Squeezing Into a Size Seven

Decades ago, when I was still in high school I think, I went shopping at the Lakewood Center Mall. I was having cramps and felt awful, but for some reason it never occurred to me at that time that it was probably not the best time to go shopping. What ended up happening was I let myself get talked into buying a kelly green, mohair jumper dress. Anyone who knows me that kelly green is not a color I've ever worn, except for the few times I tried to wear that ugly mohair jumper. It was perhaps the worst purchase I'd ever made. Made worse because it cost so much, and I thought it would make me feel better. Learned a lot about impulse shopping that day, but also about trying to put myself in something someone else thought was a good idea.

Have you ever bought a piece of clothing hoping you'd grow to love it or that it would fit even though it was the wrong size to begin with? Remember a time when a pair of skinny jeans or a blouse that fit you 20 years ago, requires a shoehorn to even come close to fitting into? Or for those of us who gained some weight after having a baby, we understand what it feels like to try to squeeze into a pair of pants that no longer fit our image of who we are. We've all probably had the experience of trying to fit into something that just never was right for us in the first place. Our writing careers often find us trying to emulate someone we admire or fitting into some critic's latest "10 best ways to get your work published" articles.

In reality, we each have our own gifts and callings, and we each have to find our own way of being who we are, writer or not. What works for one person, does not necessarily work for everyone. One size or style definitely does not fit all. Much of being a writer, artist, creative person is about convincing ourselves that we can do what makes us happy and fulfilled. This morning I treated myself to an hour of listening to one of my favorite writers, Anne Lamott being interviewed by her writer son, Sam Lamott (if you want to listen, click on  Sam Lamott interviews Anne Lamott). I did this after looking for an escape for my regular morning writing practice. This doesn't happen that often, but some mornings, I just have a hard time getting to work. Working for myself at home makes it much easier to 'call in sick' or get distracted than a 'real job' might afford. Nevertheless, there is a nagging, painful urge I have that always gets soothed when I actually 'do the work'.  And that's what I call writing, the work.

Writing is a real job and it is also a calling. Something we have to do because it is part of what makes us feel whole. It's how I find ways to express myself, to heal, to sort out, to synthesize, and to tell a story or two.  And most of the time, I love it. When I find myself edgy and resistant though, I need only look to see whether or not I'm doing my work in the way that works best for me or not. There is an element of fear that sits somewhere in the recesses of my mind. It's shaped like an inner critic, wet blanket, or the screaming meemies, and it can paralyze me or push me to find whatever I can to lead me away from the next page waiting to be written. Have I said, it doesn't happen often? Yes, of course, which probably means it happens more than I want to admit. Most days, I shove the voice into a corner closet and sit down and write anyway.

Today when I was getting lost in world events and politics, up pop's Anne Lamott's interview, and so I listened. After all I can count listening to a writer talk about writing as writing time, right? It was so interesting however, because her young son, Sam and Anne herself were both talking about the same things that most writers deal with at some point in our writing lives. The interview raised some questions including the following:

How do we know this is the right thing for us?

Is my devotion to my writing career worth the sacrifices and losses I'm making?

How do I cope with failure, rejection, disinterest, and criticism, especially from family and friends?

Am I doing it right?

There are probably more questions than these, but for the sake of an essay, let's start here. The first question, how do I know if this is the right thing for me. Well that is the one question I do have an answer for. I love writing. It's my favorite form of communicating, and I feel alive and fulfilled every time I write. I love for people to read what I write, but I also love the writing simply because it is so much more clear to me than what I can communicate any other way. I find pleasure, satisfaction, and joy in writing. I find connections and deeper paths that link me to greater understanding when I do research and write. I love listening to people's stories and watching people's lives. I'm fascinated by the depth and breadth of characters that are living on the same planet as I am, and the endless possibilities for story telling and narrative. So the answer for me, is yes. Absolutely writing is the right thing for me, and the only regret I have is that I didn't start on my own sooner.

Is my devotion to my writing career worth the sacrifices and losses I'm making?  Again, I would have to say yes indeed. Writing is not the first choice I've made in life that has involved making sacrifices and not following the tried and true way.  I learned early on that the road less traveled was usually where I wanted to go. Those choices often came about after realizing that 'doing what was expected or safe' did not make me happy nor did they fulfill me. I headed out in new directions, and kept searching until I found the path that fit my passions.  I learned that often people gave you advice or criticism based on their own comfort zone and passion, not yours. At different points in time when I was a young woman, conversations that changed my perspective and left doors ajar that led to my dreams, came from those who recognized me and my love for ideas, thought, and writing.

One English Literature professor, recognized me as a poet. When I first entered her poetry class, she warned us, "Don't write any modern, stream of consciousness poetry. I won't like it." I wrote my poetry anyway, and she like it. She liked it so much it inspired her to write poetry and get it published, long before I had the courage to try. She also told me I should write for a living, and encouraged me a long that way.  I didn't think I 'knew' enough, so it would be years before I'd accept myself as a poet. Dr. Claudia Buckner was a voice who stayed with me though, and still makes me realize if I just put pen to paper, I can do it.

In a short elevator ride with two of my Psychology professors at CSUDH, I was asked, "Where are you going to graduate school?" My reply, "I haven't applied anywhere." Honestly, I didn't think I had what it took, including money enough, to go to grad school. Their reply, "Well, as soon as you apply, you'll be accepted right away." Again, I put that encouragement on the back shelf and after fits and starts, years later at the age of 50 I would finally start my masters, then another one, and the a doctorate. It took a long time to build up the courage to try, but once I did, I learned, I can do it.

Another key moment was when I took a graduate course in writing, and ended up being asked if I would share the teaching responsibilities of that class. In front of a roomful of students, Dr. Charles Pomeroy asked me how I thought the class should be done, and for a split second I thought, "Okay, I can take the ball and run, or I can turn it back to him. I can be honest or I can defer." I was honest and found myself in a new job, and with a greater sense of what it took to be brave and step out into the moment. There were many times when my ideas or talents were not well received, but the moments and encouragement (better than advice) I remember were those that allowed me to step out into my own identity and define myself for myself while recognizing that others saw my capabilities.

Had I listened to the worriers, doom and gloomers, or those who were set on a different track than I , my journey would have been different.  When I went ahead in spite of fear, the outcome has been good. I have learned too that life is dynamic, and what works at one stage of life or in a particular job or relationship, does not necessarily work in all cases. Being flexible and willing to change and take risks helps me stay grounded in the present truth--the reality of the now. That does not mean I don't plan or learn from the past; it means instead that I know plans aren't necessarily going to happen as I expect or want. Getting okay with that is vital to being a writer, for me.

How do I cope with failure, rejection, disinterest, and criticism, especially from family and friends?

Not well. Who does? It's one of the hardest parts of being a writer is not having those who matter most to you take you seriously or even like what you do. I don't know which is worse. We have to do our art in spite of what others think. People's reactions to our art like anything else, is to a large extent based on what's going on in their own minds, hearts, and lives. And it has to do with their interests and tastes. Some people can't imagine you doing your art, because it doesn't fit with the image they have of you in their heads. We're not really responsible for how others judge us or our work.

What matters to me about the writing I do is the response of others who are willing to talk to me about it. It feels fabulous when someone who read my book, "couldn't put it down".  What higher compliment?  Not so flattering is a good friend who has the courage to tell you they found a flaw in the text of a book that no one else had told you about. I love that my friend David caught a mistake that I missed, and told me so I could fix it. Someone who says, "I don't like mysteries" I tell, then you probably won't like this. Sometimes they do and sometimes they don't. Books are like films. We all have different tastes. Some won't pick up a book if it looks too long, others if it's too short.

So what do we writers do? I thought I was going to be able to write cute, short, cozy mysteries like some of my favorite authors. However, once I started writing novels, I found that wasn't my style. Should I try to contort my style of writing to fit a formula that isn't mine? My answer for myself is 'No'. Writers have very different ways of laying our their works. Some plot and plan meticulously, others let the characters flow. We have to do what works for our own individual style. We also have to nurture and protect our work keeping it out of the way of harsh and cruel criticism. We need to be cautious and discriminating about who we allow to see and help us with our work. To put a piece of a budding idea out to be lambasted by someone should be avoided at all costs. This means, not every friend or family member or colleague is going to be the right person to read, edit, review, or critique your work.  Be careful who you listen to, and avoid anyone with a poison tongue or pen who tries to tear your work apart.

Find honest brokers--those who know their way around a piece of writing and who can offer constructive assistance. All others, keep away from your baby projects. I think of one good writer friend who allowed a writing workshop leader critique her manuscript and tell her to start over. That is not helpful nor is it a professional way that anyone who purports to be trying to support writers ought to behave. However, it may happen. If and when it does, grab your work, leave by the nearest exit, and go back to a trusted person who won't tear your heart out as they try to save your life. If you've been hurt, as most of us have at one point or another, take time to heal, get some distance, get some support, and keep writing. Don't let anyone to deter you.

