Unspoken

Words unspoken 

Haunt you like 

the lingering whispers 

of energy 

left over from whatever 

isn't finished. 

Are you okay? 

Did it hurt? 

Do you need help? 

Why are you saying what you're saying? 

Why do I feel as if I'm in danger?

with that look, those eyes

that keep holding me as if

you had already decided

what was going to happen.

Am I in danger?

I'm frozen, can't speak

can't think, this is all

too overwhelming

confusion too bright, 

to nonsensical, too much to

take as truth.

I'm sorry this happened.

Is there anything I can do?

Can we talk?

about that day, those years, those times, why you were so mean.

Are you sad?

Are you going to hurt yourself?

Are you in danger, like me,

from your own mind?

Does it make a difference

that I'm here

or am I simply wasted breath?

Foregone, forgotten, forbidden.

I don't know what to say now. 

I walked away

because there was nothing left.

No words

Simply empty. 

Resurfaced

Sometimes I think of who we used to be,

And I remember those moments 

that could have become more,

The moments that

were more than I expected,

And the moments 

that were exactly

how they should've been,

And those moments

we wished we could've erased.

I know you're here still

Though I no longer see you 

Every day.

I wonder if you feel me

Like I feel you

Sometimes 

whenever I ask

Or need you with me. 

Do you see me in your dreams?

Do we have the same conversations?

Do you wonder if some of it was real

When you wake and start to remember

Or know that you've seen me

And heard my voice

Asked the questions we never said

Started down that road

We couldn't here.

Do you wonder if it was love

Or something else?

A bond built on a toxic mingle

Of separate histories that intersected

For a flash, a moment, a breath,

A piece of darker blue sky.

I still don't know exactly what to say.

Do you?

Could we even speak

Or would the words get in the way?

Would it be better to speak with silence?

Would it get through?

Would it matter

Enough to change the ending?

Or would it remain the same?

A Story in Progress

I don't know what you're thinking

Out there alone

Or with everyone you claim

Is important to your breath

But what is this now?

Are you here

With me

Speaking whispers of yesterday

That day, that look, that smile,

That time when you

And I

Almost

Serendipity

Serendipity brought them to the ocean that smelled of lavender at midnight
Two sets of pretty sea shells dangled from ribbons
tied up in branches that whispered from the leaves
blocking out the blue sun sky
in slivers here and there

She came back
in the white light
that took her once
wearing the black and gold
she wore in the first recorded scene
saying something unremembered
with that soft smile
the first visitor
to the other's dreams
in a buried basement

It wasn't a rumble
it wasn't a whisper
that kept her collecting
taken out of sand
and put back in it again

Some had waves
some had echoes of crashes
some were silent reminders
pink, pale, purple, shale

He wasn't in them
was he ever
more than just a shadow
of the love they had just remembered

Mirrored reflections
of lazy paradises
and promised seductions
better left to the wind

So they both kept walking
on shards of glass
hidden between the shells
whose edges sometimes scraped them
and sometimes revealed beauty
beneath their eyes

The Old Lady with the Knitted Hat

I entered the room full of bluish-purple chairs, lined up in rows like pancake stacks. In front of me was a podium, a makeshift stage hung with studio lights and a white-screen backdrop. I was dizzy and unsure of myself. Lost and spinning in an ungrounded dismemberment of my former ego. I sat in a chair, by myself and looked around for something familiar, something I could know, something I could grasp. You sat behind me, unknown until your small voice gave me that something. I turned around to join you, to acknowledge your presence. There you were in bright blue, my favorite color. A knitted sweater, a knitted hat to hide the hair that you'd lost. The white hair that was growing back. Your skin was worn and fresh. Your face innocent, open, wise and bright. We said a few things. About Eat, Pray, Love. About Emma Donoghue's The Room, where we were from, how we got here, and why. You listened. I listened. I laughed. You laughed. You smiled. I smiled. You said it was okay to feel out of sorts, that was normal. You still did, at times. You asked me if it was okay if you could friend me on FB. I said of course, here's my name. And unlike many people, you lived up to your word. Six months later we sat together in the same room, near the front. You were graduating. I was only in my second term. We listed to other students, famous writers, and teachers read their words. We said more things. I don't remember all of them. Then we left. We both had long drives to make. You somewhere off the 10, me up to the hills just past the 101. "Makes for a long drive, after a long day," and "Have a good night" were our last words to each other's faces. We smiled and you turned down the hallway. I went the other way, out the courtyard with white lights and a staircase up to the 5th level of the parking garage. After a while we'd settled back home. You in the same city I'd departed and me on the plains looking up to the Rockies. You offered to keep reading my stories. I offered to keep reading yours. You published a few things. I read them. I smiled. I told you thank you for being so kind. Thank you for being a light in the darkness. Then you got sick again and somehow I knew that this would be the last time. I waited. I hoped for better. But when silence replaced your posts and your words, I knew that your release would come. And now it has. I hope that the release has brought you peace. In fact, I'm certain you have found it. Because your example has given me peace. If you can do this at the end of your life, without any hope but to leave behind your words of wisdom and light, then so can I. What we knew of each other seemed small and insignificant. But what you gave was part of the greatness of the unseen. An introduction to a writer that taught me to never stray from your instincts. They're always "right." A bright blue knitted hat that made me think twice about giving up on originality. A friend when I had none. And a reason to stay open to the good in the midst of something bad. Thanks "D." Keep shining, keep touching, keep traveling, keep smiling. And most of all, keep writing, in peace.

