a magical universe

I've been avoiding writing all day.  Pretty successfully, if I don't say so myself.  I've been actually avoiding writing for about a week (or more).

If I were a new mother, it's like I have Mastitis and until the blockage is removed, my boob is gonna really hurt. If I were at work, it's like there is a backlog of messages waiting to clear but can't until I move the file in error.  If I were Dr. Sheldon Cooper and didn't think through my friend formula, I'm stuck in an infinite loop until Howard gives me a counter for my looping structure.  If I'm opening a show, it's like tech week. . . until  opening night.

And today the universe was magic - it's a bit long, but I think it'll make sense and this fulfills a promise I've made to tell you about why I'm writing.

I have written in journals for a large portion of my life, but really only in journals.  You have recently seen that I'm branching out and writing fiction.  I've wanted to be a writer my whole life (my journals tell me so and I'll explain more on that later) but I guess I took a different path.  Then this whole internet thing happened and I started reading blogs - lots of them.  It made me think - hey, I can do that.

sampling of some of my journals (some purchased, some gifted)

So, I originally started this blog to write, but more importantly tell my friends and family back in Wisconsin what Alistair and I were up to. It was fun.  I wrote about our "escapades" - our outings to the mountains, the Blue Angels scaring the cats, letting my sister know how her daughter was doing while she was out here, Alistair's cancer scare, you know - life.  As I go back through the posts from back then, it's clear I was "journaling", but instead of doing it in a book, I was doing it online.  I wasn't really forming thoughts or arguments or doing anything really creatively significant.  It was more just facts.  But I was writing!

Then Alistair died.  The last post before that happened is actually of the last Sunday I ever saw him; he went back to school the next week. It was actually almost the last time I wrote for a year. I wrote two more times before I stopped.  Here are pictures from that last time - I think it helps you understand why I didn't write for a year.

This first one is from 9/7/2007 - It's what I had to write down to know what to do when I got to Montana - I wrote it on the plane.  It's the only thing I wrote until the night before planning the funeral.

That night, I woke up at about 2am and had a terrible physical reaction.  I locked myself in the bathroom with Alistair's iPod (the police gave it to me that day) and started writing feverishly.  What I was writing came directly from Alistair's iPod.  I was writing every song from the 25 most played songs  on the iPod and the 25 most recently played songs. I was terrified that I was going to lose what he had been listening to and writing it down was the only thing that could make it real and make it so no one could take it from me.

This last picture is of the rest of the journal.  It's empty. I stopped writing.

A year later, I wrote two entries on the blog.  One was of me just missing Alistair, and the other was about how I was avoiding thinking about Alistair.  But at least I wrote something.  There are no other journal entries or writings of any other kind anywhere during that time.  It took me about 6 more months before I wrote again.  And then I just slowly started.

I wasn't writing to be a writer at that point.  I was writing to . . . connect . . . to work through my stuff. . . to feel.  And that's sort of where the journey of being a writer emerged.

Through the course of writing about my struggles, I started sharing it with people that were having some of the same struggles - mostly physical struggles (I was having neck and back problems).  I shared my neck and back pain writing with someone from work.  She ended up reading the whole blog.

One day, she came to me after a meeting and told me the stories I shared had touched her deeply and that I was a good writer and should consider doing it professionally. It meant the world to me for two reasons.  1) It was the first time anyone had said that to me in my adult life and 2) She is a deeply private person and isn't the type to share how affected she is by their personal stories.  Her compliment hit and sank into a place I had never really allowed myself access.

I didn't do anything about it for another year other than continue to post.

That's when the universe became magically connected (as it is wont to do).

If you spend any time with me or spend any time reading my Facebook or twitter feeds, you'll know I'm unnaturally obsessed with Amanda Palmer.  But everything about her - her music, her blog, her art, her words - moved me.  She said the things I had been trying to express.  Her unabashed openness, vulnerability, and talent pushed me to ask myself, "what are you afraid of?" She taught me to not be afraid.  She just did a TEDtalk about The Art of Asking - watch it, she talks about vulnerability and what it can do.

At the same time, Terri Weagant and Jesse McNeece and I were working on Cabaret in 2012 and we spent a lot of time together - working, talking, drinking, inspiring.  Jesse said to me (and I'll paraphrase because my memory isn't that good, but the sentiment is exactly what he meant), "doing art isn't hard, you just have to be brave enough to just make a decision and start."

Terri and I kept talking about doing a project together and we had many nights where we talked about what that would be.  I shared with her my passion for writing and she introduced me to the Artist's way which unblocked a huge damn in me.  And then she made a crazy suggestion.  She asked me to go back and read my journals - the early ones - the ones from when I was in middle school or high school.

my The Artist's Way book

It was FASCINATING.  And completely hilarious. But it told me something very important - I had wanted to be a writer since I started writing in journals.

So armed with Amanda's permission (well, really mine that she helped me see), Jesse's quote and Terri's nudge, I made a decision to start - and just wrote.  and wrote. and wrote.  Not all of it was posted, some of it was.

