Round Two

This is a short but necessary blurb about tonight's reading downtown with the Writers in Stuttgart.  With nine reading tonight there was quite a spread of diverse pieces and tones, voices and images conjured.  I must say it was a rather packed house and I do believe we delivered.

We learned from Karenne the history of the English language in cool verse that made the educational the utmost fun.  Claire introduced us to a chapter from her longer work-in-progress, entitled Jack, that left us wondering what new vice he's found to quiet his demons.  Jim entertained, improvising with the Starbucks emblem hanging in the window, acting out his version of a Greek tale to which anyone whose work is never done can relate.  Then it was my turn, and with what felt like a bright red face, I quickly introduced myself, tested the mic volume, and did my best not to speed through.  Cindy shared a story about Germans traveling to Greece, and we all laughed at the cultural nuances therein.  Liz kept things light and funny with another story about her very opposite from her Schwabish husband, and the adventures of neat freak German meets (and marries) loud, American slob - her words, not mine.   Christine lead us through the intermingling worlds of two women, one living here in Germany as an ex-patriot American, and the other still living back in Haiti as a Peace Corps worker, experiencing January's tragedy.  Her work is fiction but based very much in real life, and hers.  Ken wowed us with two short pieces of poetry, and I found myself utterly lost - and loving it - in his amazing imagery.  Ending the evening was a quickly thrown-together song by Tiffany, thanking those in attendance and inviting them back again next year, same time, same place.

The kind words from my friends in the writer's group, as well as those from people I do not know made me blush.  I loved it!  It amazes me that I can stand up in front of real life people and speak into a microphone without passing out from the nerves.  Public speaking and I have never been close, but I think these readings are igniting in me the desire to get to know this long-feared, for lack of a better word, thing.  Not only did I not stutter or totally lose my place while trying to make eye contact during my reading, I was actually so bold as to gesture with my hands for emphasis, albeit a little stiffly.  I think I might have even enjoyed standing up and sharing a piece of my writing self with the quiet and focused faces stretched out before me.  Very weird.  Very exciting, too, since the very thought of such things is quite out of character for me.  Yea for personal growth!

Walking in tonight I was overcome with stress and jittery nerves, but by the time we left, I felt completely revitalized.  The affirmations a writer receives at such an event, especially one attended by good friends, are heart-lifting.  Thank you, Sara and Diane, for making the trip downtown on a Monday night to be a part of the audience tonight.  Thank you for your support and your words of encouragement and the pride you take in me, as your friend, as I pursue what I love.  Seeing your faces in the audience kind of wrapped around me like a fuzzy, reassuring blanket as I stood alone in front of you all.  And thank you, Chris, my partner in all things and my best friend, for supporting me in so many ways, and for showing up every time.  I'm so grateful that I found you, and more so because I'm aware of just how lucky I truly am.  How many people have what I've got at home?  I will always try to deserve that.

The mush is almost over, I promise...I love all of you guys so much, and it means the world to me that I matter to you, because you are such fantastic people.  I am a very fortunate person to have you in my life, and to get to be a part of yours.

The Next Reading

An annual event called American Days in Stuttgart is nearly here, and the writing group I'm a part of is participating again this year.  Last year, my introduction to this fantastic group of writers was their last night of the public readings they did as a part of American Days.  Their stories were moving, hilarious, and brave, and I was instantly in awe of their courage to share, as well as their respective styles and talent.  Now it's my turn to jump in and try not to wet my pants in front of an audience.

The very first time I read something I'd written in front of actual people was this past December.  The Writer's Group has a relationship with Starbucks, and has staged readings at a couple downtown locations before.  The writers appreciate the opportunity to share their work, and Starbucks enjoys the extra business.  So it was near Christmastime when the group held a reading at the coffee house, and I helped wrap up the evening with a short story.  I've always been terrified of speaking in front of people, from elementary schoolbook reports to saying thank you and goodbye to the people of Chris' last office at the Farewell.  Writing, any artistic medium really, is deeply personal by nature and sharing it can be scary for anyone, I think.  So standing up in front of real life people and actually sharing a piece of my own writing should have had me going out of my mind.  But it didn't; it was weird.  I was excited.  I practiced with Chris and I edited, and I was slightly thrilled to be doing it.  When the night came, I got up, read my piece (without incident or stutter), and took my seat.  I didn't start trembling until after I finished, but it was amazing.  I hadn't puked or anything, the nerves had backed down.