Wings of Trust

Trust. It's a heavy and scary word. At least it is for me some of the time. It may be that way for you, too. That's part of being human, isn't it? Sometimes we trust too fast and when we shouldn't. Sometimes we don't trust something or someone we had no reason not to. And some of us find it difficult to trust our own choices. Even when we've trusted ourselves and our decisions before. Even when our younger version gave little thought to the "what-ifs" and the big, long list of pending uncertainties. I think that's because part of being young means you don't always have that lingering experience that's conditioned you to say "remember what went 'wrong' when you did this last time." You start racking up experience and if it's not positive, it makes you more hesitant (maybe even unable) to trust that something or someone.

Trust is one of those internal convictions that requires you to believe in the unseen. On the other side of the coin of trust is its cousin faith. These two don't keep balance sheets, analyze the data, or debate the list of pros and cons. Nope. These two say 'this is what I feel to be my truth' and follow it. These two are the light in ordinary darkness. They don't dwell on what might be 'wrong' with what is; they seek the possibility of change, growth, and progress. These two always say "why not?" instead of making excuses.

Trust and faith helps us reveal something about who we are. Those answers without questions. Answers that only we know. Answers that don't stop revealing their truth. Trust and faith lead us to something we couldn't have seen otherwise. Something that we don't know how to touch. Sometimes we leave that 'something' smiling. We go back to the place where we've always stared at the moon. And sometimes we don't. Sometimes we leave the familiar for that something unseen.

If we're asked if we're happy with our choice, on some days we might say yes and some days we might say no. There is no sense in torturing yourself over lives you wished you had lived. Perhaps we get to live out all of our would-be choices. We split and divide into other people. Whispers that we only hear beneath tree boughs when we stop and wonder ‘what if?’ Sometimes we see each butterfly emerge from separate trees, identical in appearance, identical in the ways they fly. But they land on separate birches, never touching, never embracing, never quite seeing every leaf on the other branch. Once in awhile the butterflies look over at each other. They stare inquisitively, wondering ‘could that be me?’ One flutters its wings. The other sits and keeps staring. For awhile they both realize ‘it is you.’

They each learn to survive on their own birch; in their own tree. And each one learns to trust their choices. Not because those choices are easy or what will happen because of them. Because they know that it doesn't matter what the answer is. It's better to just ask the question and realize that reflection is always both an illusion and a revelation.

We find what we seek, but we also find what we may not want to see.

Done Thinking; Out Manifesting

Every great work, every big accomplishment, has been brought into manifestation through holding to the vision, and often just before the big achievement, comes apparent failure and discouragement.-Florence Scovel Shinn

The vision must be followed by the venture. It is not enough to stare up the steps – we must step up the stairs.-Vance Havner

First say to yourself what you would be; and then do what you have to do.-Epictetus

Nothing ever becomes real till it is experienced.-John Keats

When a writer is creating a piece, he or she cannot possibly know what’s coming next. The journey of creating anything is analogous to the act of feeling around to see what exists in the dark. You discover bits and pieces of the whole individually and then find the connections later. There is no “yellow brick road” to follow, no sure technique or path that will get you over the last rung. You’ve simply got to trust the voices of your characters, and hope that they’ll lead you to the envisioned destination.