While I was in Turkey with Mikal, I started thinking about taking a writing class.  Very seriously thinking about taking a writing class - so seriously that I asked my best friend, Ciara, if she thought it was a good idea.  I also asked if we could ride together for class (she teaches at University).  She was hugely supportive of the idea and helped me write my admission letter AND I don't think I could have gone to that first class without her being there on the way.  She also has been sharing ridiculous resources with me (she's defending her PhD this year in Comparative Literature - so SCORE!).

And then there is my mom.  When I told her about this, she sent me a book about writing.  Her inscription made me cry (I'm not sharing that because I'm keeping it for me when I need it). But to know she supported this endeavor filled up my soul.  She's always been supportive, but this one was different for me.

a magical inscription that brings me strengths lies within

And so - now I write fictional stories.  I've shared one of those stories and people have been very encouraging.  I'm still terrified that I'm not good, so there are many that I haven't shared.

Brittany and Nate have also played key roles in my success in this journey.  They read my stories.  They love them all (however undeserving that may be) AND they give me feedback to make them great.

And Jen brings me smiles when I'm stuck.  I demand pictures for my soul and she delivers (like today).  She and her family are a respite from my real life (both work and writing) and there are several free write pieces I've written about their bundle of joy.  He makes me smile and unlocks my playfulness (which I need because a lot of my pieces are pretty dark).

And then, this morning I was having a conversation with Mikal and it went something like this:

Mikal: what's wrong?

me: I am avoiding writing and it's hard to do anything because I'm so scared I'm writing the wrong thing and then I'm just scared I'm not doing any writing.

Mikal: Sometimes just starting is the hardest thing.

He's wise, my husband.  And a huge supporter of my writing. Without him, I wouldn't have even asked Ciara if it was a good idea.  He listens when I need to read out loud.  He gives me his opinion and allows me to ignore it.

Crazy universe.  I love that you are magically connected.

So, I'm now unblocked, I've moved the file in error, I'm not stuck in an infinite loop, and the show has opened.

me at an AFP concert with Ciara: photo credit Terri Weagant

thank you magical universe

Year of Magical Thinking - or SHEER TERROR

Sheer terror might describe how I felt a bit before the show started on Saturday at 2pm. I was going to be trapped in a theater, in not so comfortable seats, for one hour and 45 minutes with no intermission, listening to someone go on about what it felt like when their spouse died. I was truly having an anxiety attack. I wasn't sure I could do it.

But let me set the whole thing up, because, man, this day was a pretty big doozy!

I was having a very lovely Saturday morning. I slept in late and then Mikal and I went to Starbucks (they have nice chairs to relax in) and we read the newspaper, had hot chocolate, did the cross word puzzle (well, attempted anyway), and generally had a lovely morning.

When we got to my house after our morning, I decided to check my mail (this is actually pretty unusual for me on a Saturday morning). I can't even remember why I decided to do this. But I did. . . And I had a shock when I saw an email from my mother. It was about my grandmother. She was ill and probably wasn't going to last more than a few days.

I went into a tizzy and Mikal didn't understand why. So, I explained and then spent the next hour trying to figure out when, how, and how much I could get to Wisconsin. I basically found out that if I left Sunday evening and came back on Wednesday (remember, Hall is coming for Alistair's anniversary. . . ), I could get it for a reasonable price. So, all there was to do was wait. And I had a play to go to. . .

Mikal said, "really, you still want to go?" I mean, I paid for the tickets, we had the time, I didn't have anything else to do except wait to get on a plane the next NIGHT, so yes, I still wanted to go. . . I had been crying all week (Ted Kennedy dying really had me all up in an emotional state too because of all the politics of using his death to get things done - disgusting!) and now I was crying because of my grandmother.

So we went.

I think surreal is probably the best way to describe the whole part before play started. We had tickets to on stage left (or house right). But in doing that, apparently we have to walk by the wall of (is there any way to describe this????). . . The wall of . . . Goodbyes.

I look at the wall, I read the wall, I absorb the wall, then I walk past the wall (without remembering Mikal being there) to my seat. The next fifteen minutes are pure terror. I think, "I can't do this", "what am I doing????", "this isn't fair to Mikal", "I can't do this", "what am I doing", well, you get the idea. I feel like those kids that have the knee taping affliction and I think I actually have this affliction for a bit before the show starts.

Part of the scariness of this play is that there is no intermission, so there is NO WAY to escape without making a bit of a scene (you know, everyone sees you leave).

Then the lights dim, the music starts, the sound of the ocean begins. . . And then her voice. And what is the first thing she says?

“This happened on December 30, 2003. That may seem a while ago but it wont when it happens to you. And it will happen. The details will be different, but it will happen to you. That’s what I’m here to tell you,”

And I understand. ..

I feel relief. . .

She knows. . .

It is understood. . .

"Okay", I say, " I can do this, I know why I'm doing this - and Mikal gets it."

Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale. . .

The play is really enjoyable. And as we leave, on the wall of goodbyes, I write "ASR because that's all you'd allow". The only people that need to understand that are me and ASR.

You aren't alone (really even when you think you are).