American Days will bring about my second time out to read publicly, and I think I may be more nervous this time than the last.  I have no idea what to read.  I feel like there's only so much creative energy in my body at any given time, and once I've exhausted it, it takes a little time to build back up again.  Usually by the next day.  Since I've taken on this blog, most of my creative energy has gone into trying to write something worth reading every day, and I haven't been able to sit down to work on anything fictional.  It's time to start prioritizing creative projects, as I'm also itching to start some photography projects, as well.  There just isn't enough time in the day.  I can't wait till summer break, the biggest joy of working at an elementary school.  And though we'll be fairly busy here and there this summer with music festivals, trips, and a guest, I'm very much looking forward to a little bit of time where I can focus all (well, most) of my attention on creative ventures.

So what to write, what to write...what would people attending events that celebrate the relationship between Germans and Americans want to hear about at a coffee house reading?  I've got one week till our next Writer's Group meeting, where I'll be able to share what I plan to read to get feedback.  Now I just need a decent idea...

Aw, crap.

I was talking to my brother on the phone yesterday and I asked him if he'd stopped by my blog, kind of expecting an attempt to explain before a stuttering admission of 'No.'  What he told me was that he HAD been reading every day, but when I went out of town and there was no daily to read, it broke his habit.  I have to say how happy I was to learn he'd even stopped by, as he's not a reader at all.  He said even if I don't have a lot to say, putting up some quick blurb every day would at least give someone who reads the blog something to see when they check, and keep them checking back.  He'd simply stopped checking because he knew I was gone, and life being hectic and especially stressful lately, he wasn't sure how much time had really passed since I left town and he stopped checking in, until we talked.  After that chat I sat at my laptop a while, then decided I was tired and not feeling especially inspired, and turned it off without another thought.

Today, I see that I'm doing exactly what I was doing before, and what I was afraid I'd do if I started a blog.  Not write.  Make excuses.  Allow myself to be lazy when I really have no right to be.  Today, right now I realize my attitude yesterday and earlier today is exactly the reason I committed to the daily blog to begin with.

And I though I'd learned something.

So it turns out that, although I missed it while I was away, taking a break from the blog not only broke my brother Gary's habit, it also broke mine.  So here I go again.  I released myself much too soon from the commitment I made, believing myself to be a faster learner than I am.  This time I'll throw in an actual goal, and once I meet that, we'll see.  Stop, re-evaluate, regroup.  30 days.  No skipping.  

On a more proud-of-me note, I've never been good at sticking to plans I so carefully calculate, but I've said before that this is a different time in my life, and it's time to grow.

So here I grow :)

Growth

Although this blog is merely in what I imagine to be in its toddler stage, I already feel that I've learned quite a bit from committing to it. Obligating myself to write daily was a big challenge, and I wasn't sure I'd do very well with it.  Twelve days in a row was huge for me, but then I found that I enjoyed it more than I expected.  The anxiety and rewards of writing this way were wonderfully balanced and I already have more confidence in myself as a writer.  An entire week away was, to be honest, a little hard.  I felt the tug to sit and write at the end of each day, and when I couldn't, I felt a little lonely.  Makes no sense, right?  I was in southern France with my amazing partner in crime (and life), but for just a moment each evening, I felt a twinge of yearning for another...my writing.  I missed the daily commitment that had quite quickly become ritual, natural, and I looked forward to the part of returning home that meant I'd be back to my laptop at the dining room table.  The end of a trip means getting back to your own bed, a return to normalcy, and the end of this particular sweet breeze of a vacation meant getting back to you, my blog.  The words and the release.