Everything is discovered word by word, sentence by sentence, paragraph by paragraph. More importantly, that discovery is hardly “set in stone” or “final.” It is subject to change at any time. The ambiguity in the writing process is analogous to a treasure hunt in a darkened cave with nothing but a small candle flame or flashlight. Who knows what you’ll find and who knows when or how. To further complicate matters, what you think you may see may not be what it first appears to be.

There will be struggles, there will be ambiguity, but there will also be plenty of exhilaration and living if the writer allows himself to let the process lead the writing and the journey. Intuition has a funny way of revealing its mystery at the end of that path, and the only way to get there is to feel each and every scene that it unravels on the way.

She Decided

She decided that this new world was as corrupt as the one she left
And that she was going to create her own

No more hiding behind safety nets
of academia
and snobbery
that sought to discount the validity
of a simple breath
of just knowing
without analyzation
and justifications
for what makes something "right"
and what makes something "wrong"

No more labels
or bottles of sleeping pills
to calm the uneasiness
the endless mind chatter
the endless seeking
for something that only wants to fly

No more pressure
No more deadlines
No more revisions
until nothing exists but a pile of shredded nothings
No more whys or hows or "this is who you should be"

When all she wanted
was to lay her towel down on the sand
and hear the waves of the ocean
sparkle in the sunlight
and make the words dance
until everything faded
into something more than what it was
into something more than what it could be
without knowing
without articulation
without longing
for something
that was only meant to be
felt

Mauve Ribbons

I realized too late that my ex loved me. Not because he said so, but because the week before I moved back to Colorado his voice got shaky and panicky as he said "you're not going to be here are you?" Then there was the message on my answering machine, left the night before the morning my sister and I pulled away from Golf Village Loop onto US 98 N, headed towards I-75 and Gainesville. And the constant messages on my cell phone as we drove across the country asking me to call him back and let him know where I was and if I was okay. He was good at concealing his feelings at times, like the stereotypical male who isn't sure if it's okay to breathe.

There was the parking lot outside my apartment building that overlooked a golf course and an RV park. Damp rain hung in the air. Stuffy and full, like most Floridian mornings. Like the thin, sticky film of a spider web that you can't quite get rid of because once it sticks, it's home. We said what we thought was goodbye. There was the extended embrace. My tears. His strong, silent, empty eyes that fooled me into thinking that my absence wasn't going to matter. He was trying not to feel too much. I don't think he realized that if he had let himself do that, the scene would have probably been rewritten. When I mentioned it gently over the phone months later, he still thought that expressing himself wouldn't have made any difference. He didn't understand that sometimes I need the obvious to be spelled out to me. It isn't always easy to trust and believe in a formless feeling.

Some might say that one of the dangers of being sensitive is that we can be a little dense at times. Nothing makes sense in the moment. Whether it's good or bad, we may not realize it until it's too late to backtrack. We think that others couldn't possibly be sly, manipulative, cunning or out to bring us down. We don't operate that way, even if we sometimes imagine that we could be.

Love is a tricky enough minefield without having to navigate it with mauve colored glasses. That's what a side of us says right? The omniscient third person voice that sees things from the outside. But inside it's quite a different story. Mauve is everywhere.

When I was 13 and my mom decided we should remodel my bedroom, mauve was the color I chose. For the paint that we brushed on the walls and the carpet that got laid down. For the phone that got plugged into the new jack in the wall for my own private number. Every early 90s teenage girl's dream. See my childhood wasn't all bad. Nothing ever is one or the other. I'm sure the bedspread and sheets that went on my new waterbed had some mauve in it too. But who knows, I don't exactly remember that little detail. Memory is a sort of fiction, as one well-known writer likes to say.

An objective, third person voice has its place when it recounts its version of history, but it's the part of ourselves that doesn't believe. The part that doesn't get lost in the heart of the matter; the dream. Inside is the first person voice that gets lost in the smell of lilacs, the magic hidden between the cheesy scripts and the overzealous, sometimes dry performances, and the visions of a golden coast full of red sunsets and sparkling blue waves. Because you never really know when you might open your eyes and see your heaven shining right in the middle of what everyone else calls an ordinary scene.

A stanza in one of my favorite songs from that year we know as 1990 says "is it so wrong for us to love so much, to feel so much?" Back then I knew a lot more than I thought I did. And what I knew, I felt. I felt deeply as I fell in love with more than what could be seen and heard. If only my 14 year old self could fully realize how accurate those unspoken voices in the summer winds would turn out to be. But she hoped and she believed. Now she gets to see.

