ANOTHER DAY IN THE LIFE ....

I'm going to save what I was going to write for another day and redirect you here. As the mother of a very bright, very loving, very strong willed black male, this post just cut right to the heart. All I can say is, we've got to keep being who and what we are and continue pressing forward.

I hereby open the floor for dialogue.

Be Well. Be Love(d).

ANGEL

GRASSROOTS

"I call myself an activist," says Datcher. "I'm trying to activate change when I go out into the world. But I tell the brothas, the best kind of activism you can do now is meet someone and fall in love and start a family. Now that's grass roots. 'Find you a woman and be good for her.' That the most grass roots activism you can do."
....... Michael Datcher, journalist, poet, co-organizer of World Stage Anansi Writers Workshop and author of Raising Fences: A Black Man's Love Story (Riverhead Books).


And finally, a sample of my work posted on the My Work section. Just an excerpt, not the full monty. Too many pirates out here. The full monty forthcoming in my chapbook.

----ANGEL

PULLING MY HEAD BACK INTO MY SHELL

Just how sick of Kobe-Dumb-Ass-Bryant am I?
I have truly, truly had enough of hearing about his self-induced problems.

I thought, truly thought, I could take a break from my work tonight, turn on the tube and just veg but as usual it makes me sick to the bottom of my stomach.

Click!

THE UNIVERSE -- AND FRIENDS -- RESPOND

In addition to my girl Nakachi, my other Ace, RHD responded to my July 23 post with this thought:

That's what I'm talking about.

Like in Parable of the Sower, by Octavia Butler where the main character creates her own spiritual path based on the idea that the only constant in life is change and Change is God. It's my favorite book, besides maybe Song of Solomon.


Yes! Yes! This is it. The only constant in life is change and change is Good and God !!!!!
Ooowee! I'm so excited. I'm so thankful that after such a long time shaping this book, waiting waiting waiting to be shown the true message in this novel, it is finally here. This is what I'm going after -- that change is necessary and change is good in order that one may have Life! And how wild is it that as I gather my short stories together for my chapbook the common thread that binds them together is CHANGE! Personal change. Personal transformation! Not looking outside of yourself for the answers but looking within. Looking Life in the face and doing what YOU need to do. Not looking to others to change, not looking for situations to change, but looking within. I've been writing about it all along and never even identified this common theme.

Oh, I'm so excited. If I can just get it done .... dear God, help me to get it done.
Thank you, my wonderful wonderful friends.
I love you both.

--ANGEL

BETTER LATE THAN NEVER

Lately, I've been comforted by the knowledge that I'm a late bloomer. I've always been a late bloomer and up until age 30, I'd been annoyed by it. But something happens -- a settling perhaps? -- when you turn 30. I think it has a lot to do with the beginning of a long discovery of who you are and how your brain works and how your individual world functions. I got my period later than most of the girls my age. I developed breasts much later than the girls my age. I started a family significantly later than friends my age. And I always stumble upon things much later than most people. When it's stale news, old, played out. When new albums have been playing on the radio for months, I'm just "discovering it."

Yesterday, I watched The Hours. Rented it at the library (Tuesday is a 2-for-$2 day) and can't help thinking about it today and thinking what a beautiful a story it was, how well written, how relevant. I am no fan of Nicole Kidman, nor Julia Moore (is that her name?) but I love Meryl Streep's acting, her delivery, so I decided to give it a go. I clearly see why it won the awards it did and I can't help but wish that the powers that be in Hollywood would open the doors for people of color to do films like that AND that they would open their minds to more stories about women that relay universal themes like that. Two lines in the film really struck me. When Virginia said to Peter (or is it Leonard??), as they were walking down the platform at the train station "You don't find peace by running away from life," (whew!) and the very last line, the narrator voice reading from the letter Virginia has written as she descends into the water, rocks in her pocket to fulfill her suicidal mission:


Dear Leonard:
To look Life in the face, always, to look Life in the face.
And to know it for what it is
At last,
To know it.
To love it for what it is
and then,
to put it away.

Leonard:
Always the years between us
Always the years
Always the love
Always the hours.