I feel like I've made some meaningful changes in my life these past months, concerning both my physical and writing self.  It's not as if I haven't tried before to be a more devoted writer, or to eat better and be more active, but this time doesn't feel like a "this time."  Right now, in this moment in my life, I do not feel anxious or worried about whether or not it'll stick this time, if I'll be strong enough to change my life for the better. In this moment, I feel calm.  I feel smooth and deeply content because somewhere inside of me there is a sense of knowledge that it was my time to grow again.  I don't actually know this; I mean, I don't know what my immediate future holds or what may change, but I sense that I do.  Does that make any sense at all?  It's like subconscious knowledge, or at least the comfortable belief in something I no longer question.  I am healthier today than a few months ago, and I'm writing every day.  I'm learning new ways to enjoy and appreciate more aspects of life, something on which I plan to elaborate soon.  Even on vacation, though I couldn't blog, as I wanted to include pictures with the writing, I wrote the details of the days in a small notebook, and even that felt good and right.  

I'll be continuing on with Provence tomorrow, and I've got a couple things I'd like to write about after that kind of waiting in the wings, but for tonight it felt right to sort out some thoughts in this space.  I no longer doubt my ability to produce words strung together in a more frequent manner, and I'm no longer afraid that skipping a day will totally revert me back to my old ways of hardly writing at all.  So this is where my commitment will change slightly, but I see this change as wholly positive, because I'm comfortable with and trusting enough of myself to do it.  I don't think I will necessarily continue to blog daily, but allow myself a day off here and there when the days are unbalanced or my mind is exhausted by other things.  I might've been scared of this leeway before, uncertain of my own ability to remain loyal given some wiggle room, but not tonight.  Because we're back together, Writing and me, and it's been a lovely reunion that I do not see ending any time soon.    

Night.

Day 3: Hello Lover

This blog is still in its infancy and already my mind has been more on writing than it's been in a very long time.  I'm loving it.  It's like we're dating, or rather, back together again, me and Writing, and I find myself anxious to be together during the day.  So much that I'm typing this from work (shhh).  So here I sit in the back of the classroom on my lunch break, stealing some minutes with my ever-returning old flame.   

I've been working on a new short story, and being that I work with kids, my days are often spattered with inspiration for this particular story, if only for character development.  In fact, it was recent observations about a couple of kids that inspired the story idea to begin with.  These observations coupled with my fascination with the human brain are working together to cultivate a dark little story fed daily by certain behaviors, sneaky little moves that only happen when the teacher isn't watching.  Luckily for the teacher who isn't watching, kids are fairly predictable and what's the saying?  I've got eyes in the back of my head; reflective surfaces also work quite well.  The psyche is a strange creature, and one with multiple personalities, I believe.  If you give any credit to Freud, we've all got a primitive, self-centered pleasure seeker constantly at odds with both a realistic impulse controller, the authority on the socially acceptable, and a model good guy, the moral compass and keeper of standards.  How can something we're all born with go in such radically different directions?  How can one child bully in his grade school years, then grow up to be a successful businessman and beloved father, while another does the same thing and ends up imprisoned for heinous acts of torture?  Fascinating.

Did I mention how anxious I am for the new season of Dexter (Showtime) to start already?  This show has a fascinating subject matter, and exists because of writers who have the ability to create a monster with whom the viewer actually roots for.  Sorry about your screwed up life, Mr. Serial Killer - why don't you go ahead and chop that guy up; it'll make you feel better.  Sounds sick, I'm aware, but the kind of writing that can actually cause a person of arguably sound mind and character to pull for the immoral monster in the middle is damn good, and certainly has my respect.

So is my central character another Dexter?  Not exactly, but he may run in similar circles.  We'll see how it evolves.

(Seriously, as much as I may momentarily agonize over not knowing what to write about, I feel fantastic when I'm done.  It's kind of like I just had a secret rendezvous and I'm still buzzing from the contact.)     

