Today, I’m sitting outside Wanda, writing at the little table I’ve set up for that express purpose, but seldom used. Why? Because up until now, I have not had a battery in my laptop and writing on the “veranda” required an arduous unplugging, stringing wires and plugging back in of my essential writing tool.
That’s right. I have muddled along without the one ingredient that makes laptops so great, the ability to use them anywhere. For a year and a half, I have only written where I could plug in Toby (my Toshiba laptop).
Finally, last week, I ordered the battery on Amazon.com. It was $56 including shipping. How many times have I told myself I couldn’t afford it and then gone on to buy $60 shoes or some equally non-writing related article of clothing?
This weekend I plan on heading over to the park outside the library, where I can also pick up their free Wi-Fi, then sitting on my fabulous sling-back chair with the footrest and writing until my fingers fall off or freeze into place.
I cannot believe I put this off for so long and denied myself the ability to be a mobile writer. Perhaps the reason is that the novel I had been working on was so difficult for me that I was just perpetuating ways to avoid writing, whereas now I’m joyfully engaged in writing that seems to appear on my computer screen almost telekinetically. I want as many ways to writing as possible now.
I don’t know for sure. But I do know that I’m way into setting my priorities all of a sudden. Last weekend, I spent organizing Wanda, substituting skinny velvet covered hangers for my old ones (thereby increasing the capacity of my two tiny closets) and tossing out clothes I no longer need. I don’t need to keep a bazillion clothes anymore, because I’ve come up with a new plan for work wear.
I’ve converted my Mon-Thursday work clothes to white blouses with black slacks. If you’re shocked and fairly certain I’ve gone insane, join the crowd. I realized the other day that I’m a little confused by clothes and truly don’t care about them for the most part. What I really love is jewelry, artisan types primarily, but rarely wear because the clothes I’ve chosen don’t “go” with them. Now my clothing will be a backdrop for the jewelry I own and I’ll feel more free to express myself by buying wearable art.
What is it important to own or have? I’m finding the answer to be – “Not much.” There is such freedom in that realization.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
The Long and Rambling Road
Apt words for how I view my life today. I have an urge to write that is just so powerful at this moment. I look around Wanda, my RV and home, seeing the things that need to be done are literally piled up, but I could no more attempt to do those things before writing this morning than bath before I breathe.
I do journal in a book, but lately find that it’s just too slow for the process I’m going through. Even with the computer and typing as fast as I can, my mind is often on to the next thought before I’ve finished scribing the last.
Here, though, I am, attempting to get down some of the thoughts about my life that keep repeating, in ever widening circles with greater and greater understanding each time.
I am a slow study. I’m often frustrated when I have an epiphany that seems so simple, but involves so many areas of my life. How could it be that it took until last month to understand that I don’t want to be a grownup? At least not in the sense that I have always defined grownups mentally, since being raped at the age of eight. From then on the word meant a person that can’t be trusted and makes up stupid rules. So much of my life has been dictated by that definition.
I just reread an article by Malcolm Gladwell, Late Bloomers, in the October 20, 2008 issues of The New Yorker. When I read it the first time, I remember feeling an extreme sense of relief, because it explored the idea that genius or accomplishment doesn’t necessarily occur like a comet in youth.
This time I caught even more of the positive outlook for me and others in my predicament. Writing is something I’ve been working at for years, in various forms, always achieving some measure of success, but never going all the way to an end product I could point to and say, “This is why I’ve been scribbling for 40 years.” Gladwell points out that late bloomers often have an experimental process, trying and abandoning different methods, story lines, styles, until they finally light on the right one.
This is so totally me. I’ve attempted many different lives, let alone all the writing genres in which I’ve dabbled. An understanding that this is normal for the late bloomer gives me a sense that all I’ve experienced was a sort of collecting of experiences, until I could happen upon the right ones for me. They’ve also been fodder for my writing.