How powerful is that? A tingle moved over my whole body because this, THIS is what I am saying in my novel. My protagonist has never taken the risk to look Life in the face. His actions throughout this novel lead him to a series of tragic events that force him to look Life in the face and choose: are you going to change, are you going to take the risk of personal transformation or are you not? And my theory is that when you don't change, you die. Not necessarily a physical death (ie, being taken off of the planet) but an emotional and spiritual death. YOU HAVE TO CHANGE IN ORDER TO LIVE. YOU HAVE TO FIND THE COURAGE, SOME WAY AND SOME HOW TO LOOK LIFE IN THE FACE AND CHANGE, IF NEED BE, TRANSFORM IF NEED BE. Life all by itself is a risk and if you choose life, you choose risk.

James Baldwin wrote that "whoever cannot tell himself the truth about his past is trapped in it, is immobilized in the prison of his undiscovered self."

If you cannot face your past, you cannot move forward. You cannot discover those beautiful things within yourself that are yet untapped, unrealized. You cannot fulfill your potential by running from your past and this is what my protagonist has done all of his life. And at the end of the story, he must find the courage to face what's hurt him most, to change in order that he might live.

Man.

Wow.

Gosh.

Golly.

Gee.

Better late than never.

--AVS.

HERE WE GO AGAIN

I don't pride myself on being a political pundit by any stretch of the imagination. I prefer to live in my fictional, poetic world as much as possible. But every now and then, like a turtle, I poke my head out of my shell and then, seeing that little has changed, pull it back inside where I know it's safe.


AP Report

Insurgents are increasingly using roadside bombs detonated by remote control to attack American forces in Iraq, with an American soldier and his Iraqi translator dying in northern Baghdad in the latest explosion.

As part of an effort to lower the U.S. profile in Iraq, the new U.S. commander in the region announced plans to establish an Iraqi militia to help patrol the country.

.....Gen. John Abizaid, on his first visit to Iraq since taking over at U.S. Central Command, said Monday that he would create an Iraqi civil defense force of nearly 7,000 men to patrol with the U.S. military. It would consist of eight battalions, each with about 850 armed Iraqi militiamen.

Commanders said the militia was an effort to lower the profile of American forces.

"An Iraqi militia will be a localized effort to assist local governors in running their areas. It will assist coalition forces on an as-needed basis to put an Iraqi face on things," U.S. Marines' Lt. Gen. James T. Conway said in Hillah, south of Baghdad.

U.S. Deputy Defense Secretary Paul Wolfowitz, who was in the northern city of Mosul on Monday, met with American forces and warned Iraqis that the United States would not be able to solve all the country's economic troubles.

"Some people think that because we're the United States we can fix things right away. We can't," Wolfowitz said.

Pardon me if I'm wrong but isn't this how the whole mess with Osama got started?

Training people to kill people who kill people because killing people is downright wrong.

Right.

Be Well. Be Love(d). Pray for Peace.
---A.

THE WORKSHOP

...But jazz to me is one of the inherent expressions of Negro life in America: the eternal tom-tom beating in the Negro soul--the tom-tom of revolt against weariness in a white world, a world of subway trains and work, work, work; the tom-tom of joy and laughter, and pain swallowed in a smile. Yet the Philadelphia clubwoman is ashamed to say that her race created it and she does not like me to write about it. The old subconscious "white is best" runs through her mind. Years of study under white teachers, a lifetime of white books, pictures and papers, and white manners, morals, and Puritan standards made her dislike the spirituals. And now she turns up her nose at jazz and all its manifestations---likewise almost everything else distinctly racial.....

....An artist must be free to choose what he does, certainly, but he must also never be afraid to do what he might choose....

....We younger Negro artists who create now intend to express our dark-skinned selves without fear or shame. If white people are pleased we are glad, If they are not, it doesn't matter. We know we are beautiful. And ugly too. The tom-tom cries and the tom-tom laughs. If colored people are pleased we are glad. If they are not, their displeasure doesn't matter either. We build our temples for tomorrow, strong as we know how, and we stand on top of the mountain, free within ourselves..... Langston Hughes, The Negro Artist and the Racial Mountain.



They say that every lover leaves you with something. That no matter how bad the relationship was, there is some good to be found. And conversely, no matter how good the relationship was, there was some sign there of something not quite right. I believe this to be true about all things, all experiences. There is something good in every experience. We just have to seek and be open to finding it. And the good is not always of grand proportion. Sometimes, the good takes longer to find.