And as she still stops to admire and smell the lilacs, she realizes that it was never wrong to love, to feel and to hope. Miracles can work their magic when you're not looking. Anything really is possible despite the wounds and the scars. Buried or not, the first person voice is alive, strong, dancing and twirling with ribbons of mauve, spinning her story.

Shitty First Drafts

Over the past week I've been exposed to unfamiliar terminology and concepts that got buried under such a thick web of cobwebs over the years that I'm not sure exactly what they mean anymore. I've attended a bunch of seminars and lectures where my brain felt like a deer caught in headlights. The few readings that I've managed to attend have been filled with tales of sexual exploration, head injuries, Appalachian family dynamics and a dog named "Bob" who suddenly dies at the doorstep of a stranger who just happens to have the same name.

There's been people who actually complain about fluorescent lights and talk openly about their psychic abilities as if they were as common as brown hair and blue eyes. I've survived my first writer's workshop where I didn't have a clue what to expect or how to evaluate the work of my fellow students. I didn't realize that submitting a "shitty first draft" would garner such a response. Hell, I wasn't even aware that there was such a thing as a "shitty first draft." In the business world and in many business educational programs, a first draft is all you need as long as it sounds halfway thought out. In my "writing life" all I've ever come up with are "shitty first drafts."

It seems absurd to me that writers work so hard to get abused by editors or peers and get paid so little. Should it really take 70 hours to work and re-work a poem until it's in a good enough state to be worthy of publication? In the corporate world 70 hours would get you a lot more money in the bank than one poem.

I realize that everyone gets criticized as well as praised in a workshop and my peers and leader have been helpful and nice. When my leader realized just how green I was, she stopped me on the stairs to make sure that I was comfortable. The criticism doesn't bother me because there's plenty of praise too and the "negative" is delivered in a soft, very helpful way. It's the process. Everyone else writes narratives on each other's work, with reading suggestions and well-thought out responses. I write out lists in bullet point style and have no idea what I should and shouldn't find "wrong" or "right" with a piece. And a reading list? Please. I've read more non-fiction, dry business textbooks and Wall Street Journal articles in the last 14 years to be bothered with most fiction.

Besides the lectures given by working writers who show up with holes in their shirts and champion the lesbian themes in Mary Oliver's poetry, there's been the sound of jet airplanes flying over my hotel room every two minutes. This is not a good environment for a sensitive to try to get a good night's sleep or work on the writing that she gets paid for, which thankfully is business and technical. I'm finding solace in it this week because it's something I'm comfortable with and good at. I even got hired on as a contributing writer for another web site. Ironically it's an educational site, which is the field that I just got offered a job in back home.

So far I've been getting on the 405 each day and making the drive to Culver City to sit through a day that's focused on writing and what I need to know to make it through this MFA program. I've met a lot of people and talked on a more personal level with a few. Everyone is really nice here. Everyone understands that writers get nervous, need a bottle of water nearby when speaking in public, tend to be "quiet," and need that one-on-one interaction to begin to open up. There's nothing abnormal about seeking a place under the trees or at a table alone to read a book or work on "a piece."

In spite of this, a big part of me feels out of place. Second and third term students tell me that's normal, no one really talks about it, and it will go away with the second residency. Peers in my workshop tell me to keep writing, the story is really good and that it's a very good start. My first term writing mentor brings a bottle of tequila and limes to her lectures and tells me to "surrender" to my characters. She says it was a courageous act to go from the MBA to the MFA. I tell her that the decision didn't really feel that way. I just made it-without any real expectations. Last night I went out for dinner and drinks with another first term student from Colorado Springs. We ditched the campus event at Shanghai Red's in Marina to discuss our common bond of not being supported by our mothers in our writing endeavors.

Then I drive the 405 back to the hotel and have a dream about my dog and his dog girlfriend shitting all over the floor of a room they've been locked up in. In the dream I let my dog, Scruffy, out of the room. But then Chloe starts speaking to me. In a real voice. Like she's human. She watches me clean up the mess on the floor and asks me if I'm male or female. I tell her I'm female, obviously. She escapes from the room after that and I later see Chloe and Scruffy driving past me on the other side of the road. I'm blaming this dream on the key lime and coconut martinis I drank at dinner.

At this point I'm still the former MBA who compartmentalizes, who is logical, who makes decisions mostly based on the bottom line, who feels completely lost in an unstructured, studio, creative environment full of the "types of people" she hasn't been around since she was 18, and who is wondering if this idea to get an MFA isn't just a "shitty first draft."