Am I doing it right?

Better yet, am I enjoying what I'm writing? What is my body of work? Sometimes we're so intent on what we haven't yet done that we forget what we've accomplished. Whatever stage of your writing life you're in, do an inventory. Gather all the writing you've done together. Essays, research, poetry, articles, books, blogs, letters, whatever you've done. This will give you a better sense of your writings. You can do this for any type of art or other work. Until we recognize what we have accomplished, we are operating in a dark room.

What different types of writing do I like, and why don't I do more of it?  How do I measure success for myself? Again, more questions. And the last question I asked today should provoke more questions you have about your life as a writer, artist, sculptor, musician, or whatever you do that helps you express your identity. Healer, doctor, carpenter, communicator, singer, lover of life.  Give yourself a pat on the back for what you've created in your life, and notice what has given you the most joy, fulfillment, and purpose. If financial success is your primary goal, how is that working for you as a creative person?  Decide what matters most as far as your sense of success is, and measure that against the life you're living.

Then  commit yourself to the time, energy, resources, and dedication it takes to be the writer you are and wish to become. Do this with whatever matters most to you, with whatever gives you purpose, and serves those you seek to enrich and serve. Decide for yourself what criteria matters most, and align yourself with daily work that leads toward that. If you block out possibility simply because you can't imagine things working out differently for you, rethink where you are putting your faith and how you are stopping yourself from doing what gives you purpose, meaning, and fulfillment. Write on. Create. Be happy in that.

Autumn Harvest: Taking Care of Our Tools

Bleeding Hearts and Pines                                        Catherine Al-Meten Meyers

"If you want to see what your body will look like tomorrow, 

look at your thoughts today."--Navajo Proverb

Autumn is harvest time. A time for gathering in what has been growing and what is coming to fruition over the summer and start of the season. It's a time for preserving and preparing for the days and nights ahead. Days are growing steadily shorter as nights and darkness fill in more of our lives. Yesterday while it was still dark the lights of the school bus drew my attention to the house across from the end of the drive. Children were leaving for school already, in the dark. Our bodies, minds, emotions, and spirits are waking up to what has been growing in us all year.

Up here in the North, a good portion of our time for a good deal of the year is a time of darkness. Darkness doesn't mark  the end of the day, but defines a difference in the kinds of activities, the level of energy, the types of food and clothes and shoes we need to sustain and warm us. It's a time when cold chills our bones, and when we wrap our fingers around hot cups of tea, coffee, chocolate, or soup to keep those fingers nimble and ready for the work of the day. A few years ago, I noticed a couple of writer friends wearing fingerless gloves. I discovered the gloves were used by writers to keep their fingers warm. I got some, and now see them as a vital part of my wardrobe, my writing tools.

Fingers and hands to writers, are our tools. Our entire body, mind, and emotional make up are our tools as well. Our imagination, intuition, and intellect serve us well. All of these parts of ourselves serve us well when we take care of ourselves in the midst of living. We are reminded how hard we can be on ourselves when we get so busy we forget to take care. Something happens, and we think, "Well how did that happen?' We might have a fall or catch a cold, feel our neck or back seize up, or forget to take care of some simple but necessary task. Letting something burn on the stove or forget the laundry in the washer from two days ago. I'm not saying any of this has ever happened to me, but they could have.

Life tends to creep up on us, and before we know it, our lives are turned upside down because a simple thing or two have turned into a crisis. Why does this come up at this time of the year? With our bodies, when seasons and weather change, and when the climate or environmental changes call for adjustments or changes in our lives, it is a good idea to take a little time to reflect on what we have gathered in our experiences and daily lives. What have we accumulated and what are the effects of this accumulation? What can we reasonably do without, or what do we need to organize, tend to, or eliminate altogether? This has to do with things, but it also has to do with habits, patterns, and ways of looking at life.

Much of what we do on a day to day basis is unconscious. We don't stop to remember how to wash dishes, or drive a car, or button a blouse every time we do it. We know how and we go through the motions, unconsciously. We do the same thing in the way we respond and react to life and people in our lives. As we review our lives, it's a good idea to look at what kinds of relationships we've made part of our lives. How much of our day do we find ourselves distracted by something or someone? What is calling for attention in our lives? Where do we need nourishment, compassion, connection, and where could we use more space, room, quiet, or places of calm? Becoming more conscious of what lies beneath the surface, can be helpful in staying more attuned to what we carry with us.

Whenever a seasonal shift occurs, it's a good time to reflect on what, in the past, has been a soothing, comforting, energizing, or fulfilling experience. For example, it may be that getting outdoors becomes more enjoyable, as it does for me, when the weather cools off. Being outside is something that I enjoy most in Autumn, and so when I see that I've become too much of a cave woman, I venture out. I take my camera, my sketch book, or a notebook and plop myself down on a bench after a long walk, and work. I photograph the colors that can only be found in Autumn at certain times. Some of us get into the holidays, others of us get into the natural worlds' majesty. Whatever 'it' is that grabs you and fills you with joy, do that now.

Nourishing and preserving our bodies, also involves feeding our souls. Doing what gives us peace and joy. What fills us with satisfaction and makes us feel good from head to toe. From inside out and outside in.  Putting on a sweater for the first time in the season, and putting summer clothes away until next spring. Making a big pot of soup or stew and sharing with friends. Every year for a few years now, I've been inspired to make homemade chicken soup. While I love to eat it, the making has become a chore that marks the beginning of a season of tending to the health and well being of myself and others. It's a time when we need to tend to those who need support and to support and care for those parts of ourselves that require assistance and ongoing love and support.

Some of us have chronic issues that remind us through pain, when we've neglected ourselves too much. We, as writers, need to pay attention to the calls and cries of our bodies, minds, and spirits, for in those twinges and pulls, those highs and lows, those frustrations and nightmares, we get hints of what the darkness inside us is longing to bring into the light. Pain is a signal that something needs tending too. Depression or feeling blue, is a call from the soul to face some shadow piece, some part of ourselves that we might be afraid will be too difficult to cope with. We may need support and help to do this. We may simply need to start taking care of our tools--body, mind, emotions, psychological issues, and spirit--in a more intentional, consistent manner.

While I do not believe we should feel responsible or guilty for illness or other challenges we face, I do fee we are co-creators of our health. Raised as a Christian Scientist, I have been well versed in how illness is a reflection of imbalance in our thinking. And again, that doesn't mean, we must be made to feel we have done something wrong or aren't 'good enough' if we struggle with imbalances. Imbalance is part of living a spiritual life in a physical world and body. It's who we are. What we can be responsive to though is how we take care of ourselves. Because we believe all is well and we just need to 'know the truth' doesn't mean we can dart out in front of ongoing traffic and expect to be 'saved'. We might be saved from our own ignorance or false theological thinking on occasion but that's not what is meant by being a reflection of the Divine being.

What is meant, I believe, is that we are given gifts of intellect, wisdom, experience, training, knowledge, intuition, and reflection to pay attention to how we are living and treating ourselves and others. We can prevent ourselves from placing ourselves in dangerous situations, eating and drinking irresponsibly, pushing past the limits of good health and good sense. We can take the necessary time we need to heal, repair, and learn new ways of using our tools so that we can adapt to changes and adjust to times when we have to slow down or take breaks. When we push ourselves past the limits of our human endurance, we will suffer. Paying attention, becoming more conscious of what our bodies are telling us, and then taking steps to cope with issues that are endangering us, is key to maintaining optimum health and well being.

With this in mind, pay attention to illnesses that linger, pains that signals an injury, lack of range of motion that shouts out to you. Autumn is a time when our bodies send out signals, and when we can build into our lives, some simple ways to help us pay closer attention and take better care of what is going on with our essential tools--our body, mind, emotions, spirit.

With this in mind, my choices this fall have included increasing my yoga practice to include more yoga therapy classes (focus on coping with chronic and troublesome issues like osteoarthritis, regular wear and tear from sitting and writing, and others serious conditions like pulmonary and cancer-treatment conditions, pre and post operative rehab). This Fall I have begun to   address  issues that have gotten progressively worse with my hand. Getting physical therapy and learning how to do things differently is a beginning. What really matters is how I adjust and change to meet changing needs. I've adjusted my writing, sleeping, exercise, and work schedule. I've changed some of my meal habits, to more directly reflect my needs and lifestyle, and I've been noticing where my life lacks certain necessary support and connection. We don't fix everything by making a few changes, but we start living more in alignment with good health and well being when we make awareness and change a regular part of our routine.

