Remember that picture adage?

Our writing exorcisms at work this morning turned up a particularly interesting result. My mind is squirrely and probably works too hard on all the wrong things, but my bent is clearly fiction. Sometimes it's not a bad thing to have worlds inside your head, I suppose.

Prompt: Write 145 words using the picture below as inspiration.

The neighborhood was old – older than my Pappaw’s Pappaw. Buildings had cracked and broken, been repaired; and the repairs had broken. The people who lived there had grown to be like their houses, their cars, the neighborhood itself: they were grained and lined and worn around the edges, but sturdy, lasting. Spider-webbed window panes were washed weekly, no paper bits lined the gutters, no leaves rotted on the sidewalks. The old neighbors lived on the blurred verge of the past, when things were slower, quieter. TV’s shone dimly through hand-tatted lace curtains, flowered aprons polished old speckly silver spoons. They stood in the gentle golden sunshine and stirred the dust on their stoops, calling to each other in voices that creaked with use. Their ancestors carved out this close, concrete haven two lifetimes before and now it was theirs – to maintain, with tender, curatorial pride.

A Conversation, Expanded

I just want to get back to that place where I was happy again, she says. But what is happiness?

I’ve begun to think happiness isn’t a place we get back to.

I think it is a cloud.

We encounter clouds throughout our lives, but they are always in a different form when we see them.

Sometimes, we don’t recognize them until they are gone.

Other times we’re literally engulfed in clouds.

And often, we only just glimpse them or touch them and they are on their way.

But clouds are constant. They return, over and over.

And I think happiness has more to do with what we are looking for and where we are looking for it, like clouds.

Clouds are up in the sky, outside of our selves, our normal beaten path.

Nature is cyclical.

Our lives are cyclical.

Water collects in a large body, evaporates into the air, condenses into clouds, falls as rain, collects again.

We walk through phases of happiness, contentment; phases of staleness, discontent; phases of struggle, confusion. And we return again and again to happiness.

There are no shortcuts.

We cannot force happiness.

But we humans, we are backwards-gifted with hindsight.

We remember.

All the pain, fear, anger, hurt. But also the happiness, smiles and laughter, peace, joy.

We learn. The imprint of those phases settles like dust into the corners of our memories.

And as we cycle forward into a new phase, the dust is stirred up.

Our inner voice – the hushed voice we often choose to not hear – says, “I have felt this place before.”

I think happiness is a cloud.

It never wears the same shape twice.

It arrives when we are not looking for it, and cannot be found on the days that we search.

But clouds are constant.

I think it is the person whose heart-voice guides them

who sees clouds -

happiness -

truly.

There is always some madness in love.

But there is also always some reason in madness. (Friedrich Nietzsche)

It must be love. I'm writing poetry. Icky-sticky poetry. It's been years since I've written anything resembling this stuff. I'm vaguely disgusted with myself, but I'm hopeful that it will shift a little as we settle into each other. I'd like to get back to writing myth poems. Per esempio:

Eurydice

I lead her this far,

hard-won with cleverness and

skill.  Even Hades

could not spare his stony heart

from the cry of Love’s sorrow.

The thread of her life

has frayed and snap’t.  I beg you,

return her to me.

Her shade follows your music.

Doubt not and look not behind.

With one hand in light,

I turned to my love, breaking

the single thread of

hope, watching her translucence

dissolve, grasping at shadows.

I sang out for death –

they came with equal passion.

Torn body and soul,

the Muses gather fragments,

scattering them on the winds.

Orpheus gazes

on her – no penalty for

reassurance now.

I miss writing this kind of stuff. That's a tanka, I think - Japanese form of poetry, syllable based. Someday, I'll publish a book of all my re-tellings and re-centerings, both prosaic and poetic.

Dusting off a few rabbit trails.

Since I haven't been writing for NaNo like I'd hoped (yeah, you read that - hoped; I had no particular zest behind it this year), I've been cleaning up a few loose ends of stories that have been swirling around between my ears.
Completed:

• a poem to my grandfather
• The Reproductive Habits of Lagomorpha leporidae pulvilagus
• several blogs (I write three...happy hunting!)
• journaling - I can't tell you how long it's been since I've journaled; there's a lot going on right now

I have a short list of story ideas still to be fleshed out. Wonder if these little tidbits can be part of my NaNo word count? It's writing, after all... And who knows - maybe my novel's not actually about Achilles? Maybe it's a psychological study of a writer...!

NaNoWriMo, Day 9 - Epic failure is imminent.

I've been distracted. I can hardly focus on my work, much less extra things outside of work. But I won't blame him - he's wonderful and encourages my writing, even though I'd rather not do it when he's around.