But then there's this other voice, this "young dreamer who is being awakened and called back," as my mentor told me. She still wants to clean up the floor. She still feels the desire to pull up the "shitty first draft" on her laptop, slow down, expand, be less concise, and effectively juggle multiple points of view. "If someone brought you here, you should be here," said one of my workshop peers. It's just going to take a few revisions before I feel the same way.

Creating an Illusion

The other night I came across an old interview with two actors from a show I used to watch. I wondered if I still had it captured somewhere on a reel of tape and decided to find out. Once in awhile I like to pull out my stored away "time capsules" just to see what the heck's on them. It can be amusing to revisit what your teenage self thought was so earth-shattering at the time. It can also bring about a series of eye-opening moments of realization when the light bulb suddenly turns on behind your "now that I'm really an adult" lens.

Acting is an interesting process that creates a very thin illusion of who is the character and who is the person interpreting that fictional being. Some think that their audience can't differentiate between the two when they're watching the finished product on screen. I'd have to agree somewhat. A lot can't. They see the character, even when they might see or read an interview, see the actor in person or see their performance in a different creative piece. Especially those crazed daytime fans who insist on always referring to the actors by their characters' names, even when they're talking about the person. It annoys me so I always correct them and they give me a strange bewildered look from their eyes as if I'm from another planet. I'm one of the few who watched the credits roll, even at thirteen. I was always interested in what went on behind the scenes and into creating the finished product.

Sometimes I see comments made by others on YouTube message boards about how you can't really tell what an actor would be like in person or that it's hard to tell. It makes me smile because I think to myself, "well sure you can. It's not that hard." All you really have to do is observe how they interpret their character(s). One of the blessings of sensitivity, insight or intuition, I suppose. Although, I still think that it takes pieces of reality to create a successful illusion. The illusion just uses them as a springboard to seemingly come to life.

I suppose if you've never done it, you don't realize that playing someone else (ironically) gives you the freedom to expose hidden portions of your own being. Perhaps hidden portions that you weren't fully aware of until you explored what someone else might do in a given situation. It's the same way with writing. You get inspired by pieces of reality and incorporate pieces of your own life into your creation. That's what makes a relatable character, performance or storyline. You have to reflect humanity; life.

Reflecting what's real doesn't involve sugar coating or a certain technique you can study from a book. It doesn't involve having the intent of showing someone else how to do something. The only thing it requires is listening to what you feel. Exploring what you feel and being open to where it might take you is the "big secret" to being able to create an illusion that'll resonate with somebody. Life certainly isn't linear, a garden made up of only flowers or a story that we're certain we know the ending to. Obstacles, darkness, despair and every possible "evil force" is what makes living possible. "A sign of life," as one insightful songwriter states, is when "you fight for your last breath."

Perhaps it is those who have known that fight well, sometimes repeatedly, that make the most believable creators. Their intensity, their depth, and willingness to make themselves vulnerable, allows us to experience our own realities within the reflection of theirs.

Forgotten Destiny

A destiny
Exists over those mountains
That I’ve stared at from a distance
Since my hair was long and dark
And my eyes were entranced
With their dark bluish outline
Jagged up against the sky.

A dream
Within my heart
Of sunshine’s warmth
And palms
Swaying against a breeze
Lifted from the expanse
Of water crashing
Into foam
Before returning
To its original teal blue

A dream
Of a life
Created by a pen
Reflected in fabricated visions
Of a life
That is something more
Than what was home

License plates
Of California
Speed past me
Each day
As if a reminder
Of where the Universe
Thinks I should be
Even in the land
Of Substitute Dreams
I see one
Over 3,000 miles
From where it should be
Unusual for the West
To be mingling with the East

Yet there it was
On the back of an old pick-up
Speeding past me
Like a true Floridian
Hell bent on getting there yesterday

It was there
After I’d asked the question
Of where I should return
To Destiny or Substitute

A seven year cocoon is ready to be opened
A butterfly awaits flight
Into something inexplicable
Towards a voice
That says
It’s time to soar
Over the mountains
Until they become distant
From behind
And a new range
Has settled
To the right
Rather than to the left