Some of us get so fixed into a particular pattern or set of habits, that we think we have no choice. Seasonal changes remind us that we need to mix things up now and then, and so taking some time right now to reevaluate all areas of your life, is probably one of the best things you could do for preparing for what is ahead. Review doesn't mean you have to change everything. It simply means we take time to look at what we're doing, ask ourselves why we're doing it, and then ask if it's adding to our optimum health or not. If something is detracting, numbing, or deadening you in any way, consider how you could change it. For example, if you're putting up with chronic back pain, thinking that's normal (it's not), consider what you could change to prevent the pain and what you could do to deal with the pain when you get it.  Then do something positive about that.

Living our lives as writers and creative people demands a lot of self discipline. Our schedule and work style doesn't have to look like anyone else's but in order for our lives as creatives to provide us with optimum health and well being, we need to be paying attention to our whole selves, not just the mechanical or imaginative pieces. Take time to get a good massage now and then. Enroll in a yoga class that deals primarily with shoulders, neck, and joint pain. Get up and go for a walk every day or jump into a pool and do some laps. Get down on the floor and stretch out. Take action.

To do this requires being intentional, and that is something only you know how to do. a million good ideas are useless without the desire to act on one of them. Give yourself the best chance to live a healthy, productive, fulfilling, and well balanced life by taking charge of your own health and well being. Be intentional and start now.

A good place to start considering how this might help you and your health, is to read what Dr. Caroline Myss has to say about taking care of your body.

Carolyn Myss Taking Care of Your Body

Why Reading Matters to a Writer

Buds and Blossoms                               Catherine Al-Meten Meyers

Reading has always been one of my passions. Perhaps because my Mother read to us every night before we went to sleep, the lure of fiction and the hidden worlds have had a great influence on me. Besides the love of reading, my Mother instilled in me a passion for taking time to indulge that love. She left me with small leather bound copies of Omar Khayyam's poetry alongside a love of opera, theater, and love of cultural differences. And an expansive view of life, the world, and Spirit. She taught me to love and respect the creative people, musicians, poets, writers, artists, and mystics. And so I do. She also gave me room to expand my world beyond the one I was born into.

Going to the library was one of my earliest memories of feeling free and excited. My first trip to a library was a bookmobile that parked in front of a five and dime store in the Triangle shopping area of the outskirts of Long Beach in the early 1950s. I remember getting my first library card, and sitting on the floor of the bookmobile, amid the aroma of old and new books, adding to the stack of books I took home weekly. Reading was, for me, all about relaxing, finding a quiet, inner space to get lost in adventures, someone else's. Favorite memories include hanging out in the local public library once it was built. At the time I was told that thanks to Carnegie, every American had a library within walking distance of their home. It was the 50's, so I took that as fact. Whether or not it is, I don't know. If it's not a fact, it should be.

Reading passions included biography, autobiography, novels of all kinds, and an early passion for mysteries. My parents purchased a multi-volume set of Encyclopedia Britannica. Those large tomes held all kinds of interesting mysteries. I spent hours studying the planets and the solar system in the two-dimensional illustrations and explanations of each planet. School of course required that I read a lot beyond fiction. And for many years, and many decades of higher education and university teaching, I read volumes of books on subjects ranging from botany and geology to ancient spiritual traditions and ethics, and then back again to the sciences with physics and philosophy. Interest spread to archaic and mystical journeys in so many directions, that it was no surprise to me that I was an interdisciplinary student before the term had been coined.

While still in my teens though, I found my reading interests included popular romance and detective magazines, comic books (Archie and Veronica), and fan magazines that gave the inside scoop on Elvis and other heartthrobs. My high school boyfriend once suggested, as men are prone to do, that my passion for romance magazines was coloring my teenage perspective. Of course it was. At a time when we are seeking identity and wanting to know what life and love is all about, what wouldn't be interesting about the gory details of love gone wrong or Love's labors lost?

My tastes ranged. I read Shakespeare along with True Confessions. I read the Hardy Boys along with Nancy Drew. I read Sir Arthur Conan Doyle along with Dame Agatha Christie, and I was influenced by Pearl Buck and Victor Frankl, perhaps more than any other writers. I knew the King James version of the Bible, with all its thees and thines, and those, and I still prefer my 23rd Psalm in that language. I also enjoyed time alone in my Mother's friend's bedroom, door closed, sneaking a peak at a best seller, the scandalous Peyton Place. No one ever censored my reading, but I somehow knew there were some books that I had no experience that matched what happened inside their covers.

At nearly every level of education, reading was required. The more advanced my studies, the more narrow the scope and yet the deeper and more far-reaching, if that makes sense. As a dual major at the undergraduate level, English required that I read tons of fiction, old and new. Psychology took me in a different direction altogether. Side by side this dual track became the norm. As an instructor, I always required 'reading for pleasure' to enhance the courses. That meant I was reading a lot of what students brought to me. When I taught junior high and high school, I discovered works I'd missed, and my reading lists grew endless. When I graduated from university, I had some free time and began wanting to read the books I'd heard of but hadn't had time to read. The Prince by Machiavelli, which I had imagined a huge book that would challenge my abilities, I found was  simple little, easy-to-understand volume that delighted me. The Decameron, the chronicle plays of Shakespeare, and rereading Austen when I was finally worldly enough to enjoy her writing.

All through school and university years, I loved drama. I acted, helped write scripts, and produced a few plays when I was young. I had wanted to be a stage actress, but was shamed out of it by Miss Bush who encouraged me to go into Home Ec. They eliminated Home Ec as a major before I graduated high school, and I would never have chosen that direction anyway. No, I knew my future had to be wrapped up somehow in books and communication. For years, I put aside my personal writings, unsure and unwilling to show it to anyone. My scholarly writing was good, and ended up to be my strength. I'm not going to go into what led me to become a writer, at least not today. Today I'm so excited because I've discovered something that I thought I'd lost to the past. The pleasure and joy of getting lost in reading.

A couple of months ago, I was invited to take my pick of what was on my friend's book shelf. I recognized a couple authors and found some I'd heard of but never read. I brought home about 8 books, and started my way through the stack. What I discovered was that I was no longer reading fiction for the sheer enjoyment of getting lost in someone else's tale. No, instead I was finding myself engrossed in the writing styles of the different authors. It just so happens, I picked all female authors. Not intentionally.

The first book I read was one by Willa Cather, one of the first authors I'd read as a pre-teen. My Antonia and a couple others, had kept me company for one whole summer. This summer The Professor's House was where I discovered how Cather got into the head of a male university professor and convinced me she got it right. I was amazed.

Next I read two books by Anne Lamott, one of my favorite writers. I had, however, only read her non-fiction books, the ones about writing and creativity. This summer I read her fiction, and was struck by how she invited me into her life and view of how you turn the pain of your life, the loss, the destruction and disappointment, into something you can laugh at and recover part way from. Then I went on to read another of my favorite writers, Amy Tan. It felt as though she was inside my head or I in hers, when she talked about the process of writing. As I try today to write about how profoundly I have been affected, as a writer, by what I've been reading, by Tan and Lamott, by Cather and Kingsolver, I find myself incapable of doing so. It's like trying to recreate a spiritual awakening or fill someone in on the most profound mystical experiences of your life. It simply can't be done.

Reading the works, the fiction and memoirs of contemporary women writers, has the effect on me of solidifying my calling. It's as if I had been traveling on the road to some literary Damascus, been struck blind by my own limitations, and then healed. To have our eyes open to what it means to be who we are, and to find those who understand the same struggles, desires, and need to bring the past and present into something healed and lasting, into something dreamed of or hoped for or not quite understood. Writing is all that, and so much more. It is the voice box of a silenced voice. It is the sensorial expression that travels across synapses, through nerve centers and down into the waiting fingers to bring life to thought, to memory, to vision, to imagination. In hopes that it will bring wholeness and catch someone's eye long enough keep on reading.

Yesterday, I picked up Barbar Kingsolver"s Animal Dreams. I may be one of the few of my generation not to have read her yet. I have always been out on the periphery of her work. What did I expect? After reading Lamott and Tan, I expected something close, I guess. That's not what I found. One of the reasons I even kept reading past the first few chapters, was because of something Amy Tan had said about reading other authors as a way to learn more about her own craft. To get better. That wasn't my original intent, but that is what happened. The transition between reader and writer and back to how they go together. A good friend of mine was in the film industry for many years. she worked as a film editor. I remember watching movies with her, and being slightly disturbed that she couldn't seem to watch a film without noticing the camera angles, lighting, and missed cues or slightly off sound tracks.

