Tuesday, February 28, 2012

Confessions and Clarifications

Pablo Picasso's Weeping Woman
Someone recently said to me (and I’m paraphrasing):

"I feel sorry for you and your children. You seem so happy, but really you’re weeping inside."

Now that I’ve had some time to think about this and process it, I want to address their concern here, because if it’s my blog that’s made this person come to such a conclusion, obviously I need to clarify. 

By no means do I write here with the intention or hope that anyone should feel sorry for me.



Confession: I write a lot about my own self-doubt and fear. While I don’t sit down to write with the objective of being negative, I’m not always the most positive person in the world. I use examples from my own life to illustrate points that teeter between black and white, pretty and ugly, inane and intelligent.

Clarification: I do this because –

1. Posting and sharing here is cathartic. Point blank: it just feels good.

2. While I’m writing and hashing and rewriting my first novel, I’m using this blog to flesh out some sort of answer to my own question from my “New Start.” Pamela Redmond Satran and Sally O’Reilly are the only published authors who have directly answered my writing questions thus far (and huge thanks to them). So for the most part I’m doing a lot of my own footwork in rummaging around to find answers. I’m also trying a handful of my own tricks, some of which fly and are colossal successes, and some that aren’t.

Now if I’m garnering all this valuable information, why would I hoard it up for only myself?

Especially since I know there are a huge number of people out there who are in a similar situation – trying desperately to create (books, art, music, school, work, etc) despite their baggage from the past, and the challenges going on constantly in their present – so hopefully something in the information I post here triggers a thought, or helps people push through those rough spots, or makes them laugh. And hopefully it gets them one step closer to accomplishing what they want to do.

3. None of this is in my comfort zone, but somehow admitting it makes it a little more okay. Brene Brown discusses this beautifully here:

Link to video
Now. That being said. I’m not suggesting I own my vulnerability especially well, but I’m trying. It’s all a process. Hopefully sharing my process helps you somehow feel more empowered and enabled in yours.  

So while I appreciate concern for any inner-weeping going on in my life (since I feel that good-energy is always good and I'd rather assume this person's concern is good instead of bad), I very much hope you walk away from reading my blog with more. I hope instead that you feel more comfortable in your own skin, in your own dreams, because by writing and making connections here, I am learning to become more so in mine.


Total pages logged as of today: Wait for it, wait for it...I'll update this on Thursday.

Moment of Magic today:




Speaking of weeping... *sigh* I love this song. Love the stamping.



Friday, February 24, 2012

Fairy Tale Friday: The Frog Prince

Alpha, about a year ago -- oh how he hated this suit.
Okay, so what we’ve got is a prince who, for whatever reason, has been cursed to wear a frog suit and it makes him sad.

Now, while I have no problem coming up with a few perks to being a frog – off the top of my head? Strong green legs, for one – our young prince doesn’t like it. Maybe because no girls will kiss him, which I’m made to understand is something guys really like, so. I guess I get why he doesn’t appreciate the frog suit.

But I can also understand why nobody wants to kiss him. When I imagine the texture of something slimy touching my lips, I think of a horrible smell, putrid decay, stickiness stretching into long strings. 

And of course it’s almost impossible to keep stuff out of your mouth once it’s been on your lips (it says here the average woman will consume 6 pounds of lipstick in her lifetime? I have no idea if that’s really true, but I do know one of my first instincts after putting chapstick on is to lick my lips.) 

On top of the slime, there’s also the chance that the frog may be poisonous.  I’ve often wondered if that played a part in the original story.

Regardless, no one’s kissing our prince, though inside he is a sweet, kind, person. Or maybe he’s cruel? Maybe he’s a techy without many social skills. But then, why am I assuming a techy would automatically have fewer social skills? Perhaps that label is a frog suit, of sorts.

Fairy Godmother -- link to original here
Perhaps all labels are curses we put on each other to rationalize our want to disassociate from things we don’t understand. And we’re all just waiting for a fairy godmother to lift the curse and make it better. Or a princess to come along and see past the suit into the “real” person inside, hoping she’ll kiss away the ugliness to make it better.

My initial reaction to the label/frog suit idea is: “Duh, just do away with the labels. Obviously what we’ve got here is a prince, not a frog.”