So remember my last post about how hard a time I was having with the high-English structure? And I kept finding myself bored with what was going on in the story. (Which is sad, since I'm only 6 pages in...) Well, the awesome people at NaNoWriMo headquarters sent around a pep talk today that really helped! It's by Aimee Bender, author of "The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake." Aimee says,

"Go to that anthill, instead—maybe it'll actually lead you back to where you need to go. We are surprisingly structured and repetitive in our preoccupations. And this NaNoWriMo process does not have to be linear.

So, in a nutshell: go where the writing goes. Follow your interesting work...A poet friend of mine, Allyson, once said, "It's so strange how our mind knows more than we are aware of it knowing." It IS strange. It's one of the strangest things of all about being human. But it is also your great and unending resource, and your instincts and impulses, your non-plans, your tangents—although messy!—(if you follow this, you will finish the month with a mess of pages! That I promise! But who cares?) have a higher chance of leading you to a deeper, more layered book."

And now let the self-doubt begin! Do I have the strength of character to override my OCD, type-A personality and write (all in one document!) about whatever pops into my head? That terrifies me. (I'm weird, ok? Really linear and orderly for a creative.) And at the same time, does the fact that I'm a little bored with what I'm writing mean that Aimee's is a good suggestion for me? I'm beginning to think so.

Aish. Here's to liberation and strength of character and whimsy!

A case of losing things in translation. (Oh, is that where my car keys went?)

Today I'm tweaking website copy for one of our clients, a Spanish-speaking country. "Tweaking" is too kind a word. Let's try "massive overhaul," "rebuilding," "intense cosmetic surgery"... I think you get the idea. Here are a few of my favorite excerpts, published exactly the way they were translated:

Starting at Castillo de san Felipe located at the encounter with the sea close to Livingston; you will find amazing paradise places of extraordinary beautifulness. Among the hot sun from the tropics, the breeze from the sea, and the Caribbean humidity, this large territory concentrates the essence of this region.

I can't decide which part is my favorite: the paradise places of extraordinary beautifulness; the muddled contrast of the hot sun, the humidity, and the sea breeze; or the territory's furrowed brow as it concentrates the essence of the region... do they bottle it? I'd like a pocket-size "Eau de Region," please.

The route is fulfilled of mangles and jungle.

Ah yes, I hear those mangles are quite fulfilling, although most drivers advise you go around...

Here you can fish with hook or take a bath. It is surrounded by a fragrant pine, which shadow has been built small cabins and places to cook.

Oh dear. Must I choose between fishing with a hook or taking a bath? That is a mighty large pine, to be surrounding a lake.

Occasionally, you can observe there cultural manifestations of local type.

Can't say a word. I just can't!

Hello, I'm Jess, and I'm a copywriter. This is what I do for fun! (I'm a little off my rocker, aren't I?)

I find I journalize too tediously. Let me try to abbreviate.

I was reading Jeremy Hixon's website this morning, and being that he's a User Experience Designer/Developer, he uses a lot of words, abbreviations, and acronyms that make no sense to me.
At this point, I have to fill you in on my game: I'm a writer. I make stuff up. And when I see abbreviations or acronyms, my silly little mind jumps in and makes up meanings before I can puzzle out the real one. So here's my take on Jeremy's skill set:

PHP: Post-Hysterics Pouting, Pitiful Health Plan, Planetary Holographic Photography...
XAMPP: Xylophonic Actuary Mapping Pre-emptory Principles, Xanthide-Anthropomorphing Militant Practicing Proctologists...
CSS: Christian Services Sic, Calibrated Single Systemology, Computer-Sanctioned Stereotypes...
HTML: Her Tiny Majesty's Library, How The Mackerel Laugh, Help! The Mac Lives!, Human Takes Mandatory Launch...
AJAX: After Jack-in-the-box Attack Xxxxxx, A Jointly Adept X--... I always run out of ideas when it comes to X...
OS X: Oh, Shit! X... That's all I've got - see it every time.

Whew! That's enough for today. I foresee re-visiting this acronym theme again.

Present your argument clearly, arm yourself with cutting wit and of course, bob and weave!

We are debating in the office today. I asked, "How do you spell sike?" The answers were varied, vigorously defended, and came from surprising parties. See if you can follow this (and perhaps interpret?):
Web developer, male: It's psych. (No evidence or reasoning; he held firm that he was just right.)
Office manager, female: It's sike. I speak ebonics, look it up online! (Adamant)
Copywriter, male: It's psych, as in psyched out. Sike is a misspelling, and it should always be psych. (Used dictionary - traditional and urban - to point out original spelling was psych; sike is a deterioration; therefore it's psych.)
Front end developer, female: It's sike, because while it may have originated as psych, if you're using it in a sarcastic manner at the end of a sentence, of course you'll misspell it. (I agree with her reasoning.)
Creative director, male: It's psych. (Listened to mine and FE dev's reasoning.) That makes sense. (He's neutral.)