In the past few weeks, I stumbled upon the most joyful writing of my life. I’m 120 pages into a new novel written in the first person. This is the first time I’ve written fiction in the first person. From the initial writing session to this moment, the writing of this novel has been gloriously fun for me. That is also a first. Often, I’ve struggled and fought with myself to sit and write, anticipating pain and finally sitting down to experience it.
So, now, after many years of beating the proverbial bushes for my style, I’ve at long last found it. I have no doubts that this novel will be a success and it’s coming along very quickly.
Another joy in reading Gladwell’s article came with the affirmation that my failures in life have not been wasted. Indeed, the opening of a ladies resale shop, Keepers, in the worst of times just after 9/11, was not a misuse of money and life, but instead the vehicle for opening my understanding of women. I came away from that experience, much poorer financially, but much richer emotionally. Instinctually, I knew that my two and half years there were only a failure if money is the sole measure of success. But it was wonderful to find support for that theory in this New Yorker piece.
My mind is somewhat exorcised now, so I’m off to make breakfast and then move on to my novel. The main character’s name is Lydia and for those moments I indulge in my writing I get to “be” her. So, I’m off to become Lydia for several hours. I hope your Labor Day will have included some joyful labor of love as well.
I do journal in a book, but lately find that it’s just too slow for the process I’m going through. Even with the computer and typing as fast as I can, my mind is often on to the next thought before I’ve finished scribing the last.
Here, though, I am, attempting to get down some of the thoughts about my life that keep repeating, in ever widening circles with greater and greater understanding each time.
I am a slow study. I’m often frustrated when I have an epiphany that seems so simple, but involves so many areas of my life. How could it be that it took until last month to understand that I don’t want to be a grownup? At least not in the sense that I have always defined grownups mentally, since being raped at the age of eight. From then on the word meant a person that can’t be trusted and makes up stupid rules. So much of my life has been dictated by that definition.
I just reread an article by Malcolm Gladwell, Late Bloomers, in the October 20, 2008 issues of The New Yorker. When I read it the first time, I remember feeling an extreme sense of relief, because it explored the idea that genius or accomplishment doesn’t necessarily occur like a comet in youth.
This time I caught even more of the positive outlook for me and others in my predicament. Writing is something I’ve been working at for years, in various forms, always achieving some measure of success, but never going all the way to an end product I could point to and say, “This is why I’ve been scribbling for 40 years.” Gladwell points out that late bloomers often have an experimental process, trying and abandoning different methods, story lines, styles, until they finally light on the right one.
This is so totally me. I’ve attempted many different lives, let alone all the writing genres in which I’ve dabbled. An understanding that this is normal for the late bloomer gives me a sense that all I’ve experienced was a sort of collecting of experiences, until I could happen upon the right ones for me. They’ve also been fodder for my writing.
In the past few weeks, I stumbled upon the most joyful writing of my life. I’m 120 pages into a new novel written in the first person. This is the first time I’ve written fiction in the first person. From the initial writing session to this moment, the writing of this novel has been gloriously fun for me. That is also a first. Often, I’ve struggled and fought with myself to sit and write, anticipating pain and finally sitting down to experience it.
So, now, after many years of beating the proverbial bushes for my style, I’ve at long last found it. I have no doubts that this novel will be a success and it’s coming along very quickly.
Another joy in reading Gladwell’s article came with the affirmation that my failures in life have not been wasted. Indeed, the opening of a ladies resale shop, Keepers, in the worst of times just after 9/11, was not a misuse of money and life, but instead the vehicle for opening my understanding of women. I came away from that experience, much poorer financially, but much richer emotionally. Instinctually, I knew that my two and half years there were only a failure if money is the sole measure of success. But it was wonderful to find support for that theory in this New Yorker piece.
My mind is somewhat exorcised now, so I’m off to make breakfast and then move on to my novel. The main character’s name is Lydia and for those moments I indulge in my writing I get to “be” her. So, I’m off to become Lydia for several hours. I hope your Labor Day will have included some joyful labor of love as well.
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