Last night and early today, I made the transition. After picking up Animal Dreams and reading the first few chapters, I was sure I wasn't going to like it. It seemed too full, to rich with imagery and minute details. I'd set it down, and get busy with something else, and feel myself drawn back. To keep reading. To see what was next. To see if anything ever started to 'happen'. I found myself drawn deeper and deeper into the landscape of her mind, her characters' minds and lives. Into the harsh environment and the quirky, strange people who the main character felt distanced from. I met her sense of alienation and outsideredness (I know there's no such word). I kept reading, and as I read I noticed how she explored or let her characters explore their psyches, wounds, and preconceptions and judgments. I went to sleep.

About 2 a.m., I woke with a start.   Nothing was wrong. The cats were both sound asleep, and yet I couldn't go back to sleep. Again, I was drawn to Animal Dreams. I turned on the light and read, for how long, I do not know. It was late or early as the case may be. I finally turned off the light and went back to sleep, waking at nearly 10 in the morning. After feeding the cats and making my tea, I kept on reading. Just about an hour or so ago, I finished Kingsolver's book. I feel like I've eaten a huge banquet. And what I discovered from her was the ability to weave reality into fiction in such a way as to be unselfconscious and raw. When I finished the read, I was satisfied in a very deep way, and now feel like I need more.

Oh I don't want to stay up all night every night reading. What I do want though, is that magic of getting lost in a piece of writing to the point where you wonder what the difference is between your adventure in another's life and your own? The more we get lost in the land of fiction or  some other sense of reality, we hope, I think, for something of redemption. Something we can take with us to help us forgive ourselves of our hard places, or forgive others of their lack, in our eyes. We seek wholeness, and yet what comes from reading and then writing, and then starting the cycle over, is an endless landscape that breaks off into millions of directions, without an end in sight.

Being What You Are: Organizing a Creative Life

Crow Rising                                                                                                                Catherine Al-Meten Meyers

Some think the ideas of organizing and creating are mutually exclusive. Some may even look at the life of writers, artists, musicians, and other creative people and  think they 'do nothing' most of the time. I recall reading about how the hardworking fishermen of Monterey used to view author, John Steinbeck. They couldn't understand what he did all day, for all he did was watch them work, ask them about their work, or hang around town talking and watching other people.  For those who have a strictly structured lifestyle, like fishing in the days of the huge canneries and fishing fleets, being a writer or artist must have seemed a colossal waste of time.

Of course not all fishermen felt that way, but their initial impression was one of suspicion. And for other writers, musicians, and artists, I'm sure you've had your share of folks around who've wondered what you do all day or night. And don't get me started on those who give us lots of advice on how to 'do it right'.  My own sister warned me recently not to make my books too long so as to put off readers. Thanks Sis. She had not read my book, but because she had an opinion, I had to hear it. I'm used to hearing this kind of back handed dig from some, and often don't even pick up on it until late at night when I'm working out the day's conversations and I remember some small piece of a conversation that just didn't hit me right.

Artists, writers, musicians must grow what my Mother would call, 'a thick skin' to cope with all the well-meaning and some not-so-well-meaning advice we get. And then there is the blank stare when you are asked, what do you do? You answer, I write, and that pretty much ends the conversation. Unless it leads to an inquisition-like inquiry in just what you write, how you stack up to the 'real' writers, and how they believe they themselves always had what it took to write, but have never gotten around to it.  I'm sure musicians and artists have heard this a lot.  What does it take to do what it takes to be what you say your are?

At a family gathering recently, my cousin's wife, who I only see once in a blue moon, sidled up to me, and asked quietly, "What are you doing these days?"  My answer, "I'm writing." She actually knew that I had just published a book, and was so excited for me. I added that I was working on my second in the series, and she got even more excited, and said, "I knew you'd be working on something. That is so great." And it was so great that she seemed to understand and genuinely appreciate the effort it takes to complete a book. Now I might say, "Oh I shouldn't care what others say or think" but I'm not that selfless. I do care. And for years some of those who have been critical are the same ones who pushed me to "go ahead and do it."  Others never did understand why I would want to write, let alone follow my own lead by starting my own publishing company.

When I first started out committing my life to writing and working for myself, it was fairly uncommon. It was at a time when a lot of bloggers and zines were getting started. The internet provided a new way of communicating, a new pathway for writers.  I read one article about a woman who was running three businesses out of her home. All of them were successful, in terms of what she wanted them to be. I listened to what she had to say about how she organized her time and life, and how she made decisions, and she greatly influenced me. So I set out. First with a blog, Voices of Women's Wisdom in which I invited other women writers to write about their spiritual paths. Then I began writing columns for online newspapers and journals. At one point I was writing 6 columns, and 3 of my own blogs. Each blog had thousands of readers, and I got to write and get better at what I was doing.

Then I realized that a lot of the writing I'd done over the years had accumulated and was ready for being compiled and published. I started prioritizing my projects, and decided that I would take one or two big projects a year, and get them completed. Out of that came three books of poetry (the fourth Sea Change, will be published later this year), two books of inspiration, Elements of Tarot with a deck of cards designed by my artist friend, Tammy Heinz. and then the first of my fiction books, Body on the Beach. How did I do it? I used the skills I'd learned in all my years of academic study and teaching to organize my own work. The same skills we need for organizing, researching, and writing a thesis or dissertation, apply to just about any kind of project, especially writing projects. Also organizing courses helped me in the organization of work, identifying my audiences, and setting up my life so that the time, energy, effort, and dedication needed to get from point A to point Z is a commitment I could keep.

And so it went. For the last 10 years, that has been what I've done. And when I have those two big projects going, there are usually other commitments I have to keep up with too.  My other blogs (4 at the present), the marketing of books and photography, the business and organization, and all that goes into running a small press.  That's not including keeping my home and garden in shape, taking care of myself, my animals, and transportation. And that doesn't include the time I devote to being with my family.  I usually teach a class or two, and have pared that down to twice a month. Seeing clients in spiritual counseling and pastoral care. For what I've learned is that if I want to dedicate myself to the writing projects that I have started, I need to set my life up so that's what I do. And that means, I have to make some hard choices.

It's been kind of like seeing two bikes you like, and realizing after several failed attempts, cuts and bruises, that you can only ride one bike at a time. My writing life is now devoted to two series of fiction books. Each book of fiction takes about a year to do, and though it may get easier and require less time, I'm not going to push myself to become a one-woman writing mill. I'll write because I love it, and do the best I can, and keep myself on track to write one book in each series a year. I may continue writing my blogs, or may drop one or two when the time feels right. There is a life and death to everything, and I'm still in the birthing process of this new stage of my writing.

There are some other long-term, well-researched, and long awaited projects that need to be brought to completion too. Both need to be updated a bit, but will require a lot of energy, so I'm in the process of getting ready. Getting physically ready. Emotionally set, and centered on getting things in order to do this writing in the right way. To prepare, I've been giving myself time to rest, heal, exercise more, and regain a sense of my autonomy. While the longing to be a part of community and participate in all kinds of activities comes up more times than I can count, I'm really not at a point in my life where that is the direction I'll be taking.  Not that I'll be locking myself off from connections and involvement, but just that I won't be doing the organizing, planning, and setting up of all the kinds of things I've done in the past.

Now my dedication is to take each day, and create the atmosphere to feed my soul and provide me with the energy, inspiration, and focus I need to do my writing. And that will help me do what I do best, and that is enjoy the writing process. There's more to do getting your books on the market, but for now, that isn't going to be my primary focus. My main aim is to write. Diligently and constantly and to get things accomplished in that way. While I am taking time to organize a few book events, I'm mainly interested in seeing if I can get into a routine that feeds my soul and energizes my writing practice.

With that in mind, I've been reorganizing my home and office/studio, as well as my schedule. I've been adding some things (naps, solitary walks, time in coffee shops and walking around town) and limiting other things. Not because I don't like them or even love them, but because when I wake up early and start my day in a class of great yogis, I am lost for the rest of the day's work. I recently had a bout of vertigo, which brought my yoga practice to a screeching halt. It seems to have resolved itself now, so I'm beginning to start up a practice at home, to keep myself in shape and to return to a discipline that helps me focus and feel refreshed. For several weeks now, I've been discerning what it is that I want to do to help get myself into a routine.

Routines and breaking things into steps and patterns and phases, I have found, really helps me get very large projects accomplished. When I'm doing everything in a random, haphazard kind of way, I find it very hard to get anything done. And I'm big on completing things, so this is one skill I have worked hard to cultivate. It's probably no accident that I'm coming to this point during Virgo time.Virgo the great let's get things organized sign, speaks to my emotional well being. And so instead of rebelling against a regular routine, or calendar, I see how helpful they can be as guidelines for the journey ahead.

In Oregon, the highway department paints a white line on the outside of each outside lane (they may do this other places, but i've only noticed it here). I find these lines so helpful, especially on foggy nights, or when the rain is falling so hard you cannot see much of the road at all. Routines and schedules (provided you don't abide by the do-or-die motto), help provide guidelines not necessarily hard and fast rules. A good routine or set of procedures allow for a framework to help balance life.