But I know that’s not a very realistic approach to life because, even if something seems obvious, it’s hardly ever entirely the way it seems. Theories are always good in theory, eh?

Labels have their place in society. They are a great organizational tool, among other things. I suppose what I don’t like about imposing frog suits on people is that we use the suits to justify cruelty and hate. “It’s okay if I’m blatantly offensive to this guy, because he’s    (fill in the blank)   ."

I don’t know what the answer is. Do you?

I do know, though, that I hope someday my little prince will be loved, frog suit or not. I hope he will be accepted and encouraged, rather than pushed out and discouraged. I am his mama, and I see the prince; but even if others see a frog, I hope they’ll respect him anyway. 

And lest you be disappointed at my (mis)handling of “The Frog Prince,” take a look at a punnier version put on by the Fractured Fairytale folks:


Total pages logged as of today: 160 (Apparently the pep-talk worked and I'm that much closer to deadline. Counting down to 5 days, 4 chapters left.) 

Moment of Magic today:

Here are some of my visuals for tonight's writing --

Again, what stories do they create in your mind? I dare you to write one down and see where it'll take you... 


Link to original here


Link to original here



Link to original here



Friday, February 17, 2012

Fairy Tale Friday: An Alternate Sleeping Beauty

It’s really all just a big open space, with the only thing distinguishing our kitchen from our living room being the different flooring. Purple shag for one (don’t be jealous) and wood-laminate for the other. I’ll let you guess which is which.

This makes it relatively easier to keep my eye on Alpha while I prep dinner. For this story he was wrapped up in a blanket on the couch, and riveted to Disney’s 1973 version of Sleeping Beauty because he’d never seen it before. Granted, he’s only two, so he hasn’t seen a lot of things yet. 

Now, bear with me please. This is one of my top five favorite fairytales, so even though we’ve already gone over it somewhat here, I can’t help but bring it up again.

Especially when the following happened:

Hubs came home from work all cheery and jovial, which meant the minute his bag and coat came off, he was cracking jokes. Only, I was making dinner and Alpha was watching a movie. Even for the most innovative of entertainers, that’s not an ideal audience. 

Of course his jibes turned then to the movie. This is about where it was at:



Swords and fighting and dragons, oh my! This is the “boy” part! And yet he was still making fun of it.

One of my favorite fairytales of all time. 

I’m going to go ahead and admit, here, I was feeling a bit rankled. Needless to say, our vegetables ended up being a little more finely chopped than they needed to be.

Now fast-forward the video to around 7 minutes and 45 seconds. This is the “girl” part. Pitter-patter, pitter-patter goes my heart. Sigh.

Hubs is saying, “Oh, gross! Alpha, don’t watch.”

Alpha is watching anyway.

“Alpha. Don’t even think about that kind of stuff til you’re, like, 20.”

I wonder if Alpha understands.

“Ew, they’re kissing. Uuugh!” Hubs won’t let up.

 But Alpha stands up to look over the back of the couch at me. Pointing back at the movie he says, “Mom!...something, something…” (He’s still working on his full sentences).

I just smile at him cause, guh, he is so cute.

“Yeah, that part’s for Mom,” Hubs says.

Alpha is still trying to communicate a point, though, only I’m not sure what. So I keep smiling at him, and he keeps pointing back and forth between the movie and me. 

Finally his eyes take on a determined look and he gets down off the couch, walks over to me, and takes my hand. With a little-boy tug he pulls so I’ll squat down to his height. When I do, I’m rewarded with a kiss on the cheek.

A very princely kiss, and a, “Cute, Mama.”

Suddenly I was awake to the lovely glow of the evening, and how great that moment felt. Awake and alive. And grateful. Alpha went back to finish his movie. I went back to finishing our meal. Hubs went back to his fun-loving jests. 

Now I have another reason to love the Sleeping Beauty story.

Life moves on. But fairytales, and the memories embedded into them, are forever.

So what stories do you have connected to fairytales?

Link to artist here

Total pages logged as of today: 145

Moment of Magic today:
I'm very tired. If I can get a nap in today, that will be magical. This is me making a wish.

Thursday, February 16, 2012

300 Words or Less: Sacred

300 Thursday again, where I'm posting bits of original work -- teasers from the novel I'm working on, some of my favorite poetry or prose I've done in the last few years, maybe some flash fiction or short essays, etc. -- all within 300 words or less. 