Yes, it's somewhat unconventional for my present day self to start a piece of writing with a rough draft from one of my creative ventures. Yet, when I think about the direction I wish to take my life, it fits. There was a time when all my writings came from that side of myself. Poetry, short stories, novels in progress, fantasies, dreams, visions. My younger self avoided the non-fiction section of the library like a plague, heading straight to the sections containing novels and the other imaginative worlds of films, theatre and spiritual practices. I blame my present focus on the "self-help" "non-fiction" arena on all those years of business school. No, the world of left-brained thinking hasn't completely converted me yet. Of course, I'm not sure I've ever really paid that much attention to it, except when it came to school assignments or learning how to revamp my personal finances. Or when it came down to trying to pursue a career, rather than a relationship, kids and the home life that women are supposed to automatically want, but somehow I never saw myself fitting into. Or at twenty-eight years old, when I finally thought I had gotten myself on track with a company that would take me places.

Well, it certainly did take me places. Unexpected places. Places of rediscovery. Places of awakening. A return to the eccentric right. A circle back to the seventeen year old who wanted to fly West, write and be involved with films, TV shows and entertaining others. The seventeen year old who thought that those who wished to settle into the normal, simple life of nine to five and weekends full of sitting at home in a town with nothing better to do were crazy. The girl who thought she lived in one of the most boring States in the country and couldn't understand why others liked it so much. The girl who never dreamed she would return to that simple town after she left and start re-establishing once abandoned roots. The woman who realizes that she can no longer deny what her heart truly wants. The woman who needs to let go of what appears to be safe in order to experience what's real. She just needs to convince herself that extremely difficult doesn't equal impossible. Or that it matters that others will try to convince her to stay. Or that she'll have to say goodbye to a substitute dream.

A Thing About Muses

Writers rely on more than just their own collection of thoughts, experiences and individual souls when they create. We also rely on outside inspiration that can come in a variety of forms. These sources of outside inspiration can be people, songs, films, fictional characters, memories of lucid dreams, nature, whispers from consciousness and countless other possibilities.

The thing about muses is that they don't RSVP or announce their appearance. No, muses prefer to ride in on the breeze of serendipity. You don't know when they're going to sprinkle their stardust into your fingertips. You may very well be taken in by their presence, but not realize they have seduced you into a dance until the last note is written.

The good muses, the ones who become pivotal to our creations, even our existence, return to us at least once or twice. Some of them, we discover, never really left us. The illusion that they left in the first place can leave us feeling empty, frustrated, disillusioned, and spinning in a circle of unfulfillment. We then go about looking for some sort of enchantment, a substitute, an imitation. The problem is you can't control inspiration. It comes when you least expect it.

Muses are, by their very nature, "sneaks." They're disguised, they're shadows that we don't always see, they're contained in things or faces we already think we know. They suddenly appear in moments of reflection or while we're exploring what we assumed was a new discovery.

Muses usually get what they want. A little narcissism doesn't elude them. The wrath for not complying with their wishes is typically abandonment. The jestering ones come back later, taunting us with the "I told you so's." Those of the more benevolent variety wait until you are ready for their message, softly reappearing as a whispered reminder. The ones who in time we realize are but extensions of our own souls, come whenever we call them.

These types of muses are the ones that reside within us. They're never gone, but merely silent observers when we're too busy to appreciate their wisdom, their hope and their magic. They communicate with us in ways we never thought possible. We meet them in dreams, sharing experiences that only time reveals were indeed mutual. We've known them from the beginning, somehow inexplicably. We feel their presence even when their physical form, if they happen to have one, is not before us. Their energy is recognizable only by faith and intuition. It is a familiarity that sweeps its comfort into the depths of where we think we begin as a separate being. It is a hypnotic submission which overcomes our ability to question why. We are simply in a form of obsessive attraction that owes neither an explanation or a resolution.

Exploring The Inner Worlds Of Your Characters

I've discovered that while inspriation can often come out of nowhere, you better pay attention to it when it does come. Recently, I was sitting in Tampa's airport, trying to pass more time as my weather delayed flight got delayed even further, while also trying to drink more Starbucks coffee to shield out Florida's "rival the inside of a freezer" air conditioning. I wasn't thinking about my current novel in progress deliberately. I was actually trying to continue reading Greg Mortenson's "Three Cups of Tea", which seems to be taking an unnatural amount of time for an avid reader like myself. But anyhow, when your mind drifts either out of boredom, association or just plain randomness, it's best to document that journey.