My name is Lindsey, and I hate glitter.

I abhor glitter.

I work at an elementary school and I hate glitter.  When I have kids of my own, I will not buy, nor will I knowingly allow bulk glitter into my house.  I understand that there will be artwork, and I'll likely want to display it and some of it will involve the execrable stuff.  (Like that?)  In these circumstances I can assure you measures will be taken to contain the shiny, ever-sticking-to-your-skin mess.  I understand that it will be a near impossibility to keep the stuff from my house entirely, but what are we without goals?


Today we had lunch at an Indian place called Namaste, and it was fantastic.  Over naan and chai we discussed trips, recent as well as those still in planning.  Dublin.  Istanbul.  Scotland.  Conversations about how the education standards differ from place to place, and whose husband just got back from a long work trip criss-crossed each other over the table.  A comment about a future get-together brought up a recent one, and Sara explained what she at one time told her son to say when attempting to make new friends:  Hi, my name is Nick and I like to play with cars.  What a novel idea to introduce yourself with a quick detail about who you are - we should all try it.  Who can remember all the people you meet at any given event, but who'd forget Phil who secretly enjoys apple-tinis, or Jan who can't stand the color orange?  I think Sara's onto something interesting, if not potentially entertaining.

Then conversation shifted to listing the things that we simply cannot stand, those personal, quirky details that make us odd and fascinating to those who love us.  This is where the opportunity to really get to know your friends and all their weirdness reveals itself.  I imagined myself introducing my friends to others.

This is Diane, and she can't stand cotton balls.  (It's the noise they make when you rub them together.)

This is Amy.  Never show up to her house with Jello.  You may make her ill.

This is Farrah - please don't touch her face.

And this is Melody - I'm not sure if we're close enough for me to share hers, but it's a good one.

I love these girls because they're all different, they all have opinions, and they make me feel embraced.  Being the type of person who's always been better at one-on-one socializing, this is the first time in my life that I've enjoyed an actual group of friends, and not just friends, but friends who get along and actually enjoy each other.  This is the first time I've known so many diverse women in one place, at one time, and have felt comfortable in a room of more than two people openly participating in conversation.  Does that make me sound like a complete and utter dork?  I'm sure it does, but the introverted, socially awkward kid does eventually grow up.  As I looked around the table this afternoon I experienced a wash of gratitude, gratitude for the opportunity I have to do the things I do, see the things I see, and know the people I know here.  These girls are an important part of that.  Regardless of the particular depth of each connection, we're all connected, nonetheless, and that's the kind of comfort no one can turn down.

Another topic of conversation, briefly, was my writing.  Was I blogging?  Sara demanded to know why there was no daily update, and despite my defensive arguing to justify the days passed since my last entry, Amy nailed me with an irrefutable truth.  When I said I couldn't just write without something behind it, and what could I possibly write about every day, Amy said this:  If you commit to write something every single day, you'll start looking for things worth writing about - every day.  You'll make yourself look past the mundane.  And she was right.

This on top of a recent pep-talk from both Sara and Farrah regarding my self-expressed need for a life coach, as well as daily, or at least weekly blogging was enough to make me seriously consider taking on the challenge of daily writing.  I know what the books say about the importance of daily writing, and I say I want to be better, so it's time to put my money where my mouth is and jump in.  Dare I start numbering to force myself to acknowledge it?  The daily blog?  (Is it sad that my heart rate just shot up at the thought of actually doing that?)

So it begins.  I do not promise it'll be pretty, and I can guarantee some days will be random and messy, but I'm going to do it.  I'm going to test this widely-accepted and already tried approach to a more fulfilling writing life for myself, because honestly, you can tell me something all day and I won't doubt what you say is true, but I won't genuinely adopt it as truth in my life until I've discovered it for myself.  I have to reinvent the wheel.  Maybe it'll become so overwhelmingly bad that I'll find out I was never meant to be a writer.  But maybe it'll work, and I'll start finding more time to write in my day, and I'll start becoming more efficient in my writing, and I'll finish something.  Then maybe I'll like it.  And try to get it published.