Today's quickie is a poem I wrote a couple of years ago, though it still very much applies:
 
Link to original source here
Sacred

You are sacred.

I am speaking to the earth,
to the trees.
I am speaking to the people who
are on their knees.
I am speaking to the woman who
called me a bitch.
I am speaking to the ones who
could really care less.

Friend or foe,
I'm glad to be here with you.
Most of you I don't know,
or maybe I do.

But we are connected,
just by being alive.
And we are all sacred parts
of the bigger hive.
I may never get to taste the honey,
but I glow to know it's there.
Somewhere.
You are proof of it,

As am I.
 

Total pages logged as of today: 141 

Moment of Magic today:

When The XX is playing in the background of whatever else we're doing -- coloring, playing with home-made play dough, trying to get Beta to laugh -- Alpha will stop, crawl up into the computer chair, and watch. Mesmerized. Some part of me hopes he's a musician someday. A bigger part of me hopes he's whoever he wants to be someday. 


Friday, February 10, 2012

Fairy Tale Friday: Princess and the Pea Revisited

Last Friday I suggested we go back to a pre-Hans telling of this story and asked for renditions of alternate versions. Here are a couple of the responses I received:



 First is a short-short story told in the children's book collection of "The Stinky Cheese Man and Other Fairly Stupid Tales" by Jon Scieszka.

And I love this book.

This version may still rely on the idea that a true princess will be extremely delicate and sensitive, but it's a twist. Points definitely go for the twist.

I love that in this version the prince is an avid enough bowler he has a ball hanging around he can use for just such an occasion. Of course, right?



Next is a Broadway musical comedy, "Once Upon a Mattress." Again, it is an adaptation of the Hans Christian Andersen story, but again, it's a little bit twisted.

Points.

Here's a good place to get started on that version if you're interested:




Finally, since no one else was biting at my bate to create an original pre-Hans version, I decided to have a little go at it. For the sake of time management, and child management, I tried to keep it to a page. Here's what I came up with:

About a Pea

The embers glowed orange and red as she held her hands out to the warmth, listening. Her father snored loudly from the back room, his brother competing with him even in that. Uncle Jeffery was visiting for the weekend from his service at the palace, and the two broad-chested, loud-mouthed men had roared late into the night getting drunk off each others’ stories and her father’s dark ale. She didn’t want to be present for their hungover beatings when they woke.

And this time she wouldn’t be.

Standing up, she tucked her long, thick hair under her hood and dusted off her dress where she’d been kneeling in front of the fireplace. Though it was her best, the gown would look worn and tattered where she was headed, so she stilled her hands in resignation and quietly made her way to the door. 

She ran back through her story: she’d explain away her disheveled appearance by saying there’d been a shipwreck down south, unfortunately she was the only survivor, and it’d taken her over a month to make her way up to the Capital on foot. 

It would be easy enough to convince them she was one of the Emperor’s many princesses from the kingdom across the sea, where this country garnered spices and slaves for a cheap price. She had the olive skin and black hair to confirm her story because her mother really had come from that warm, far-off place. They would look at her dark full lips, her big almond eyes, and nod, like people did in the market when she traded her father’s wares and her own fine embroidery for grain and vegetables. 

No one at the palace would question when she said she’d heard about the royal couple’s search for the perfect bride to marry their sole son, prince and heir to the throne, and that she had come to try their mysterious test. At least she hoped they didn’t.

Pausing at the door, she listened again, turning to a small hand tapping at her arm. Kneeling down, she scooped her little brother into her arms. The little brother whose birth had finally released their mother from this torment, her relief to be leaving them preserved for all time on her stiff, dead face.

“I’ll be back for you, I promise,” she said, kissing away his silent tears. He hiccuped and hid his head in the crook of her neck. They rocked together, but finally she pulled back. “I have to go.”

“What if the prince doesn’t like you?” he whispered, his somber almond eyes wide with worry.

She almost laughed. Of all the reasons she had to fear tumbling through her head, she hadn’t even thought of that. “Nothing can be worse than Papa, huh? Stay away from him today until the worst has past,” she said, holding him close one last time and then putting him on his feet. “Be brave, little mouse. Remember our plan, and I’ll be back for you within a fortnight.”