Last year when I went to Iowa I was on fire. A well published friend of mine encouraged me to take the Showing vs. Telling: The Effective Use of Detail. She said the instructor was great and that the knowledge she gained changed her writing altogether. Let me tell you why I went. I went because I know that most first novels fail for one of two reasons: it's either a poorly conceived story or the author lacks knowledge of the craft of fiction writing. Both situations can be cured. The first time author can learn what it takes to be a storyteller. The first time author can learn how to write fiction. The former requires freeing of the imagination. The latter requires serious work and commitment. Let's look at craft. What literary devices are necessary in the writing of good fiction? Well, in my opinion, an author must, MUST, master three things if she is to write a good novel: 1) dialogue, 2) showing vs. telling, and 3) point of view. Point of view and the showing are the two main things that make most first novels fail or win. Think about when you read a good book. You are engaged in the story and you move through the story through one person's point of view. You grow, fail, cry, weep with one charachter (or another). This is what you want. You don't want to want to be in and out of every person's head in the book. You don't want to be in the middle of the scene, seeing the scene through John's eyes, then all of a sudden, without warning, the narrative slips to Mary's eyes. And without fail, most, MOST, first time writers do it unconciously which is a red flag that screams: AMATEUR.

So, I went to Iowa last year knowing that I wanted to know how to write that lyrical, descriptive type of prose that pulls you so far in that you cannot even remember that the stove is on high and there's no water in that pot of rice that's about to burn the whole house down. I wanted to know. And I found out. I came back from Iowa in absolute awe, not only of my instructor, but of the work I'd been able to transform after the workshop. I sung praises of Iowa and vowed to return every year for the rest of my life. I'd found a secret lover.

I went back this year again, this time for mastery of Point of View (POV). I knew what was happening in my narrative and I didn't know how to control it. I knew that I wanted an Omniscient, God-like, see-all narrator but I knew that I didn't want to carry that througout the whole novel. I needed to examine the rules of POV and juxtapose them with my novel to see what I did and didn't want to change and how I would change what wasn't working. I also wanted to examine those rules and see how far I wanted to bend them.

You see, in my mind, what is art if it's not about bending the rules? If it's not about questioning those things around us and within us? How does life move forward if we are always sticking to what we know? And that's why I gravely disagree with that dictum to "write what you know." How boring is that, for the writer and the reader? But that's a topic for another day.

So when I get there, I find my instructor this time to be the author of five novels and holder of an MFA from the University of Iowa, which by the way boasts one of the best writing programs in the country. I have some serious opinons about MFA holders but I was willing to give this one a chance. And she more or less proved everything I'd ever thought.

As is not uncommon to me, I was the only black person in the room for the whole weekend. For some reason, I can always count on one hand the number of blacks out there and most times they are already published. Perhaps it's the cost, I don't know. Maybe it's the location. But I'm always ready to be the Lone Star. What bothered me most about this instructor (aside from her sloppy notes, typed in a size 9 font), was the fact that she was well read within the narrow confines of her own race, which bothers me a great deal. I am always bothered by people who don't read black, hispanic, carribean, portuguese, female or other writers. Why? Because it is an immediate flag to me that you have a very narrow sense of being. How, in this day and age, can you feel comfortable reading the work of only one race or nationality of people? How can you feel comfortable knowing only one language? Listening only to your 95.5 KISS FM? Aren't you aware that there is a whole world outside of your Anytown, USA? How can you only watch network TV? If you are to give yourself any present at all come Christmas time, wouldn't it be a subscription to satellite so you can gain access to World Link, the Discovery channel, CBC (Canadian Broadcasting) ?? And I am equally apprehensive to study under anyone who chooses NOT to expand their reading horizons; whose choice of reading is always some version of what is deemed to have "literary value," (read: what white intelligensia says is good enough).

Disclaimer: I am not advocating or suggesting the reading of junk. I am not advocating any commitment to finishing junk once you identify it is junk. What I am saying is, there is GOOD stuff out there written by a multitude of GOOD writers who happen to come in all shapes, shades, and sizes. And since I am a very discriminating reader, I very rarely even make suggestions of books to read or buy because I know I don't read junk or listen to junk.

The other thing is, I don't read literary criticism. Why? Well, I can only repeat what Martin Lawrence once said about why he doesn't read reviews of his movies.

