About Cynthia G.

Cynthia Gregory is an award-winning short fiction writer, life-coach, and blogger living with a menagerie of one among the vineyards and coastal hills of Northern California.

WRITE. NOW.

Join me in January to jump-start your journal practice. Write better, write now.

January Journal Camp (virutal)writer's workshop

Journal Camp Day 30

Finding my voice

Finding my voice took some practice. For the longest time I wailed: I want to be a writer! Some very good friends said: So? Write. So? I did.

I once had a cra-cra writing mentor who—I learned later—had been using heroin while she taught us and which in retrospect makes so. Much. Sense. Anyway, that writing teacher was brilliant, which explains how she could teach while zonked out of her mind, or fighting the pangs of opiate hunger while she taught, which also in retrospect makes so. Much. Sense. Well, this brillint writer/teacher said: just write. Don’t’ try to make sense of it, your subconscious will connect the dots. Best writing advice I ever got and has served me well for years. Maybe it takes that reckless, dangerous behavior to get to the really good stuff, because after all, writing is a physical act. Writing is a physical act that brings the immaterial into physical being. No, it is not simply mental or imaginative. Writing. With a pen and paper, is really writing. If I were super famous, I would expect a landslide of email contradicting that point, but this is my process and one which incidentally, requires fine motor skills, and a good pen moving across reasonably fine paper to translate neural impulses that form into thought in one part of the brain while another part of the brain parses the sounds of Mozart on the Dot and finches in the hedge outside my window. Physical. Here. Now. Finding voice takes practice. If for nothing else, to discover belief. It takes familiarity with your own voice to learn to believe it, and to believe that others might believe it, too.

Journal Camp Day 25

What I Never Told Anyone

  1. You’re smokin’ hot!
  2. That hat makes you look fat.
  3. No cake for me, thanks.
  4. I’ll have seconds of that liver!
  5. That mushroom tapenade doesn’t look like dog food.
  6. I’ll have the duck feet.
  7. Let me wax the car, darling!
  8. Move over, there’s room for all of us.
  9. Give me your tire iron.
  10. I love to go car shopping!
  11. Why yes, I’d love to get into a bidding war for that condo!
  12. Fried clams: mmm!
  13. There are never enough wildfires.
  14. Oregon pinot noir: meh.
  15. Travel is over-rated.
  16. Self-care is a waste of time.
  17. My chosen tribe doesn’t get me.
  18. True love is an illusion.
  19. God takes all my plans very seriously!
  20. Who needs income equity?
  21. Democracy as we know it is in no danger whatsoever.
  22. Creative writing is for fools.
  23. Canada is just too nice.
  24. Civility is for suckers.
  25. Watch out – that dog looks dangerous.
  26. Please, let me shave that beard for you.

Journal Camp day 22

Saying I love you

He said I love you by calling her back from her circle, by competing with her banjo, by holding her hostage to starving ghosts. He said I love you one hundred and ten percent and therefore you owe me something in return. You owe me I love you back one hundred and eleven percent. Can you dig it? She laughed, then sobered. Oh, you’re serious then, she said. Those words cut. Those words did not say I love you one hundred and twelve percent. Okay then, she said. I will shave back my performances by ten percent, cross my heart and hope to die. What else, he averred, there must be more. Well, she replied, I will cut back visits with my sisters by twenty-five percent. All together, that’s thirty-five percent more for you. That’s pretty good, hey? I can say I love you thirty-five percent more than before. Harumph! He tooted. I still love you more. Is that the best you can do? I’ve given you one hundred and thirteen percent of my heart and I still don’t feel your love. What about my children, she asked. I’ve given them back to their father for you. I walked them back to their paternal home. When do I get credit for that? Children belong to their father, he said. A woman belongs to her lover. She practiced saying I love you, I love you, I love you, in the mirror. Finally, she thought: the truth.

Journal Camp: day 12

My Oldest Living Relative

My oldest living relative would by my aunt, my mother’s sister. She was one of four children, and she had nine babies with my uncle. As a reward for a life well lived, she is our matriarch. It is so strange to move inevitably closer to that category: the elder generation. The wise ones. The ones with institutional memory. Where do the stories go when the elders are gone? Does the narrative lose its bite? Do the family mythologies soften around the edges like a cherished photograph carried for years in a wallet? Perhaps family stories are like an image that over time fades until only the ghost of an persona remains.