With that in mind, when I noticed myself getting overly obsessed with working without breaks, not getting enough sleep, not having regular meals, and staying overly focused on cleaning or decluttering (yes you can do too much of that stuff), I realized, it was time to set up a routine. For those of us who work from home, it is essential. And it is also vital that we revisit whatever schedule we've used in the past to make sure we have adjusted it to fit with the now of our lives. At the start of summer, I wanted to do summery things. I made a point of weaving those things into my life. I read more. I planted a garden. I did some home decorating projects, and I got outside on the beaches more. I never got around to making jam (or at least not yet), because summer is also when I do art stuff. My preparation and participation in the annual Open Studio Tour took a lot of time and energy. For many summers are easier times; for me they are usually busier. Regardless, the seasons and focus of our lives are changing. For the children and grandchildren are back in their school year routines.

As I got all obsessed with my Granddaughter's new school year this week, and noticed how my teacher friends were headed back into the classroom, I recognized a need within me to get organized, but in a different way than most of those I know. I am fortunate to have chosen the life of a writer, and even very fortunate to have my little beach cottage where I am far enough away from where the action is that I am not constantly distracted (remember the squirrel in Over the Hedge?). Now that I have been in my new home the better part of a year, I'm settled, rested, and ready to get to work. Work for me includes time to exercise, have regular meals, and time to rest.  It requires freedom from a lot of outside commitments, and the freedom too to act spontaneously. Most of us probably have friends who do a lot of planning. Some people live their entire lives like that, and many have to because they have so much going on. It is however, the one thing I cannot do, nor do I want to do. Making a plan for a week from Monday, is just about like asking me what I want to be in my next life.

That's why I live alone, on my own, with not many outside obligations. And this is what feeds my soul. It's not for everyone, but it is definitely for me. And it is what I require to do what I  have chosen for my life path. Life paths change. From years of being "on" all the time, I have moved into a more solitary, quiet, contemplative way of living. So what does that look like this week? Went to sleep at my regular time last night. Woke up at 5:30,  and had my morning ritual of making tea, tending to cats, opening curtains and blinds, watching the birds and sunrise over the river, writing in my journal, and reading my morning readings and news. As I was writing in my journal, I recognized the urge that had been growing to get moving more.

So rather than just think about it, plan it for later, I got up, dressed, grabbed my camera, and headed out the door and up the street. I walked up the long driveway of the vacant house across the street, through the garden of the woman who used to live in that house. She died last fall. Her garden still has her spirit, and I always feel at peace when I cross her lawn and go out her back fence to climb the hill to the riverwalk. Today, I was almost the only one on the path. On the river though, were hundreds of small fishing boats, each with 2-3 fishers, silent on the morning river. Birds had begun their morning rounds, and the Sun was rising in the East behind a large bank of clouds that hung over the Columbia and the town of Astoria on the other side of the bridge.  Far up the trail I saw a couple and their big dog.  As our walks brought us nearer each other, I saw the dog was a friendly one, as were his owners. We greeted one another warmly, and kept going. I passed the houses with the beautiful gardens, and thought about planting the lavender my friend gave me. I also saw bright orange poppies growing in the rocks of the riverwalk, and remembered I had yet to break open the poppy seeds and sow them in the garden. I have an apple pie to make too.

Thoughts like this, were popping up. And I took photos with my camera and my phone, and enjoyed feeling the wind at my back as I walked east into the Sun, and then turned to feel the wind in my face as I walked all the long trail back home.  As I walked I saw my shadow, long and tall, the sun to my back making the shadows three times or more taller than I really am. And then I walked out at the end of the trail, made my way back up the street, checked to see if the red flag was up for the postman to pick up the letter I'd written my granddaughter yesterday. Her first day of middle school. And then I went back home where my cats were happy to see me. And where I could continue my routine.

Fixed breakfast, did the dishes, read the news, and then sat down to write another chapter. After that was done, I recognized that like writing, life is what we think it should be juxtaposed what it actually is. And when we are paying attention. When we are still and living in the present without worrying about where we should be or what so and so thinks about what, it really is quite okay. Even the hard things are more bearable, when we keep on taking care of the simple business of living. When we unburden ourselves from having to be the 'fixer' of every single thing 'in the next five minutes'. When we do the next best thing, honor our commitments, and when we don't leave ourselves out of the equation. We then honor the life we've been given, by appreciating what we're here to do.

The writing life is mine, because it's how I choose to live. It has grown through the years into how I find myself and how I allow my imagination to find a happy and enjoyable release. It is how I work out some of the tough issues, in a simplistic and fantastical way. Fiction is a way of finding meaning, by getting a different perspective. For many years my path was in search of healing,truth,  balance, and beauty to overcome the pain, sorrow, and sense of despair I felt for the world. This new path helps me cope, in a new way, and sets a little more order and discipline into my routines. But everything I'm doing is my choice, so it's not the life everyone would or could choose. I have little in the way of financial rewards but much in the way of blessings in the form of love, joy, connection, and fulfillment. Breathing easy, in harmony, writing away my life.

Layers of Life: A Writer's Journey as an Artist

Life Along the Rivers, #1                                                                                                       Catherine Al-Meten Meyers

A gray overcast morning when geese flying by honking as they start the day's journey, crows cawing, doves cooing, and cats purring, oblivious one to the other as day begins. Mourning Doves, always in twos, who, who who to one another from their perches atop the trees. Puddles collected in the night's gentle rain reflect abstracts of tree tops on the chairs out on the deck. A lull in the spaces between sleep and ready-set-go.

Refreshed from a night's sleep, lingering edginess from dreams that reflect a growing anxiety about a world out of control, I turn to find a way to keep this sense of peace with me as the day ahead looms. This is the time of the year when I participate in the local annual artists' studios tour, and today is the second and final day. The studio I'm sharing with another artist, is lovely. Located right on the riverfront high up over the river, we have fresh salty air breezes keeping us cool and refreshed all day. We have a commanding view of the beautiful Meglar Bridge that connects across the mouth of the river from Oregon to Washington, or vice versa depending where you live. On Friday morning, I cleared out the room that had been stuffed with old camp chairs, boxes and bags of leftover stuff, and various and sundry junk, and my fellow artist and I set about making it our own.

Our art hangs on the walls, the room is full of fresh air and light, and we each have set up work station. She is working on a wood carving of narwhales, and I am designing cards and organizing photography, in between running to the window to hang out and take shots of passing boats and ships passing nearby on the river. From before opening time, people began arriving at our studio yesterday, many friends and neighbors. Some of the conversations with those who visited our studio were so interesting. Learned that the oldest and largest houseboat upriver on the John Day, was the home of one woman's parents. She told me the story of how the larger 3-story white houseboat would sail downriver during fishing season and anchor off Tongue Point for the season. Probably around the time of WWII, that stopped, as Tongue Point became an important port for military ships.

Another woman, a recently retired nurse and I talked about the sounds of the river, and she shared with me the special magic that she found of the changing sounds that you could find while walking from one side of the Sacred Mountain, Tongue Point, as you walked from one side to the other. She sparked my curiosity even more to explore this ancient sacred site.

One man and his wife recognized a river I had shot one near where they live.  They couldn't figure out where I'd been to get the shot. I knew where it was exactly, and we both decided we had to go  back there to see if the river had changed course in some way or not. Rivers are all about change, and are constantly changing. You never see the same river twice, and over the course of your own lifetime, it may be damned up or a dam may be removed, changing the entire river almost beyond recognition from one day to the next. Much of my photography is an attempt to chronicle in some of the changes of one large river system here in the Pacific Northwest.

That photographic chronicle coincides with the research and exploration of the layers of cultures who have lived along the streams and rivers that feed into the Columbia River, N'chia wana (the Great River). At different stages of my life, I've been working on this project, and am nearing a point where I'm bringing it all together. Another artist who is in the same building is the local Artist-in-Residence, a woman named Andi. Her work is so stunning, and her depictions of the river and life along the river are so inspiring to me.

The artist I'm sharing space with, Katie George, paints, draws, and etches the animal life in and around the riparian system. Her work is exquisite. Her one large watercolor depicting the mouth of the river is something I would love to get. Being surrounded by all this beautiful artwork is so inspiring, and having many of my pieces of photography hanging together on the walls also reminds me of the layers of life that I have lived already. They inspire more living, more capturing of beauty and curiosities, more ideas to finish, begin, and imagine into being.