"What is a critic? A critic is somebody who can't do what you do, so they spend their time and energy criticizing what you do to put food on their table and keep the *!*4# bills paid."

So you can understand the energy in this room when this MFA holder reads my manuscript and immediately says that what I'm doing won't work, that it violates the rules. Whose rules? Her rules.

Imagine a camera, with the ability to zoom in and zoom out and shift the focus around the room. Okay. Point of view is like a camera. You decide whose eyes you're going to allow the reader to see through AND you decide the distance you want the reader. You either want them close in, which for example would be: "John stood in his kitchen slicing the apples," or far away, "In the whole state of Chicago there were few men that knew what they were doing. Few like John, who knew that the only thing to do on that blustery, cold day was to grab a knife and start slicing the apples." Or, you can get really, really close and bring the reader all the way inside a charachter's head, which would read, "Damn, that Pearl. Should of never followed her to Chicago." This is called Interior Monologue.

What I've done, in the very first scene of my novel, is I have gone all the way inside my charachter's head and give four lines of interior monologue. Mine is the story of a man who embezzles money from the federal government only to find himself at the center of an organized crime ring he can't get out of. He embezzles the money not for financial reasons but personal reasons (charachter flaws) and later we see him forced to confront his weaknesses which invokes personal change / personal transformation. I open the story right in the action.

She says, No...no...no. She says there's no way she wants to go that far into someone's head without knowing who this person is, where they are, etc. I say, you need to read the next paragraph. She says, it won't work. It's got to come first. She says, in movies no camera ever goes that far in; you always get some story before hand. I say, bull-crap. I ask, have you ever seen Speed? or Heat? Heat opens up with a heist. You have no idea who these six men are, what led them to the heist, who they're working for, etc. etc. You just have to wait and be drawn into the story. She wants Steel Magnolias: a flowery setting, language and build up. I say, you only have two pages to work with when you're asking a browsing consumer to buy your book. Three pages. If the first three pages are not captivating, a browser moves to the next author in the alphabet. I know, because I'm one of them. She also did not like Lovely Bones (thought the hype was unwarranted) and when we talked about first person, present tense narratives and I gave Stephen Carter (Emperor of Ocean Park) as an example --- mind you, this black male got a four million dollar book deal for this and another book, according to my copy of Publisher's Weekly --- she says, well he's just a lawyer who wrote a book.

Excuse me? Hell, give me the law degree and the four million, I don't care.

Well. Let's just say that we did not see eye to eye. And lastly, when talking about craft and inspiration, a white woman next to me quoted James Baldwin who said, "You don't get the book you want, you get the book you get," meaning you have to allow yourself to write the story as it is, not as you think it should be, the instructor totally dismissed this woman and brought up some non-applicable quote by Gore Vidal.

So after the first day, I left feeling so dejected. So alone. So misunderstood. I called Spouse who reminded me of all the other stuff I've published and written. He reminded me that opinions are like assholes, everyone's got one. He reminded me that I have talent and with commitment I'll be okay. He reminded me that I was there to learn point of view, not fall in love with her. He reminded me that most literary types only see value in their own limited selves and to try to bring their minds out of that is an exercise in futility. A few of my classmates, who'd read the piece I brought, pulled me over and said, "Angel, your opening is really, really strong. I feel like I want to read more. It's really good and I don't think you should change one word." Another said to me, "You are really, really good." I thought of all my Earth angels who'd read this opening too, who offered critiques here and there and helped make it as good as it is. I felt moderately better, but I still headed down to the cafe for a margarita after the class was over.

Outside, I went on a stroll and walked into a bookstore. I yearned for my ancestors: Langston, Zora, June Jordan. I wanted them and if I could have invoked their spirits to join me back in my room for a discussion about what's really wrong in the arts community, I would have. I yearned for them and searched the shelves for them. I found, Their Eyes Were Watching God and The Ways of White Folks. Two copies, one of each. Isn't that just great? In a whole store of books, one copy of each and both had stickers placed over the publisher's price. The prices had been inflated by the store owners by two dollars apiece. I was even more insulted.