Call this the first day of the daily, and I owe a big, fat thanks to all my coaches.  Thanks for caring enough to ask, and in some cases, enough to make me feel obligated and pressured to follow through.  So here it goes.

My name is Lindsey, and I hate glitter.


Day 1        

Me, the archaeologist

It's understandable that when faced with an overabundance of choices, one becomes easily overwhelmed.  Such is one of my problems when it comes time to sit down and write.  There are so many options, choosing one about which to write for any given session seems a daunting task unless it's one of those rare moments in which I'm utterly possessed by a story.  Those moments are the ones I crave like the perfect barbecue potato chip - rarely stumbled upon, and so that much more satisfying when it hits my tongue, or in the case of writing, my keyboard.  Those moments are why I write; it's like an archaeologist who digs and dusts clean bits of what turn out to be trash for years because one of these days, they're going to come across something amazing, something no one's even been looking for, something spectacular.  The possibility of that ultimate find (or story, or song, or moment) makes all the crap worth it.  So that's where I am right now, trying to wade through what many days looks like trash in search of something that resembles a promising path to get me closer to that paragon.  The time I should be spending writing something, if only for the sake of writing anything at all, I'm digging and searching for the piece that feels right.

Being the adoring fan of efficiency that I am, waste is death.  I will not run an errand if it's the only reason I'll be on that side of town.  I will not drive to the American base (where I work out for free) to go to the gym if I've no grocery shopping to do, bills to pay, or mail to check for.  There are 40 steps between where we park our cars and our front door and if it takes me ten minutes to get up them, I will hang as many grocery bags from my body as possible to make even that trip more efficient.  So sitting at my beautiful writing desk to do nothing but type out some directionless scene actually hurts a little.  If I'm going to write, I should be writing something that's worth the time away from the countless other things I could, and often feel I should be doing, like laundry or dishes or reading for the next book club or prepping something healthy for dinner.  If I'm going to write, I should, at the very least, be working on something that's building toward something bigger.  Like the novel I began my last semester in college.  In 2004.

The more seasoned writer will tell me that no time spent writing is wasted time, because we're always developing our craft, always learning from our own keystrokes.  A wiser person will tell me to stop making excuses and make it a daily obligation, because anyone who's ever read a book on writing has learned that to be a writer, you must write every day.  So despite my innate need to organize all things into the most efficient blocks I can, I'm trying.  And you're reading the latest and scariest try.  I'm blogging, and as I type I wonder who would want to read my ramblings?  But this isn't a new thing, I realize, and there is a culture of those who appreciate the thoughts and words of strangers, and I so appreciate that.  This is a space where I can share whatever I want, which takes some of the pressure off the obligation to write, and someone just might read it, which presses right back down. But some pressure is good.  You need some stress in your life, my dad has told me more than once, and the kind of stress that makes me give a little more time to what I release into the wild from the confines of my mind, to gallop triumphantly through someone else's imagination or collapse into a sad heap, is the kind I need.

Reading back over this, I'm not sure if I ever really wound back around to a solid point.  But either way, that's me, so if that entertains you, stay tuned.

Thank you for spending some of your time with me, because I can only imagine all the things you might do in a day, and you could've kept on walking, but you decided to stick around.  I sincerely hope I made it worth your time, and hope you'll stop in again.  As for me, I'm going to get back to my digging and wading through the options, venting about or celebrating them here from time to time.

On Not Writing - Mar. 6, 2010

I’ve watched six cars back up the hill so far.  The wind is waking up so light flurries of snow blow into my face as I wait the extra twenty-eight minutes required of those who miss their train at the Rutesheim S-Bahn station on a weekend.  Damn snow.  It was sunny and verging on warm – in direct sunlight – this week, a tease of spring everyone’s got to be jonesing for come March.  Yesterday – it was gorgeous, blue-sky kiss all day yesterday, and this morning I’m shoveling at least six inches of maddening fluff off my car.  Forget the three near-collisions from which I slid just shy on the way to the station, I am not missing today.

