture. A way of life that they accept without question.

I didn't want that for my children. Now my son is old enough to go out on his own without my protection and I wonder if I've really prepared him for the world or if my overprotection has made him more vulnerable.
I just have to trust in him. That's a hard thing to do.

I grew up in a culture of violence. He did not.
So when I picked him up from an all ages club a few nights ago I didn't expect his reaction, or mine, to a threat he'd been issued by a grown man. A man who could very well have been dangerous despite the security at the club.

He seemed so blase. As if it wasn't a big deal. He blew it off like it was nothing and didn't seem the least bit concerned.

The innocence of youth. The feeling that you are invincible.
He still has that.
I wonder if I ever had that.

On the drive home he was chatty and happy and said he'd enjoyed himself.
I was seething. My hands shook on the wheel, white knuckled. I didn't see the stop lights or street signs. I was on autopilot.
I was plotting the demise of the man who had threatened my son.
Never, EVER, underestimate the creativity of a mother defending her young.

I'd spent so much of my life 'under fire', defending myself both physically and emotionally that it was easy to slip back into that rage. Too easy.
I had had plenty of time in my youth to plan and plot and work out scenarios in my head.
I was raised as a hunter.
I know how to maim, how to kill, how to butcher a body and how to dispose of it.
Perhaps not a human body, but still.

It was a serious effort to pull myself back from that edge. I wasn't that person. I had made the decision years ago and I would stick by it no matter what.

Later that night I sat down to work on one of my stories. I needed a violent scene, as this was a horror story.
I immediately thought of my reaction to the threat to my child.
That was all it took.

I channeled every bit of it into that scene.
 It was violent, it was bloody, it was heart pounding, crow bar swinging, steel-toed-boot-to-the-head action that left me sweating and panting,with tears on my face, as if I had been the one doing the killing.

I was exhausted and satisfied.
My scene was done.

And there it is. My past and all the emotions that go along with it sit just under the surface, waiting to be called on at any moment.
I try to bury it, pretend it doesn't exist, put on a smile and be happy, crunchy granola, peace loving  mom who doesn't have any secrets worth knowing.

I'm not fooling anyone.
It all shows up in my writing in one way or other. All the violence and anger and pain makes it's way onto every page.
I'm smart enough not to try and tone it down. It's my Zen, may catharsis, my self expression that prevents me from actually doing the things I see in my head.

My writing helps me be a better person.
It keeps me from being a statistic.

So the next time you piss off a writer remember that you just may end up in one of their stories with your head bashed in, hanging by your heels from a tree limb, with your intestines dangling near your ears.

Be thankful the writer was able to express it in writing instead of actually doing it.

Life Gets In The Way

I made New Year's Resolutions.
I resolved to keep them.
Unfortunately, life has gotten in the way. It happens to the best of us. Things happen that we couldn't have expected and no matter how much we prepare, these things always catch us unawares.

I've had my husband at home sick since New Year's Day. He called early Sunday to tell me that he would be home hours earlier than expected (he was driving in from upstate). He had a medical emergency and needed me to take him to the ER.
Several tests later he was released from the ER with a prescription for antibiotics and pain meds and an order to bed rest until he healed. A visit to the Dr. for follow up did not give him the clean bill of health he wanted so he has a refill on the meds and another week at home. Blech!

So here I am with three kids homeschooling, a sick-whiny husband and a muse who is ready to explode because she can't get any work done.
I did, however, make a New Year's Resolution to write at least five hundred words a day.

Guess what?
I've been keeping it! I might be struggling to keep up with my other resolutions, but this one is the most important to me. I thought it would be personal growth. Really. But no, the more I knuckle down to keep my resolutions, the more I realize there is no growth without my writing.,
So I do whatever I have to, to keep writing whenever and wherever I can.
I keep the online writing program open at all times.
I write a few words here, a sentence there, it all adds up eventually. At the end of the day, when I crawl into bed, I read over what I've written. I may add some more words or just tweak it a bit.

Or I may muddle through a new blog post. Like this one.

I'm trying to keep my other resolutions, I really am.
But YOU try to get anything done with a sick man in the house! Hehehe...
Especially one who can't sit still and wants to talk all the time. If not to me or the kids, then on the phone.
GAAAAHHHH!    DISTRACTING!!!

Anyhoo.

It takes a lot of dedication to stick to your resolutions and you may find that as the year passes, they start dropping off one by one.
That's okay.
Just don't let go of the ones that are the most important to you.
Hang onto them tightly and don't let go.

At the next new year you'll feel better, more confident, and be thankful that you didn't give up.