I wandered further down the road and for some reason the title of a new CD I'd been wanting came to me. The name is Salt and the songstress is Lizz Wright. When I turned the CD over and read the lyrics I knew that God had been with me; that all those feelings of rejection, misunderstanding, were just feelings. All those thoughts that crept in "Maybe she's right, maybe I need to change this whole thing; Maybe I don't know what I'm doing," were just thoughts. It became clear to me, as if someone had spoken it into my ear: Girl, you don't change a thing. You've got it right. It's right because you know it's right and you will know when it's wrong."

These are the lyrics:

How can you lose your song
When you've sung it so long
How can you forget your dance
When that dance is all you've ever had
It must be true
You can't separate the two
It's impossible to do
Just like the salt that's in the stew
It's all a part of you
One thing that life can't do
It can't take your song from you.


As I raced back to my room, my ancestors seemed to flood my mind.

Gwendolyn Brooks: "My last defense, is the present tense."

and Alice Walker, my elder: "I work for the ancestors."

and they reminded me, like Langston above, what it means to be a Black artist, a Black female artist in this society. And they reminded me of what they have had to endure and what I will have to endure, if I'm to leave any lasting impression in the world. They reminded me that it is my duty to tell a good story, but it is my right to tell it in the way that I see fit. They reminded me that they are still here with open arms, constantly cheering for me, to keep coming.....keep coming.....keep coming, like a mother reaching to her baby whose standing and stepping for the first time.....they invited me to step into their footprints when I've lost my way and to always remember that I am not alone in my pursuit of art, in my pursuit of life, in my pursuit of truth.

Until next time,

Be well. Be Love(d).

ANGEL

PS: The remainder of the conference went well, after my talk with Zora and Langston, and the notes I brought home, coupled with the notes that last year's instructor snuck to me (notes on POV) finally made sense. I see where I'm going and what I need to do. And I can honestly say, it was really worth the time for more reasons than one. Oh, and lastly, if it means anything at all, the MFA lady self-published those five novels on Xilibris.com, which proves my whole belief about $40,000 MFA programs: they are no guarantee. It still comes down to you, your imagination and the page. And ancestors like mine.

Peace y'all.

TRAVEL NOTES - Part One

In order to develop a simple eye, we must shed our belief that only things that are dramatic have real value, and that the true meaning of things lie within their complexity. Only then can we begin to discover that simple things can have great power. One small measure of yeast can leaven an entire loaf of bread. A single mustard seed can grow into a tree of grand proportions.

Preparing to fly always gives me a certain measure of uneasiness. My heart beats irregularly. I am visibly restless. My mind seems unable to focus for long periods of time. It has nothing to do with 9-11 and everything to do with the very fact that as I age I am becoming increasingly aware of my own mortality; aware of the reality that bad things happen to good people everyday. I'm aware that anything touched by the hand of man has the potential to break, malfunction, fall apart. I'm aware that people take foolish shortcuts in the name of laziness; shortcuts that cost lives. Flying without my children makes me sick. Physically sick. I think of the possibility that it may be the last time I ever see them, and them me. I think of the possibility that they'll grow up without their mother, by some sick twist of fate. I'm always apprehensive, tearful, distraught. No matter how much I work myself up to believe that I DO deserve the trip I'm taking, I'm always left with balancing the benefit vs. the potential cost and I can very easily talk myself out of going, no matter how much I've already invested, no matter who's waiting on the other end to receive me. There's something about the known, calculated risk of flying that makes me downright afraid. Afraid that I have not done all I wanted to do yet on this Earth. I am not ready to die. I tell you, I'm a mess.

So anyway, the day before I'm to leave, as I stand at the mirror twisting my hair, I feel my stomach churning and I know what's coming. I start thinking about Kid 1 and Kid 2 and Spouse and I'm ready to call the folks and tell them I'm not coming. Kid 1 had been asking me all week, "why do you have to go?," and "what are you going to do?" and "where are you going to sleep?" and "who's going to sleep with you?" and "when are you coming back?" and "what are you going to eat?" and the kicker, "Mommy I'm really, really going to miss you." And so in order to not transfer my fears to her, I did alot of hugging and reminding that it was only for the weekend and I'd be back before Monday morning swimming class. Okay, she says, clearly unconvinced.

One aside: Kid 1 is exactly like me in many ways. She's artsy and deeply contemplative. She's also a worrier. Why? Maybe there's some transference there, I dunno. But she is a worrier, which makes me worry that she's worrying because she's too young to be worrying. Let me do the worrying.