Talking to the other artists, I'm reminded of the other lives we live. Andy's beautiful son, about 8-9 sits peacefully nearby her, engaged in a creative and imaginative life of his own as his mother paints and creates, and works out pieces of how her installation is coming together. Katie and I have had some conversations about how to fit everything into your schedule that you want to do, how to keep on something that requires focus and attention, when life requires something else of you. Layering training, preparing, earning, interest, time, and commitments over one another. And as we chat about needing to get back to something or let go of something else, I'm reminded that, what needs or wants to arrive at completion, will. In time. When it and you are ready.

And so as I write and reveal my inner me to my outer, I remember how important it is to me as a writer, to use my writing to find release from all the demands that I might feel I'm unable to do quite as well as I'd like to, or from the need to feel I'm not wasting time doing something that's difficult and challenging, or how I might not want to run away from the challenge as it just might open a door of insight, a window of perception, that could be the key to discovering even more beauty in the layers of life I'm living and creating.  What would your layers of life be? How do your dreams overlap with your frustrations? What has been on the shelf gathering dust or yellowing with age, that needs to find the light of day so you can etch away, or dab a drop or two of paint on it, or sketch out a design for a plan yet to be reveals? Drop into your wish jar, and pull out a small step to take today, and see what is brought to life.

Perspective: A Writer's Enemy or Friend

Rising Crow                                                                                                                                 Catherine Meyers

Writing, like many other kinds of work, is a process.  A poem may be born out of a dream, a reflection, or a moment's inspiration. It may form of necessity or out of need to express something inexplicable. Short stories, are by nature, shorter than longer pieces of writing. Some of us are good at writing short stories, others of us are not as adept at the form. Research and long works of non-fiction require one skill set; novels and other types of fiction (film, graphic art) require other skills. Today was one of those days when an issue I'd been struggling with for a few weeks, suddenly came into focus. And it was then, at that precise, crystal clear moment, I understood, how important perspective is when writing.

The first novel, in fact the only novel I have written, took me many years. Part of why it took so long is that I didn't take the project seriously enough to do the writing. I did a lot of research, because after all, what does a scholar and researcher do but find facts to back up ideas? While this is somewhat important in fiction, the whole point of fiction is that it is make believe. It does not have to conform to fact, reality, or common sense. It does have to be credible within the context of the story you tell, so if you've moved a coffee shop to another city, you might want to rename it. And if you set a whole series, ala Sue Grafton, in a city everyone is familiar with, you either use the exact names and streets and reality of that city, or you rename it and make everything up. In that case you can still call Hwy 101 and State Street by their names, but they do not have to conform to the actual streets or highways to be believable. This is one of the joys of writing fiction.

Like I said, though, it still all has to be believable. We must keep track of what we've said before. Did Lincoln Blvd., run north and south or east and west? Did Lake Street run near a lake or was there no lake in sight? Did the main character turn right or left to get home last time? All these details are vital to remember so we keep the readers flowing through the reading of the novel. We want all the distractions to be in the plot and twists that turn the characters' lives upside down. Story boards are helpful for this. Making a map of any town or location you're writing about. This is especially useful for those of us who are visual and direction-impaired.  Make a map, and sit in front of it while writing.

Another important device is doing character studies of your characters. That is in addition to having a readily available list or file of all the characters, their descriptions (age, heights, hair, dress, anything that makes the character stand out). Use file cards or use character software like that on Scrivener's software for writers. Scrivener's software is excellent. It allows a ever present character files, a place for notes and research, and a chapter by chapter approach to putting a novel together.  Personally, I use as many devices as possible...story board, file cards, online character file, and a map to remind me who lives where.  A really good idea, one I haven't done yet, is to put the maps in the book itself. Line the front and back covered with maps, or include maps in between chapters. This helps the reader, especially helpful when you're writing a long, complex novel. I often wished P.D. James had done this, though I found that her novels were worthy of rereading. They were more fun to reread because I kept finding new pieces I'd missed the first time though. Regardless of how you organize your characters, plots, and settings,  using devices that work for you do help. One perspective that I have of the first novel I wrote is to experiment with different ways of maintaining tighter control of your characters, plots, and settings. This is especially important for those of us whose stories flow from the imagination and aren't planned out in detail ahead of time.

Having people edit and read what I'm writing, is helpful, only when I've reached a certain point in the process. That point, for me, is when I've established my characters and initial direction for the plot. In other words, when the story is underway and already set in a time and place. At that time, I find someone who can follow me down the path, picking up lost characters, finding missing pieces, or repeated paragraphs or events so that I don't have to backtrack and reread. For someone who has done as much editing work as I have, it is deadly for me to go back and edit a piece of my own work too much. What happens is I get bogged down in the minutia, and the story stops in its tracks. Having a reader/editor is key. Short of that, I'd suggest that you try to keep writing, stopping only periodically, say once a month or at some designated time, to reread. The editing and the copyrighting processes are and should be separate. Of course we do rewriter vast swathes of plot at times. And simple editing is both necessary and possible at times, but it slows things down considerably if we keep rewriting, editing and rewriting something to death.

When we haven't gone through an experience before, it always helps to hear about other peoples' experiences. Provided we keep in mind, individual differences, listening to others' talk or write about their experience with the writing process can be helpful. However, sour own experience will be different. It's kind of like having a baby. There are stages we go through. First we debate 'having a baby' either in our own heads or with our partners and friends. Then there's 'trying to get pregnant'.  For some of us, this isn't an issue; for others it can be quite an arduous journey. Again, we have to go through it ourselves to determine what the experience is like, for us. Then there's being pregnant. Months of advice, usually by month 4, wholly unsolicited. We learn to either be patient or just say, "Thanks but no thanks" to anyone who starts in trying to help us figure it out. If it's our first pregnancy, we want to do everything right. By the second or third, I'm sure this changes, though I wouldn't know since I was blessed with one child. Her pregnancy in her late 30s, made me an older grandmother and mother. One day I recall her struggling with a newborn issue. She stood looking harried and at sea in the kitchen, turned and asked me, "What did you do when this happened to you."
I was at a total loss because it had been not years but decades since I'd been a new mother. Life and writing are all about living and learning. My lovely daughter figured it out. I did my best to help and try to keep my opinions and advice to myself, unless asked for. We do figure things out, for ourselves.

While writing per se was not new to me, writing fiction with an aim to finish a mystery novel, was. As much as I knew about mysteries and the process of writing, I had not done it myself before. In fact one of the main reasons it took so long to write is that I was writing thousands of pages of other kinds of writing: theses, dissertations, essays, articles, research for books, a memoir, poetry, and even advice columns. Ever so often, I'd pull the three-ring binder and my index card file off the shelf and head out for a 3-day retreat, or a week away on vacation where I'd work on writing. By work on writing I refer to the process of deciding who to write. I outlined to death. I worked on character sketches. I read books on writing. I read other fiction writers write and talk about writing, and I even helped other writers hold book events and co-hosted workshops with other writers. It wasn't until a couple of years ago that I decided to let someone else read what I'd manage to write. Five chapters. That's right, in all those years, just five chapters. I knew the characters though, very well. They had traveled around with me, living on the edge of my imagination for decades. I also knew the town where the action took place. I had visited that town many times over the years. In fact that was where the idea for the story was born.

Five chapters though, isn't much. But I wanted to know if what I had written would hold anyone's attention. Because if it wouldn't, I'd have to rethink whether I had any talent for doing this. A woman I had struck up an acquaintance with, kept saying she wanted to help me if she could. She'd worked in publishing, and was interested in seeing if she could help me. I took her up on her offer, reluctantly. I was terrified she would think my writing was awful.  Fortunately, she didn't. In fact, she liked it, and as we talked, I realized, I would listen to her. I would be able to trust her with my baby, and I'd listen so that maybe I'd learn how to do this properly. For you see, doing things properly is a thing with me.
Well, and I'm sure I've told this story more than once or twice, we began the journey of me doing the writing and her following behind, finding the potholes, and urging me forward. That got me through from beginning to end.

Then began the editing and rewrites and edits, and well the list goes on because this is one of the hardest parts. Fixing things so they are ready to go to print. And then when I'm also the publisher, I have to change hats, and separate myself from the work to get things ready to print and proof. That is hard, and I wish I could hire the job out because really, no one should try it. Let's just leave it at that. The good news is, when I had to go back and re-edit the book, I had enough distance on the writing to actually enjoy reading what I wrote.  Once the book was in its final form, and I won't go into all the software and finding the right programs headaches I went through, but final form did happen. And somewhere in the last few days of this crawling through snakes in the desert on the hottest day of the year experience, I realized, enough was enough. It's done and I'm pleased. It's on the market, and the pr and marketing is another skill set I'm still working on, but the writing, the pleasure is done.