We're at an impasse here, people! What do you think?

What is a friend? A single soul dwelling in two bodies.

My Dear Roommate and singularly best friend, Rachel, is a photographer. She also likes to adventure. So we road-tripped to Unclaimed Baggage in Scottsdale, AL this weekend on a mini-adventure. We talked about a lot of things along the way, but one thing really sparked our imaginations. I mentioned NaNoWriMo to her (peer pressure = motivation, and since you lot aren't commenting on any of my posts, I've gotta get it somewhere!), and she said, "I wish I could write 50,000 words in a month."

We invented a photo challenge for her to go hand-in-hand with my writing challenge. So we're inviting you (if you don't write), to join Rachel on her adventure. Here's how it works:
November 1st to the 30th
10 photographs a day
NO editing/retouching/critiquing/whining

By the end of the month, you'll have 300 photographs (or 50,000 words) to show for your efforts, and then the editing can begin! So I'll be blogging here about the weirdness of WriMo, and Rachel will be blogging about the Create and Dream Photo Challenge at onthEdge Creations. Dare to push your boundaries! You're not alone... we'll be slogging along with you!

Then tender Tim Tankens he searched here and there/For some garment to clothe her fair skin

I’m in a stage of life that I’m calling “Hey, at least I dressed myself!”

Years ago I denounced fashion (tie-dyed bike shorts and sweater clips were on the way out anyway) and focused more simply on dressing myself.  That was the jeans-and-a-Goodwill-tshirt stage (which may have been a fashion trend, but I was either behind the fad or unaware of it).  But every seven years or so, I have a closet crisis: I wake up one day to realize that my wardrobe is unsuited (har) for the position I’ve found myself in.

For instance: I spent the last two years working at a bookstore, wherein I wandered barefoot and carefree.  All my jeans had holes in them; I layered tank tops like mad; my hair was usually tucked into a bandana or hat; and shoes were of the devil.  But then I got hired as a copywriter at a marketing firm.  And my closet disintegrated into a heap of threadbare jeans, de-elasticized built-in bras, and sole-rubbed flip-flops.

I’ve always looked through magazines like Newport News (which is really the only one I can remember looking through, now that I think of it).  And I used to tell my mom, “If I had a lot of money, I’d dress like that.”  Well, I have more money than I ever have now.  But I’m still not committed to my wardrobe or personal style enough to start buying expensive magazine pieces.

A shift in shopping ideals has helped.  I used to buy something I liked because I liked it, then realized six months later that I never wore it.  Now I’m working hard at buying something I like that will go with several pairs of my current pants/shirts and that I can see potential in – a piece that makes me want to buy new, slightly more mature clothes.

Here’s where all this gets tricky: I’m a writer.  We don’t have uniforms, we aren’t exactly artists (although I heart black clothing), we aren’t complete hippies, nor are we absolute yuppies.  I like all those styles.  Blending them into something that I like, that suits me, and that is appropriate for most occasions literally freezes me into a panicky statue.  Nine times out of ten, if I’m late to work, it’s because I was standing in front of my closet agonizing over what to wear.  And I’m not a three black skirts kinda girl!  Give me options, color, texture, variety!

So today, the stage I’m dealing with looks this: a loose silver v-neck sweater over an olive halter, tucked into jeans with a gold belt, gold and copper accessories and sandals.  It may be cute.  It might not be fashionable.  In fact, it may not work at all.  But the important part is this: I’m here, and I’m not naked.  Jess dressed herself!

Never apologize for showing feeling. When you do so, you apologize for truth.

“Repunctuate your life.”

What do you think this ad is for? Yup. Birth control.

I’m sorry – what?

Birth control. It’s a play on “period” – which I think is enormously clever, but also very sad. What a terrifying state to live in when you have detailed control over even the most natural of cycles! I find it nearly as mind-blowing as controlling the phases of the moon (which are predictable and have unseen effects on all of earth).

I can only imagine what kind of effects controlling your period (so that you only have four a year!) has on your body, which is designed to have one a month. I’m not good with math, but that’s less than half of the natural number of periods a woman is supposed to have per year. Can you imagine what your body must feel like, being forced to skip something that your DNA is driving it to do? My squirrelly mind immediately imagines your body taking revenge by storing it all up so when you have one of four periods a year, it lasts for three weeks and puts you completely out of commission. “Take that!” she says to you.

