One of the incredible things about living with a writer is how much time we spend talking about writing. In the last five weeks the work has gone to a deeper level. I'm not really writing too much these days (in another submission frenzy) but I'm digging deep.
We spent much of yesterday working on individual project in the courtyard of the apartment complex. I was slogging through pretty difficult historical and anthropological texts. I pulled a few gems out and had some things clarified but I'm not writing a historical fiction. I'm being influenced by a particular period in time. The research is fascinating and it often breaks my heart. I'm in the build-up phase before a fertile period, like an underground zit aches below the surface of the face until it emerges and takes over. (Those of you who know, know. Take zinc, it helps.)
I'm stepping carefully back into my meditation practice, I let go of it almost completely this summer. It isn't easy coming back. One of the many benefits of a daily practice is that is keeps things level, allows, and allows for surrender. When I'm off my practice (and I try so hard not to judge myself, but I do) I trip, fall and all the old crap comes up, stuff I know I'm not really dealing with. Old patterns, fears, little triggers. The mind is dangerous that way, holding on to old poisons and letting them loose. I recognize them, acknowledge them and try to move the F on. But humanness is tricky.
My solitude hasn't been affected too much by cohabitation, which was my biggest fear. Luckily H and I both like a lot of time on our own. We retreat to different parts of the apartment and spend hours working on our own. Grad school is a full time job so H is constantly reading and writing and re writing. I read a lot and have been editing like crazy. Tomorrow is the deadline for several places I'm submitting work
Thursday, September 19, 2013
I've been going through work, editing and smoothing out pieces to submit. Crazy how much old writing I have, pieces I wrote as long as ten years ago. I'm sending out one piece in particular that I've loved a long, long time. It's about traveling in my early twenties, the voice is precise to where I was at that time. I love that writing is often a time capsule. But the time capsule aspect also can make me a little crazy. I want to keep the authenticity of the experience, those younger years of drawn out emotion, the heavy sighs, the confusion. There also is a part of me that wants to go back to the writing and take back the edges, cloak the rawness a little but then I fear that I'm masking the authenticity as well.
This morning I had a bit of a rough spot. There was a family dinner last night, cousins were in town and I drank too much wine and was roaring a bit this morning. I drove H to school. He usually takes the bus but I was feeling wah-wah and told him I'd drive him so he could spend an extra hour at home. Enter headache and stomach issues. And hitting every red light on the way to school. Poor H probably would have rather been on the bus than in the car with me as I snapped at traffic and bemoaned everything. On the way back I realized I had to get out of the mood. I made myself appreciate something about every house or person I passed. It went like this:
Hello house, you're a lovely shade of yellow.
Oh bougainvillea, you are so pink today.
Ah yard, look at all those toys. Your children must be so happy.
Sir, those shoes look comfortable.
Look at you, graceful Palm tree, home to so many birds.
Crow, you fly.
By the time I got home my roar had diminished to a mumble. It was a nice little practice to get me out of myself. I think I'll try it again.