Research has shown that it takes about 21 days to form a habit. Keep that resolution for twenty one days and you're well on your way to making it a habit. Once it's a habit, it'll be harder NOT to do it. I'm already starting to get twitchy every time I have to put off writing for an hour or two. Guess that means it's becoming a habit!

Are you keeping your resolutions?

Does My Wardrobe Reflect My Authorly Coolness?

In a word-NO.
No, it does not.

It reflects my MOMNESS.
I wish it were otherwise. But right now, that is the role I'm in, so that's what I dress like.
*sigh* I need a makeover.

One that gives me an air of Authorlyness. Is that a word? Too bad, I said it.
One that says "I'm dangerous for your mind"
A look that says "I'll write you into my book if you piss me off. Then I'll torture your character beyond belief"

I need a look that projects condescending writerly badassness. So I can intimidate you with my big words while I sip overpriced cappuccino and frown about the state of literary slovenliness on the bestseller list.

Anybody have any intimidating big words I can borrow? Oh, and can I borrow a few bucks for cappuccino?

But really. For practical Mom purposes and to satisfy my OCD about preparedness I'll probably end up looking like a cross between a female Indiana Jones and a Supernatural Monster Hunter.
Look out Zombies! I'll rip your heads off with my trusty whip!

Ok, just ignore the weird visual there. I don't mind.

I know I wont look like the cyberpunk maven I want to be. I just don't think I can pull that off. I can try.
But, uummm, No.
And that "Authorly" snob look? Nah, I'm too much of a snarky smart ass.

I'll stick with Monster Hunter.
Besides, the weapons are way cooler.

Is your wardrobe a reflection of who you are? Or does it reflect who you want to be?
You know the old saying --"Fake it till ya make it."
If you worked in an office job you would want to impress the bosses with a good wardrobe that was professional. It would make them think you were serious about moving up in the company and would make a good representative for them.
So why not do that for yourself?
Give yourself that little boost by dressing the part as often as possible, it will build up in your psyche.
The next time you meet a new person and they ask what you do, you will answer just a little more confidently
"I am a Writer"

On The Road or A Traveller's soul

So this post is about working from home. I warned you, it's about to get personal.

I live in my R.V. 

That was a situational decision. It's much cheaper to live this way than to try to rent a house or apartment. On our small income there was no way to afford even the cheapest of places and where we lived at the time of the decision the 'Government Housing' list was a mile long with a three year wait. *Sigh*

Living with friends and relatives, while cheap, was a nightmare. Three small children do not a good roomate make. Bless You all loved ones who put up with us while we were in the slump and practically homeless. 

So. R.V. it was. My mom helped with the cost of getting set up, we gave away, donated, threw away almost everything we owned. The rest went into a mini-storage.

I had expected to be upset and mourning the loss. Instead I felt liberated, free, as if a great weight had been lifted off my shoulders. 

My husband was away on the road for work so I bought and hauled home the tiny R.V. trailer with my mom following close behind in her car, in case I had a problem. It was exhilarating. It was exciting! It was the bravest thing I could remember ever doing.

I moved myself and my children into the trailer. Lucky for us they were small enough that it wasn't too tight a fit. The closest r.v. park was in the next town over so that's where we went. South East Texas is not exactly a resort area. 

Within weeks my husband changed jobs. Again. It sucked. 

Some things happened. Not exactly bad, just disappointing and depressing.

We made the decision to move to Oklahoma. Our families hated it. They were angry with us.(side note; we both have large extended families and most of them live in SE Tex. so leaving the bosom of relatives was frowned upon even if it meant we had to be dependent on them forever.) (families, gotta love 'em)

But it was the best thing to do at the time. Had to follow the jobs.

Since then we've moved several times and changed trailers and travelling companions. We've made friends in the oddest of places and been blessed with help out of the blue and at the least expected moments.

Someday I'll tell you all how I became a believer in Santa Claus again. 

Someday I'll tell you about the strip club owner that tried to recruit me.

Someday I'll tell you how I sweet talked a tireshop guy into not charging me for a tire to replace my flat spare.

Someday, someday, someday I'll write memoirs that will make my great-grandkids blush and say "Hell Yeah, what a life!"

Somewhere along the way I realized a few things.

I realized that I love travelling. 

I realized that I had been a traveller my whole life and not known it. 

I realized that I thrive on adversity and conflict. 

I realized that I am strong, independent and capable.

But after all this time I'm stuck in one place. I now have two r.v.s and two trucks. And a trucker husband who is never home. My eldest is old enough to get a driver's license but, hell, I can't trust him on a bicycle so I'm terrified of helping him get his license.