When a writer sits down, deliberately, to start writing, there are often gaps, blanks, "writer's block", self-critques and edits. Sometimes the best thing to do is let your inner guide do the work for you. It'll come in a flash, when you least expect it, when you're often trying to focus on something else, when you're multi-tasking or just simply ruminating. I liken it to the order that seemingly comes out of chaos or the way the pieces of nature seem to fit together without any real explanation.

In our waking lives we often have inner dialogues, which reveals our motivations, wishes, desires, regrets, intentions and so on. It's a part of ourselves that rarely gets revealed and isn't always easily detected. Our inner worlds are the part of ourselves that we sometimes feel we have to masquerade through our outside expression and actions. Those with sensitivity see, or rather "sense" right through it, but we still go on pretending that we are those outside projections that we've created.

Showing this "inner chaos" is vital in revealing who the characters are in our stories. There are several techniques, but the stream of consciousness style, which was pioneered by James Joyce, is one that I often rely on. What are your character's thoughts? What is he or she telling him or herself? What are your character's reflections on a particular experience or a period in their lives? What are they feeling at that moment? How would those feelings express themselves internally? What outward reaction might your character transpire in order to conceal the intensity of those emotions?

Write these down as you explore them. It doesn't have to be in order. There are no rules for time sequences, character sequences, first, second or third person sequences. Throw out the notion of it being linear. Throw out the rules of grammar, syntax and complete sentences. Carefree freedom is the only muse you need here. Often times you'll be surprised to discover that continuity has unintentionally woven its subtext between your characters and their story.

Today's Random Thoughts and Ruminations

Within each of us is the dichotomy of who we really are and who we think we should be. I suppose in terms of character development, this would be considered "conflict." The key to finding this "conflict", if you will, is through self-examination. Writers often start with what they know; themselves or those they are fascinated by. Who we really are is sometimes who we do not fully allow ourselves to be because somewhere along the line in our life, some external force told us it was not ok to be that way. So, we learn to contain it. The exception is when we are by ourselves, alone, with no potential for outside judgement. That's when our true self gets to play, come out of the box, express itself freely. Sometimes, if we're lucky, we find someone else or a few others that we instinctively know will not judge us. We instantly feel comfortable with this person, as if they have known us all along, as if they are already part of who we really are.

If I were to admit to one of my "conflicts," I would have to say that there is a disconnect between the intensity of my feelings on the inside and my outward expression of them. I learned at a very young age not to express what I was really feeling, to masquerade it, even disassociate from it. In other words, I learned to act as though I was not feeling anything at all. The problem begins when you get too good at it; you actually begin to not feel. Not in the moment, not after.

Exploring and displaying the struggles that a conflict or dichotomy poses to a character throughout a story reveals whether they choose to attempt to overcome it or submit to it. The dichotomy often can become the central focus of the plot or it can play a supporting role against the main thread. What's even more fun is to take the conflicts of two characters and play them against each other.

The dichotomy of my main opposing character is something I am still researching, but perhaps it is the struggle between wanting to be who they really are versus who they feel they have to be. This character feels shame about who they really are because they were told that being this way was not acceptable, that it didn't work in the "real world," that it wasn't good enough. This person has adopted an outward identity that is in fact opposite of who they truly are in order to survive. They create appearances which are meant to prevent others from seeing somebody they wouldn't understand.

Now it gets interesting if we explore the repressed character who is suddenly able to reveal their true inner presence to the other because that is how they are too. The opposing character expresses this aspect of themselves, they are not ashamed of it, they see no reason to hide it. This becomes the meat of the relationship between the two. They travel in circles, learning something about themselves from the other, switching places in their perspectives and motivations. Somehow the opposing "repressed" one gets her to feel, to bring her to a point of wanting to express those feelings, while she gets him to express the side of himself that he usually doesn't.

That's when we begin to see the dance of two souls. Sometimes that dance is brief, yet pivotal. Sometimes that dance goes on for a lifetime and it's not near long enough. Sometimes we're not aware that it happened at all until our ears are filled with silence and our feet have stopped moving.

Today's Creative Inspirations and Musings

HSP's tend to be fascinated with relationships, feelings, romantic mush and just plain sentimental "stuff." No, we're not one hundred percent "pink fluffy bunnies." In fact, we can be some of the biggest jerks you've ever known when we're stressed out, but inside we're just a big ball of tear jerking commercials. At least this is what I've observed about myself and a few others who have identified themselves as HSPs. It goes without saying that somehow, yes somehow, this must justify my twenty year long "love affair" with daytime dramas. After all, the gist of the genre, despite some 21st century "pimping up", is love and relationships.