He nodded, shutting the door softly behind her. 

Sliding into the shadows she hurried quickly upwards, toward the palace, shuffling through quiet cobbled streets past dirty shop fronts and rancid refuse. All this could change. Looking around, she shook her head, angry, and made a promise to herself to take care of this; to care for these people. She would not forget where she came from. She’d fix what was putrid in her life, then she’d fix what was rotting here too.

She smiled deep, hope blooming in her belly for the first time since their mother had died. Maybe she didn’t have royal relatives, but now, thanks to Uncle Jeffery’s drunken rants, she had a royal secret. A very important one, about a pea.


Total pages logged as of today: 130 + 3 pages of other writing. Points?

Moment of Magic today:


1. Stare at the red dot on the girl’s nose for 30 seconds

2. Turn your eyes towards the wall/roof or somewhere else on a plain surface

3. Keep blinking your eyes quickly

Friday, February 3, 2012

Fairy Tale Friday: The Princess and the Pea

Link to artist here
They say Hans Christian Anderson was the guy who made this fairy tale popular, though there were other versions circulating before his rendition. They also say he was the first to include the idea that the real princess was sensitive to even the tiniest discomfort, and that's why she felt the pea under the mattress.

Previous versions suggested she was clued in on the farce by a helpful insider, so the next morning she passed the test because of her ingenuity and foresightedness. Huh.

If you ask me, I'd rather have a queen who's cunning and smart than one who is squeamish and tender. I want to be proud of my strong queen (hello Ms. Obama on the Ellen Show recently?); not shrug and sigh, hoping the next one will be better.

So I vote we go back to a pre-Hans telling of this story, if anyone out there has a good rendition? Better yet, if anyone wants to write a pre-Hans/pro-proud Princess story I'd love to host it in my post next Friday. Anyone? I dare you, if that helps.

Until then, sigh, here's a pretty version of what we've got (I love the creator's voice):



Hours logged today: 1/researching   Pages logged today: 1/researching    Total pages logged today: 126

Moment of Magic today:
In the dead of winter, I'm reminded of when this bee came to hang out with us in our kitchen. It was a warm night, the smell of sun still in the dark air, baby (only one at the time) in bed, and time to just breathe. 

I love summer. I love the memory of this bee.

Thursday, February 2, 2012

300 Words or Less: Exactly

Back to Thursday, where I'm posting bits of original work -- teasers from the novel I'm working on, some of my favorite poetry or prose I've done in the last few years, maybe some flash fiction or short essays, etc. -- all within 300 words or less. 

Here's some flash fiction, today's quickie:


Exactly

“To top it off,” I’m regaling my friend on our way to the movie with my latest failed-date story. She’s leaning over, head down, slapping the dashboard and laughing so hard she’s silent, shoulders shuddering. I snort, continuing, “She told me the odd collection of jars on the shelf above her cups are in fact not empty. They’re full of air. Her supply for the apocalypse.”

My friend had sat up, making an attempt at self-control, but she doubles over again.

“I left pretty much right then. She asked if I wanted a hit. I mean, really?”

“Stop!” she wails, rolling down the window and sticking her head out sideways. “I’m going to piss myself!” I know she’s directing this at me, but the bundled-up couple holding hands, walking slowly as we drive by, do not. 

They look at us dirty.

So I honk and wave. 

“I kid you not,” pulling her back in and rolling the window up from my side. It’s February, for god’s sake. I hate being cold. “I don’t know where I find these chics. Hot is not, apparently.”

My friend is wiping her eyes and hiccupping. “Ah,” she sighs. “Maybe you should try dating on the other side of the fence. Guys aren’t so bad, eh?”

I snort again, but when I look over I realize she’s being serious. As serious as she can be with dark makeup-streaks tracking down her cheeks, residual laughter bubbling up.

I’m not interested in my friend, whatsoever, but I run my fingers along the inside of her thigh. “Maybe I should try dating you.”

“Please, girl,” her look is slight and she rolls her eyes, moving her leg away. “You know I’m not like that.”

“Exactly.”

“Exactly what?” she says, still grinning, fixing her mascara in the passenger-side mirror.


Hours logged today: 3   Pages logged today: 5    Total pages logged today: 125

Moment of Magic today:
I love the red, the flower.

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