Anyway. So when I go to drop off she and her brother at grandma's (and her rolling luggage, even though she's only staying with grandma for three hours but hey, Mom's got rolling luggage so Kid 1 has got to have her luggage too) ... she seems okay. Okay with the fact that I'm getting on the airplane. Okay with the fact that I won't be there, at home, for two nights. Okay that Dad will be the HNIC. Well sorta. She says to me, "Mom, please tell Daddy not to be so mean while you're gone." Dad does way more disciplining than I do which makes him mean and me good. So when we get to grandma's and everything seems cool and she's giggling and putting on her baby act, I turn to tell her, for real now, I've got to go. And all the laughing stops and her eyes, big brown and watery, plead with me to stay. She's pulling on my arm, for real, pleading with me not to go.

Stage Right: Do we have any daggers over there that we can plunge into the heart scene??

But I've got to go. For more reasons than she knows and I care to explain. So grandma, being the good grandma she is, pulls them both off me like a pair of ticks, cuddles them in her arms and tells them that Mommy's got to go and she'll call you as soon as she gets there. And Kid 1 turns her back to me, clutching the little pillow that my mother gave her when she was born and I can't help feeling that sick, sour stomach I'd felt just 12 hours earlier.


PART TWO

In the air, I see the Earth from a different vantage point. I see the streets and highways that wind and twist like veins and capillaries. I see the houses, tiny from my view, like the pieces from Kid 1's Monopoly game. I see dense trees and am reminded of Kid 2, who never likes me to call broccoli, broccoli. He insists I call it "trees, Mommy." I see a setting sun that washes the clouds in the most beautiful mix of pink and tangerine I've ever seen. In the air, I see all that God is responsible for, all He has to deal with, coordinate, figure out, keep going. I'm deeply humbled and can't help thinking how miniscule our situations are in comparison to THE GRAND SCHEME. Why do we---I---worry like we do? The sun will not stop shining simply because boyfriend didn't call. The wind will not stop blowing simply because the pink slip has just arrived. The earth will not fall out of orbit just because she announced she wants a divorce. LIFE GOES ON. And life is happening. Staring into the pink and tangerine of the clouds that look so delicious I wish I could break open my window and touch them, I am determined to LIVE MY LIFE. I'm serious. LIVE MY LIFE. I am going to organize and prioritize so that I don't have to fear the un-done; so that I can fit in those things I've always wanted to do but keep saying I lack the time to do. I am determined to LIVE MY LIFE, void of excuses, unhealthy fears, irrational apprehension .... so that when that final day comes, I will meet it with some degree of satisfaction. I am determined to stop thirsting for that BIG THING and try at least to see the beauty in all things, the value in all things, the worthiness of every experience. Even those things I grapple with most. No small feat. But I can try.

And since it's now, uhm, 11:47 pm and Kid 1 is afraid of the dark and Kid 2 keeps sneaking out his bed, looking for me, I'll have to continue tomorrow.

Coming Up: Notes on the workshop and more valuable lessons.

Be Well. Be Love(d).

---A.

DEEP BREATH, HEAVY SIGH


Thank you, Unseen Spirit, Creator of all things for taking me and returning me in one whole piece. You were not obligated to do so. Thank you for the spirits I've had the good fortune to meet along the way. Thank you for all the knowledge you've poured into me this weekend. Help me, Father, to turn it into wisdom. Thank you for erasing the fears when they arose, the disappointment when it reared it's ugly head; thank you, most of all, for crushing the doubt, stamping it beneath your holy feet. Thank you for bringing me to my knees, once again, to commune with you.

Thank you, Unseen Spirit, Co-Creator of all things, for holding me at your breast and keeping me warm; thank you Mother Earth, for spreading your beauty across this whole creation for ALL to see, enjoy, experience. Thank you for all the beauty my eyes have captured: emerald, azure, tangerine, violet ..... both on land and in the air. Thank you for nourishing my body and mind with good food. Help me to be as good a mother to my own as you are and have always been to me.

Thank you, my Unseen Parents, for the money, the time, and a very supportive and loving husband who helped make it all possible.

It's good to be back home.

---a.

CALLING A SPADE .....