And what made me think of how important perspective was is the new writing I am doing. The sequel to my first mystery novel was born almost right away, after writing the last lines of the first book. I put myself in the mode of writing again, and began heading in daily to write a  new chapter, work on characters, and get going.  I'm up to chapter 30 already, but somewhere a week or so ago, I started hearing that voice in my head shouting, "Faster, faster, you've got a deadline!"  And then I started feeling weighed down and counting the years I had left and wondering if I had what it took to do this. And then that magic moment hit. That bubble over my head moment. Aha. The first book was years in the works in my brain. The actual writing took a little more than a year. I was the one who set the pace and could remove the deadline any time I felt like it. What I loved about writing the first one, was the joy of writing. So instead of worrying about when it's going to be done, or is there a new idea ready to roll out onto paper or not, I'm back to doing what I love. Writing and letting go of the need for things to fall into place in a particular way. That understanding alone, released a lot of energy.

This morning, I received a message from a friend who had just finished reading my book. He wanted me to know he liked it, and couldn't wait for the next one. That kind of encouragement energizes my creative spirit, and I can discipline my mind to let go and let my imagination take over. New characters are born, ideas flow from scene to scene, and I'm as curious as anyone to see how this is all going to play out. Who knows what we can do when we get our of our own way.  I remember a few summers or five ago reading about one of my mystery writer friends who was working on the final writing of her first mystery novel. C.Hope Clarke, was writing about her own desire to follow through on the dream she had of writing her novel, Low Country Bribe. I was working on something else, a book of poetry I believe, but we wrote occasional notes to one another encouraging each other. I recall that by Christmas that year, she had finished. I also recall her going through the rewrites, edits, and other grunt work. At the same time, she was beginning her second novel. That all seems like a long time ago, but it's not.

We are influenced by the best and worst of what we experience, by who we connect with, and by wha we go through. We write in spite of accidents, births, deaths, daily life, elections, and the demands and stresses of our lives It helps though, once in a while, to step back and look at the whole process from the inception of an idea, the first niggling sensations all the way through to the 'okay it's enough' point. Our lives are full of many successes, some miserable failures, and a whole lot of exciting and challenging hard work and joy in between. Hope you are contemplating doing something that pulls at your soul. Let something come to life now, to be born of your blood, sweat, tears, and joy.

Riding the Wave: Shifts,Transition. Flow

Waves in Motion                                                                                                                  Catherine Al-Meten Meyers             

For most writers, the greatest passion is the writing itself. For an author of a published piece or ten, the marketing or business end of the work becomes increasingly more important. For authors like myself who prefer the creative, solitary lifestyle that writers need, the business end of things can become cumbersome. On top of that, unless your books are best sellers and are generating a large income, you probably are involved in other kinds of work. This morning as I peruse the calls for submissions and writing gigs that are available, I'm very much aware of the broad range of skills it takes for a writer to remain semi-balanced, body, mind, spirit, and emotions. How do we ride the waves of energy that propel us forward with our work? How do we find the gentle lulls between the waves where we can catch our breath and refresh ourselves for the next surge?

For any of you who have ever surfed, you understand that point between a set of waves where you have some time to rest in motion as you keep an eye out for the next set to appear on the horizon. Today, that's what I am doing. Just back from nearly two weeks away, I've been resting and getting my house in order. Unlike some, I usually have more than one project going on at a time. Each year I attempt to pick two major projects to focus on, along with some smaller more regular assignments or events. Summer is a busy time, and this summer in addition to the Open Studio Tour I'm doing to showcase my photography, I'm also doing book events throughout the summer. Each month I'm participating in a monthly artwalk to get my books out, and I'm planning on two other book events to get my new fiction novel, Body on the Beach, launched.  This will be the start of about 6 book events for that book over the next 6 months.

At the same time, I'm working on two other books. One is the sequel to Body on the Beach, the other is  a new series that is in the 'thinking up and researching stage. That's the fun part of writing. While visiting my family, my Granddaughter and I played around with some new characters and now I'm ready to start laying out the new series. This, to me, is the really fun part of writing. The creative part. The writing part. Even the research and musing part, for now I understand that those musing times are also a great part of the writing process.

While packing for my recent trip, I  pulled out my sketch book. I noticed I'd started the sketch book in the mid-90s, and it was full of impressions and sketches that fed my imagination for the Body on the Beach book.  Little did I know at the time, watching the seagulls caught up in the wind, flying backwards in a storm was going to play a crucial part in a plot line years later. Or the detail I drew of an old piece of machinery by a light house. Or the seashells and fauna along the beach on the Central Coast of Oregon.  Everything churns together in a kind of magic stew of ideas, images, and impressions. And it's all there to draw upon when writing a scene or plotting a story.

This period between seasons, between one phase of a book project and another, before one project or event and another, is a time when walks on beaches, time spent in coffee shops, and snippets and scraps of impressions, conversations, or odd encounters combine together in that soupy elixir of imagination and memory.Yesterday when writing a blog post, I compared the process of writing as something akin to a mental illness...not in its pathology but rather in its invisibility. No one can see a mental illness; it becomes apparanet by outward behavior. Writing too is more than the finished product; it is about all that goes into creating the impressions, images, storyline ideas, characters and characterizations, and then the will to put pen to paper or hands to keys to let the story be told.

This seasonal lull is a busy time, mentally. Lining up writing assignments, keeping up with regular blogs, and keeping  a steady pace of daily writing on the big projects. In addition, my mind is busily deciding what the focus of the Open Studio exhibit will be, and making time to get all the final photography done and getting  the framing and preparation for the event planned. This is also a time when my discernment process is challenged. When my mind is scattered in too many different directions, my work suffers. My challenge at this time is to make some choices about what carries the highest priorities, what kinds of time and energy will be needed for each, and when can each task be carried out. My working calendar is filling up, and this is the time when I separate that which draws me closer from that which is less important or interesting.

With my photography, I've chose one subject I have a great passion for--boats, and am making that my focal point. I will include some other pieces that provide a contrast to the pastoral nature of the boat theme, and will limit the number of pieces I do. Sometimes I try to do too much, and that leaves me exhausted at the starting gate. The choices I'm making this 5th year of doing the Open Studio, are more in keeping with the pace I've fallen into...the pace that allows me to ride the crest of the preparation wave, to flow into the weekend of meeting and greeting, and the aftermath and lull that follows when the event is over. Discerning what matters most, focusing on that, and then allowing the natural flow to happen. That's the part I cannot predict, and so I am less likely to anticipate what's going to happen or how the outcome is going to be. Instead, I have learned to enjoy this annual event.

It gives me a forced break from writing, for at least two weeks every summer. Many of the writing assignments I've chosen, have July deadlines. That means that some of the more short-term kinds of writing will provide me with my writing fix, and will give me a sense of how much of that kind of writing I want to do in the future. Trying out different types of writing assignments helps me explore ways that I might expand my audience, or move beyond a certain limit that  I may have set for myself. As a writer, I find myself passionate about all types of writing. Ever once in a while, I like to try out different styles of writing, just to see how it feels, or what comes our of me. That's how I discovered my love for fiction writing, and so instead of being afraid to try new things, I let myself go. I'm not great at everything, for certain, but it's fun to see how a different style of poetry sounds like or what kind of short story I can turn out when pressed to.

When I leave the shore and paddle or swim out to where the waves begin to break, I am full of anticipation. Wanting to get out beyond the breaking point before a wave crashes on me. As a swimmer, this is less of a problem, for when I see or sense a wave ready to break over me, I dive deeper, and go under the wave. As a writer, I try to get beyond this period of time when my mind is wide open to ideas, possibilities, and plans. I long to get to the place where I can dive deeper and just let myself write, without regard to the other distractions that I sometimes feel I must engage in. For at the heart of things for me, for most writers, the joy and satisfaction comes in the still quiet moments when we sit down and engage in our craft. When we let our imaginations rule, when the wave of creativity flows, and we flow with it. Writing is the wave of my imagination, and as I flow with it, I am amazed at how something I had not anticipated comes out to surprise me, each and every time.

Day 5 5-min. Writing Challenge Painting

Painting. A Painting. The act of painting. Painting what? A painting of what?

It used to be that my admiration for art was so great that the idea of painting, the act of doing, felt far beyond me. In many ways it still does. It does when I look at the artwork that attracts my attention. The great Dutch Masters, Leonardo DaVinci. My own preferences range widely, and over a lifetime, my tastes have changed. What I rejected as a young woman, I now find value in, much like I do with certain pieces of literature. As I grow, the works grow on me. My appreciation sees below something I didn't notice or understand earlier.

Still, to make even the smallest attempt to paint, to do the act, has been beyond me. That is until I had a grandchild. It was my great pleasure and responsibility to be with her almost daily from the time she was about a month old until she entered pre-school at 4 1/2. That made me the one who got to have all the fun...including playing around with paint. I learned at that time, that my attitude would have an impact on her, and so wanting that impact to be positive, encouraging, and devoid of my own psychological hang ups, I listened to how I talke to her about paints and painting. I painted with her, and listened to myself as I began mentally berating myself about how I was painting. I stopped myself from expressing those cruel thoughts, and instead changed my thinking. I looked for what it was I loved about the experience.