Seven.

People, the ones who didn’t miss their train, the ones who are, in fact, early for their train are starting to blow in with the snow, stomping the weather from their pant legs and nodding frosty hellos.  My fingers are numb and my nose is threatening a drip.

Eight.

I’ve forgotten my iPod, probably sitting next to my pack of tissues and cell phone by the front door.  I’m annoyed, cold, and late, but maybe this would be one those unplanned writing opportunities I just read about in Writer’s Digest.  The article said that one must marry her life to writing.  There’s something I need to do, recommit.  Ask me what fills me up and turns me on, what can keep me burning into the wee hours of the morning without concern for the coming day’s responsibilities, and I’ll tell you without hesitation, writing.  But ask me when the last time that actually happened, and I’ll quickly change the subject.  

The train is finally here.

Writing, that which defined me from a tender age, that presence forever in my life to engage me or taunt me.  It is truly a relationship in and of itself, and there are days…

When we first moved abroad and settled into arguably one of the most beautiful places in the world, where I consciously decided to not work outside the house, to focus on my writing and soak up this amazing opportunity, I got blocked.  For five years.  We got to travel and taste places in the world we never even thought about, but I couldn’t write about it.  I was drenched, I was soaking in so much, but couldn’t muster a line that felt like it actually came from somewhere meaningful.  Now looking back I’ll admit there were moments, brief as they were, that warmed what had gone cold, but moments weren’t what I craved, what I expected from myself given such insanely optimal circumstances.  And it wasn’t as if I didn’t want to write.  I did.  I was just dry, somehow, in the writing zone of my brain and I’ve never been good with self-imposed requirements.  Daily journaling lasted only as long as it didn’t feel like an obligation.  Give me a deadline or an assignment as a person outside my head and I’m all over it, forever the eager to please student.  Just don’t be me giving it.

An announcement has just come over the speakers on the train, something other than the pre-recorded stop announcements, and after confirming with a group of boys standing to exit, it seems this morning’s unexpected snowfall has made a stretch of tracks unsafe, so we’re to get off the train and hop aboard replacement buses.  This will be my first bus experience living in Germany.  I consider for a moment crossing over to catch the train right back to my station and scrap the day, blaming it on bad weather and certain and unfamiliar circumstances, but decide to be brave.  I will follow the herd.  Moo.

Back on the train in Zuffenhausen, I’m wondering just how late I’ll be to this month’s writers’ meeting.  Another announcement I don’t quite get.  I understand “Entschuldigung,” which can’t be good. They’re asking to be pardoned.  But back to my writing pad and thoughts of not writing…I feel stuck, but not exactly stuck because it feels more like I’m free-floating, unable to grab onto anything at all. Not an idea; not a line.

I once wrote a letter to Writing, expressing my longing for its return and disgust for its absence in the same breath.  What had I done wrong?  Couldn't we talk about this?  Why couldn’t I come up with anything worth jotting down?  I couldn’t make myself sit and write mindlessly without concern for the finished piece like you’re supposed to if you’re feeling stuck.  I wished a didn’t care, and so that day I decided to let go of it, hoping that whole “set it free and it will return” thing had something to it.  To be honest, I felt rejected, abandoned, but by what?  My writing self, I supposed, that spark inside that lit me up when I got going.  I remember turning off my laptop and walking away, feeling relief, but only slight.  If I wasn’t struggling to write, what was I doing?  A writer friend I’d met through an on-line writers’ workshop had told me not to feel pressured to produce while at the start of this incredible time in my life, to let it soak in and percolate a while.  And so I’ve been brewing ever since.  That was nearly six years ago.

When will this God-forsaken pot of coffee be done?  Something has got to happen beyond flashes of passion to work on my novel, or anything, that last about as long as any flash might.

I can see the Hauptbahnhof ahead.  I have no idea what time it is, but I know I’m more than fashionably late.  And I don’t even have a damned thing to share.