And of course there’s Kotex’s “Have a happy period” slogan. I vote they fire every one of the men on the design team and start over again – all women this time. Insensitive. Especially when they’ve never personally had the urge to overdose on chocolate. *Grimace*

The last commercial I saw was for pads with ultra-flex wings or some such. The ad showed a Gumby-like mechanical bull (saddle only, with embroidered flowers of course). A pad unfolds (like a flower, but grotesque) across the saddle and sticks itself down. The saddle rolls around like a sweet little puppy while a concerned voice tells you this pad will cover you even on your heaviest days. Yes, but have they fixed the “feels like I’m wearing a diaper” feature? Because I stopped wearing diapers when I was two, and I refuse to regress that far.

Midnight and Mockingbirds

Why sing your lonelinesses?
The stars cannot hear,
and the trees weary of hearing.

Why question and clamor
when all else is still?
Darkness offers no answer;
it is vain to repeat the question.

Is it you, then, who whispers
the shadows into our dreams?
Do not take our stronghold,
our final, ancient haven.

To the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach.

I feel stretched thin and a little hole-y.

But a part of me keeps reaching
- my soul stretches out, fingers extended, tendons pulled taut -
searching for the edges of that Something
that is deeper, wider, higher than I.

The windchimes whistle their tuneless notes,
rearranging them over and over in patterns as changing as the wind.

And the stars they glisten, glisten, Seeming with bright eyes to listen - For what listen they?

sometimes at night, when i'm walking, i stare up at orion's belt - three gems in a row - and open my mouth - as if to drink down the starlight and the cold wet air and the smell of brush fires. and something inside me sings out to those stars. and i fully expect them to reply.

i used to think the big dipper was my favorite constellation, but that's because it was the only one i knew. draco was my favorite while i was on a dragon kick. but orion - we have a history. i've seen a shooting star fall from his hand. he has never left me, never faltered. there's something about his near-human symmetry that resonates with me. and he's a warrior. every princess deserves a warrior to fight for her. he's my ally - halfway, protective, watching over me when i'm most vulnerable - in the dark, in sleep.

Grief not, rather find, strength in what remains behind.

Rain falling through magnolia trees -
slow, hollow plips -
on the down-turned leaves.

From behind, I watch you -
you tuck a hand in your jacket
and sigh.
Your breath hangs heavy
in the wet, thick air -
for a moment,
your spirit has escaped
and I am afraid for you.

You are so frail,
your shadow gaunt on the curves
of pavement,
haloed in copper mist.

But in your footsteps
I hear the steel echoes
of assurance -
it is penned on your wrists
and tattooed on your heart.

Then I am you
again
and the weight of lambskin
and the damp cool of midnight
and the space between breaths
settle on my shoulders
again.

A ghostly bridge twixt heaven and me.

The tree stood alone -
the last clothed among her neighbors.
Her pale amber leaves captured
and reflected
the thin winter sun;
she stood in a private golden cloud,
shivering delicately,
leaves like shining scales flaking off
one by one.

Conversation with a sparrow...

He drops to the garden wall and skitters to my side, cocking an eye up at the freshly opened oatmeal.

Hey there...you're a bold one.

He hiccups a little inquiry.

Well, I guess I could find something. Give me a second.

He backs away, waiting just out of reach - respectfully, it seems.

There y'go.

He isn't greedy, breaking the dried blueberry apart into several bites, enjoying himself.

Good, huh?

He flits to the back of the chair opposite me, fruit sticking to his beak.

Ah, ya got a little somethin...

In two deft movements, he wipes his beak clean on the chair back.

Yeah, you got it. Nicely done.

He chirrups, ducks his tiny head in my direction, and takes wing.

The need for change bulldozed a road down the center of my mind.

There once was a girl. She cut her own hair and wore what she pleased (and declined to wear what she didn't please). She wasn't very good with numbers or distance, or money or time. But she could weave worlds with her words. This girl worked very hard to have a few nice things: a well-lighted home, a stocked pantry, and of course, books. But what she dearly wished was to pay her bills with words, to feast on them every night, and to wake up to a fresh torrent of words every day. One day, the girl decided that was it! She'd had enough. She said, "That's it! I've had enough. I will live by my words. It may not be easy, and sometimes it may not be fun, but it is what I am and what I do, so I will be it and do it with every particle of myself." That day, the girl stepped one foot off the path - the path that was so heavily trod by so many many feet before her that it was smooth and broad and far too easy to follow - and she felt the grass between her toes. The sunshine seemed warmer and thicker, the air beside the path was less dusty, and her nose was no longer filled with the scents of sweat and tears and pain. That day the girl always remembered as the "Grass Between My Toes" day. That day was the end of something old and routine and tired and the beginning of something fresh and frightening and right.