What I found was pleasure. Pure pleasure in getting paint all over myself as I used my brush to swipe the thick, viscous paint across the surface of the paper. Swirling the brush on the surface, and turning the brush handle in my hand, to use the very tip of the brush to plot raindrops on the garden path I sloshed about on with my wide edge of the brush. Using colors and mixing blues and yellows to get greens. Reds and whites to find pinks. Blues and pinks to find lavenders, and mixing it all together to make a messy soddy brown. Remembering what I'd learned as a child about the spectrum of colors. Recalling too what I'd learned about taking care of my tools, staying in the lines, and later, of breaking all the rules to find new paths.

Now painting is a pure pleasure, I combine with other parts of most days. Daringly, I have taken a class or two, and have allowed painting to enter my vernacular--as part of my vocabulary of life.

While the artists I love, whose work I most admire, include new artists who live near me like Jill McVarish, Robert Paulmenn, Noel Thomas, Erin Gafill, Cindy Kerwin-Cori, and Shirley Novack--their talent, gifts, and crafts though not mine, do not prohibit me, any longer, to avoid touching paint to canvas, brush to pad, or imagination to the paints on my canvas.

May Photo Challenge, Day 4 Hotel

Has there ever really been a moment in a hotel, when I felt I would rather be there than at home? Moments that stand out regarding hotels are the ones that were out of the ordinary for one reason or another.

The bed and breakfast in Pacific Grove years ago. What stood out was the bed. The fresh linens, the thick mattress toppers that made the bed feel lush, comfortable, and endlessly soft and welcoming.

Hotel in Santa Barbara on my honeymoon. Being so upset because the key to my suitcase had been left behind, and we spent our time prying the case open instead of enjoying ourselves. That was pretty much how that short marriage progressed from there.

A hotel in Amsterdam, the Romer Viche, with it's warm, delightful atmosphere. Meeting my husband on New Year's and sitting talking with him as he sat in the bath tub. Laughter, warmth, engaging, hopeful times, and of course, something to argue about. Who ever remembers what starts an argument? I don't. Usually, I think, it's some perceived slight, and now with years and distance between us and the event, I cannot imagine what was ever worth arguing about?

Hotel rooms are places where there seem to be no real distractions. They're anonymous rest stops that sometimes aren't very restful. The Twenty Mule Team Motel in the middle of the Mojave Desert looked and felt like something right out of Psycho. Only being completely exhausted made it possible for us to sleep for a while before making our escape.

A hotel in Hawai'i, on the Kona Coast. Finding a large can of insecticide in the room, wondering why, and then running screaming from the room when a giant flying bug flew at me after I tossed a pillow across the room at my husband. Being bitten by something on that same trip and having my leg swell up to twice its size. Oh yes, hotels are interesting places.

A couple of summers ago, a friend drove to my home in Oregon, and together we drove back down the coast to San Francisco. I've made this trip many times, and never reserve a room ahead. My friend had mad reservations at a motel in Crescent City, and when we arrived, her careful plan worked out to the last detail, unfolded. Unfortunately, across the street from the motel a carnival was set up. A Ferris Wheel and a bunch of rides, plus the loudspeaker systems playing music well into the late night and early morning, had us rolling with laughter and making an early escape the next day.

Speaking of carefully arranged plans, let me tell you why I am not a big believer in planning. Or at least in expecting a plan to actually work out. My husbands birthday was coming up, and I wanted it to be special for him. I made arrangements to stay at one of the nicest hotels on Santa Catalina  Island, a small island off the coast of Soutern California. My family had lived there when I was young, my Mother grew up there, and it was one of my favorite places.

The Zane Gray Hotel, the former residence of the famous writer, was located atop a hill on the island. We took the boat across the channel, and were scheduled to spend 3-4 days at the hotel. We arrived at the hotel, put our bags down, and headed out for a walk and a meal. The island is relaxing and easy to get around on, and we walked out by the Casino and sat and talked and watched the boats in the harbor. Later we went back to the hotel to find our room flooded. Something was leaking and the carpet was soaking wet. When we passed through the first night and second day with no satisfactory solution, we packed our bags and went looking for another room somewhere else. We ended up at an old converted boarding house, and that was not private, pleasant, or anything close to our dream location. We walked out to the casino again, sat by the water, and decided we wanted to go home. So we did.

Hotels remind me of dreams unfulfilled. Hotels remind me of high expectations and dreams dashed. Hotels remind me of disappointment and reasons to laugh. Hotels are not my favorite places to be, primarily because I'm a homebody. I'd rather be home than almost anywhere else. So this morning as I sit here listening to the fog horn blow out at the mouth of the river, I feel great comfort that my town is a destination, it's where people want to come to vacation.

I think it's odd that when I think of hotels, I think of all the places where I've been on the road or on vacation or on some odyssey journey, with someone, and in the hotel rooms, I find myself face to face with the stark reality of what I love or hate about my life. The last hotel I stayed in was in San Francisco with my ex-husband. We'd been on a long, arduous journey together, reaqainting ourselves with one another after  long time apart. There had been lots of laughter, conversations, and some clashing expectations and perspectives.

 In that boutique hotel in the Tenderloin (for anyone not familiar with either term, boutique and Tenderloin is an oxymoron), I knew there would be no more stays or long trips or even conversations. Our laughing and loving days were over. Trapped in the confines of a rented room, I felt the anonymity of being where you don't belong. Feeling away from what was safe, familiar, and comfortable. Hotels are anonymous places where we may or may not have our dreams fufilled. Personally, I'd rather be home.

May Writing Challenge, Day 3 Photographs

A photograph captures a moment in time. It tells a small piece of a narrative, it records an event, or it glimpses into a relationship. Imagine if you will, a photograph of this very moment, or this one. What would that photograph capture?

This morning a series of photographs would reveal the ritual of my daily life.   A shot of the cats chasing around in the dark, just before dawn. Me stumbling into the kitchen, nearly dipping my fingers in the water bowl to check to see if the cats need to be fed. Standing at the stove, lighting the burner underneath the red metal tea pot...preparation for the morning tea ceremony.

Odd photographs depict the drudgery of a mind obssessed on organizing the closet...so much so that one snapshot depicts me standing in front of the open closet, pulling item after item out to inspect, fold, and put in an assigned position. Or lugging out the bags of dirty laundry in preparation for the weekly trek to the laundromat. Scooping out the cat box, replacing litter, and twisting the blue plastic bag into a secure knot before heading out the kitchen door to toss the bag in the bin.

Outside on the wooden porch, still in the morning air. Chilly, foggy, and damp. Standing barefoot on the wet wood, I stand, my long red print dress clinging to my legs, listening to the birds singing in the trees. The Sun has not yet risen, so the photograph is dark, illuminating only the spots that hold light. What a photograph can only hint at are the feelings and thoughts that fill the subject. An expression, a look in the eyes, a stance, the juxtaposition of one to another or to an object.

A photograph of me would show a woman propped up on a bed, one she'd already made, a small lap desk on her upper thighs. Another photograph would catch an angle of her hands dancing across the keyboard of a laptop, laying out words in neat phrases and lines. Still another would see me watching the cats playing. What it couldn't catch would be the sounds of one of my cats snoring, his head propped up against the sliding glass door window, already exhausted from his morning romp around the house, satisfied with Fancy Feast in his belly.

A photograph depicts a piece of time, a moment in space, and hints at much more. A photograph is an invitation to go deeper, look more closely, and to use  imagination to dream of being somewhere. A photograph transports you through time and space, and wakes up the senses with a simple stirring of memory. A photograph invites you to dream or forget or keep exploring.

Since my first adventures in a photographic dark room many years ago, photography has held a special place in my heart and life. My Father gifted me with his beautiful 35mm camera, and invited me, without a word, to go wandering, to look deeper, and to remember. Always to remember, the special times I've recorded in a life full of rich moments and relationships. His gift of a tool and his invitation to use the tool, has given me a new vocation and a way into art that might otherwise have eluded me. It has made me aware of my own unique view, my eye for beauty and my sense of detail.

In the darkroom, I learned to look deeper. To isolate a piece of the whole in order to highlight some unique feature. Photographs can expand to include more, or shrink to leave things and people out. Photographs tell a story, a piece of the tale.  Holding a photograph of an old lover in my hand today, I wonder if burning that piece of history will do anything at all to erase his memory? Photographs help us or require us to hold onto something that is in the past. Is that a good thing, or not? Ask me when I make my decision about burning this one.