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 nine

Stories I Tell Myself

  1. One more cup of coffee won’ hurt
  2. But I need these shoes
  3. That spider could bit me
  4. Once bitten, twice shy
  5. My roommate is an absent minded genius
  6. I will drink more water
  7. I will relax in traffic
  8. Traffic isn’t so bad
  9. I have the best commute in the world
  10. Other people do more
  11. She makes it look easy
  12. The world is falling apart
  13. The world is a shared hallucination
  14. Quantum physics
  15. My chakras need clearing
  16. I love it when it rains
  17. If I eat the tomatoes now, I can save the artichoke for later
  18. Its hot enough to go to the pool
  19. Ninety degrees is the minimum to make the pool a good idea
  20. Check windspeed
  21. Journal Camp is awesome
  22. Here I grow again
  23. This is my favorite summer in years
  24. Its never too late for a happy ending
  25. I am a creative genius
  26. We are all creative geniuses
  27. Hooray for creative geeks!
  28. I am grateful
  29. I could be more grateful, more often
  30. Wahoo!

Journal Camp, Day 6

Relics in the Attic

There was an apartment in my grandmother’s house where an attic would have been. Up the staircase, there was a kitchenette, living room, bathroom with a clawfoot tub,  closet, bedroom, and screened porch. It was only used as often as we visited, arriving in a station wagon loaded with kids, luggage, and the detritus of a small tribe. The apartment smelled of dust and mothballs. It seemed enchanted somehow, a miniature house.  We had never seen an apartment and it held a special charm to me. The living room was by far the largest space, with an overstuffed sofa, braid rug, ancient radio cabinet that might have broadcast reports from a faraway war, a window that overlooked the backyard garden and Italian plum tree. When we descended after five hours on the road, children scattered like marbles on a linoleum floor. We touched every room at once: kitchen, pantry, back yard, cellar, upstairs apartment. We slept everywhere too, sofas made into bed with sheets and chenille spreads, screened porch and sleeping bags. Family legend maintains that my parents lived in the apartment their first year of marriage: playing house in an attic filled with relics of austerity.

six word story no. 189

She trailed petals in her wake.

Brought to you with fuzzy peeps by Journaling as Sacred Practice. Find your copy here.

 

six word story no. 188

Be more like your dog, yo.*

* brought to you with everlasting curiosity and a  steady heart by Journaling as Sacred Practice: An Act of Extreme Bravery, available in print or e-book. April is National Poetry Month! Treat your inner poet to a new book.

 

six word story no. 187

 

Like love, the archers are blind*

*excerpted from the poetry of Federico Garcia Lorca and brought to you with a  steady heart by Journaling as Sacred Practice: An Act of Extreme Bravery, available in print or e-book. April is National Poetry Month! Treat your inner poet to a new book.

six word story no. 185

Spoken each night by lovers unaware. *

*excerpted from California poet laureate Dana Gioia’s poem, “The Lunatic, The Lover, and The Poet”

Bought to you with reckless passion by Journaling as Sacred Practice. April is National Poetry Month! Order an e-book or hard copy today for the poet of your dreams.