I'm feeling that itch. That urge. I can't explain it. Four years we've been here in Cheyenne and I absolutely love it. But there is something calling me. Something that says it's time to move on.

Four years is a long time in one place. As an adult I don't recall ever being in one place more than four years. As a kid I was constantly shifted from one parent to another. From one place to another. 

I learned to live out of a backpack and not treasure any one possession too much for fear it would be lost.

Yet, here I am. Stuck. I'm getting antsy. I'm getting nervous and stressed. The truck needs repairs before it can haul another trailer. The smaller trailer can't get registered for the road and I can't even sell it (Don't ask, it's too complicated.).

And my husband seems to be stuck working in Oklahoma again. Far away from us.

I'm at the point that I want to give away a bunch of stuff just to be rid of it. Including the small r.v.

The bigger trailer is more trouble to pack up. And heavy. But it suits us.

I'm doing all this alone for now.

Alone with three kids and a neurotic cat.

The original idea after moving here was to purchase property and settle down. It never happened. Now I wonder if I would be feeling this way if we had. Would I still watch the cars on the highway and wish I could be on the road again? 

Or would I have settled into life as a landowner and been content with the occasional road trip?

I don't know. I don't know a lot of things. 

I do know that I'm sick of sitting here waiting for something to break loose. I'm sick of doing this alone.

I'm sick of the people around me questioning everything I do despite the fact that I have proven myself a thousand times over.

While I wait and stress and pace and wish I could just pack up and go, there is only one thing I can do for myself. One thing I have control over.

My writing. It is a bright shining light in the darkness. Not because I see it as a money maker although that would be nice. But because I decide what happens in that world. I make things happen.

Good things, bad things, indifferent things. They are mine to create.

I have limited control over my own life right now. So I express everything through my characters.

My frustrations and fears. My hope as well as my anger.

Life is a journey.

Life is an adventure.

At least I keep telling myself that.

I have a quote that I love, can't remember where I found it:

"Life's journey is not to arrive at the grave safely in a well-preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, totally worn out, shouting "....holy shit....what a ride!!!""

by Mavis Leyrer of Seattle, age 83 (at the time of the quote)

I try to be prepared for anything.

 Broke down, broke and stranded? check the backpack for water, snacks and an extra blanket.

 Run out of food before payday? homemade biscuits and gravy, Y'all. easiest, cheapest thing to make that fills ya up.

Plumbings busted? Truck Stop shower. 

Computer crashed? Go use the library computers.

 Zombie attack?  Well..er..RUN LIKE HELL! I can't help you with that one.

The world is a wondrous place and I'm glad to be in it. Shitty economy be damned. I love my life despite the bad times. I may be having a little trouble right now but things will get better. I know they will.

I have faith. I'll be on the road again soon.

And I have a computer and net connection so I can complain all I want and you can't do a damn thing about it!LOL!

(BTW, Santa Claus drives a big black SUV)

Easily Distracted

Okay, so I get to the writing time, make sure I have all the things in place and the little *before writing* rituals are done, sit down, put my hands on the keyboard aaaaaand.....uh, what's that noise?

Type a few words,
Why does it smell like that in here?

Type a few more words,
I hate that song, gotta change it.

Finish typing the sentence,
Seriously, what is that smell?

Begin typing the next sentence,
Ooh, gotta make note of that for the other project!

Finish next sentence,
Did my phone just beep? wonder if I got a message.*checks phone for the umpteenth time*

Type a few more words,
I can't stand it! What is that noise?!

This happens every time I start writing. Even when I have the crazy inspiration I need to get through the next few chapters. Yes, even when the muse is yelling at me to WRITE! WRITE! WRITE! I wonder if I'm the only person this happens too? Surely not.
Once I get focused I'm fine, I'm in the ZONE. I can write when the wind is screaming around the R.V. in an attempt to blow us over. I can write with the kids fighting, the t.v. blaring, two different radio stations and another t.v. blaring, the cat fussing and the phone ringing every five seconds. Oh, and let's not forget TweetDeck, e-mail, and Facebook notifications popping up.

But until I get to that zone of total focus I am so easily distracted it's not even funny. It doesn't matter what's going on around me. Peace and quiet or chaos and destruction. It takes me a while to find that space in my head, that quiet, undistracted place where I can hear my characters clearly.
The only thing for me to do is tolerate the annoying little things that annoy me and just keep typing. Even if the first few paragraphs are complete and utter drivel. I have to trust that I will find that zone eventually and hope that the words that flow out are as brilliant on review as they seemed to be when I was blindly writing them.

So I keep typing. (ooh, look, the bunnies are out!) and typing (blech, my coffee's gone cold) and typing (did my phone just beep?).