Yes, I started watching the genre back when I was only 13 out of curiosity. Come to think of it, I seem to stumble onto quite a few good things because of my friend, curiosity. Gets me in trouble too, but what would life be without a little awkward spiciness.....

Over the past few days I've been revisiting my favorite daytime duo, "John, formerly known as Roman" and "Isabella" from the early '90's era Days of Our Lives. These two only had a three year run, but in those three years they transcended the personalities of their portrayers, showed us how love endures, how to laugh at each other, how certain things go unspoken, how love overcomes even death, how to dance, and most of all, how to make the most of each and every moment time gives us. In particular, the character of "Isabella", (and her portrayer, one of my favorite former Coloradoans) has provided me with a great source of inspiration over the years. One great thing about fantasy and a creative muse is that you can return to it whenever you need to.

As I've been moving forward in my latest writing endeavor, reflecting on the experiences that writers often use as a springboard into elaboration, I've rediscovered some scenes between these two that have suddenly jumped off the screen. The relationship between the two has been suddenly halted by the return of a presumed dead ex-wife, and they find themselves struggling with the fact that they are still drawn to each other but are unable to fully express and act upon their feelings. They share one of those strained, yet tender moments, where the unspoken not only communicates louder than the words, but around them.

Reflection upon a real life experience that a fabricated one suddenly reminds us of, can reveal more than we were comfortable dealing with at the time. It can provide us with the answers that we need to come to terms with what was. It can reveal those things that our intuition picked up, but our mind quickly filed away under "process later." It can show us how sometimes art does indeed imitate life and how we can use that imitation to create yet another piece of those wonderful escapes that can teach us more than the real thing. It can give new meaning to an old memory that'll provide us with warm smiles for the years ahead.

Last, but certainly not least, it can make us realize that we don't always have to reinvent reality.

Copyright 2009 by H.E.A.

Today's Creative Inspirations and Musings

Today I find myself immersed in the French film "The Lover." Why I've chosen to use this film as the backdrop for inspiration today has made itself quite known as my "novel in progress," well, progresses. I was first introduced to this film when I was all of either 16 or 17. The year was 1993, back when what was to become my alma mater still showed foreign films for next to nothing.

I was quite impressionable back then, as most who are coming of age, and was just beginning to discover my love of art house culture. Fast forwarding to my now 33 year old self, this is still one of my favorite films. Some of the reasons are the same, such as the fact that it is a writer's autobiographical account of her former self and one of its themes is love overcoming societal boundaries. However, I've discovered that I share a commonality with the main female character; the discovery that you did indeed love someone that at the time you didn't fully realize you had.

The story of the two main characters in this film is somewhat tragic, but altogether real. Two lovers who connect at a common point along their journeys in life, but who are aware that they cannot have a future together. Despite having to go their separate ways due to societal obligations, rules and boundaries, their love for each other never dies. The male character is always aware of his love, but the female character doesn't fully allow herself to recognize it until after their relationship has ended. Perhaps it is because of the age difference. When we are coming of age we often don't fully understand what we are feeling and why. It's only when the older, more experienced version of ourselves reflects on what was, that we fully awaken to what happened.

It's funny how time and experience help us connect the dots more logically versus the younger version's impulse to rely on intuition alone. We can only hope to smile in reflection on what was and move past the pain of what could've been. Perhaps the satisfaction of knowing that anything is possible when two people love each other and that love continues despite life's demands, obligations and rules is enough.

Copyright 2009 by H.E.A.

Today's Random Thoughts and Ruminations

Today is only a reflection of yesterday's dreams. When we touch another, it's as if they transform us into what they want us to be.

We are more than our individual selves. We are life. A collection and collaboration of thoughts, feelings, dreams. Collective consciousness exists because all of our souls co-exist in the past, present and future. To tune into what will be, we only need to listen to it.

I am an actress. I portray who I think others want to see. I only portray what I want others to see. Very rarely is my true self revealed. That is if I even know my real self. Not many do. To do so would require a journey of self reflection and silence. Most of humanity walks in darkness, controlled by the wishes and desires of authority figures’ wishes. The feeling of being outside ourselves does not come from not knowing our true self, but rather from trying to be a reflection of another’s perspective. When we don’t meet those expectations, we are shunned. Often an unwarranted rejection of sorts. Do we do this automatically to others, without getting past the surface, without seeing past what is visible?


Copyright 2009 by H.E.A.