...... a spade. My girl nakachi is ALWAYS breaking it down! I love you girl. Read the article then scroll to the comments. Can a sister tell it like it T...I...S or what?

And I couldn't agree more. No different than my overhearing the women in the mall, thinking they're cute, saying "Go girl." That is soooo last decade. Is anybody saying that anymore? And "chill out." That's another one of their favorites. That's like two decades ago.

Hilarious.

ANGEL

WHOSE STORY IS THIS ANYHOW? POV

Fiction is a narrative - a tale told by a narrator. Who will tell the tale? Through whose eyes will we experience the fictional world? How much is the narrator going to be allowed to know about the inner thoughts of the charachters and about the story's events? Through classroom writing assignments and exercises, we'll describe and define the advantages and limitations of various points of view as we work to master transitions, psychic distance, outlook and narrative voice.

Outta here this Friday. This is the description of my second workshop at one of this country's best writing conferences, hands down. People come from all over the country to learn how to do it better. Though there's much I could have done with the money, I prefer to advance my skills as a writer. Found a flight further away from my home than I would like, but hey, it could be worse. And I'll be solo for three days while Spouse has his turn at balancing the yin and the yang of Kid 1 and Kid 2. They'll be okay. Last year I worried. This year, ahem, .......they'll be aiiight. So anyone interested in discussing POV after this weekend, hit me up with questions. And since I've got to get myself, my submission and my wig tight before I go, I may or may not be blogging before my Monday return. If I do, it's because I've got something pressing on the gray matter. If I don't it's because I need time to get the gray matter in condition for receiving this much needed information.

Be good.

--a.

MAMA-ING

For a long time, I have wondered about women who love being mothers; who talk about their children (and blog about their children) ad nauseum. Women whose first, middle, and last sentence has something to do with their children. What the child has said or done or learned or just overcome. What movie or book their child absolutely loved. What sale they caught and all of the items they were able to snag up at 75% off. What trip they're going to take their child on next. I have even found myself admiring these women at times, most of whom have had three or more children, who seem to be in absolute love with being a mother, who never seem to tire or bore of it, who seem to have it all right and in perspective, who seem to be not even the slightest bit concerned that there is a world beyond the sandbox; who essentially seem as if they were created to be nothing else besides a mother.

I am not one of those women.

There are days that I feel like a military recruit, 18 years old, who calls home to Mom after receiving his first head shave, and whispers below earshot of the rest of the troops, "Mom, I want to come home. I changed my mind. I don't know what I'm doing here." There are days that I absolutely feel like a woman I met yesterday. This woman has just moved here from North Dakota, off the reservation where she has lived all of her life. Squinting against the sun, she whispered to me "I miss the reservation so much. It's just too confusing out here for me." I know her pain. There are days that I truly worry about myself. I worry that I will get twenty years into this thing (motherhood), kids successfully off in college and I will wake up and not even recognize myself; I will not even know the woman in the mirror -- who has skipped way too many meals, slept too little, forgotten too many vitamins, not learned the four other languages she had intended to learn and cannot, at times, even remember her own telephone number. I fear, honestly, that I will age without having done those personal enrichment things I've always wanted to do; without having had enough time to really enjoy life because for years I've been pouring more out than I've been taking in.

Of all the women writer's I know, Anne Morrow Lindbergh has said it best in her outstanding book, Gift From the Sea:

With a new awareness, both painful and humorous, I begin to understand why the saints were rarely married women. I am convinced it has nothing inherently to do, as I once supposed, with chastity or children. It has to do primarily with distractions. The bearing, rearing, feeding and educating of children; the running of a house with its thousand details; human relationships with their myriad pulls--woman's normal occupations in general run counter to creative life, or contemplative life, or saintly life. The problem is not merely one of Woman and Career, Woman and the Home, Woman and Independence. It is more basically: how to remain whole in the midst of the distractions of life; how to remain balanced, no matter what centrifugal forces tend to pull one off center; how to remain strong, no matter what shocks come in at the periphery and tend to crack the hub of the wheel.

The 33 million dollar question. And who among us has the answer?

One of the things I lack is a close network of creative friends who are also mothers. The creative friends that I do have either don't have children or are dealing with empty nest syndrome. Well, my nest is full so I can't relate to them and most often they can't relate to me. The few creative friends that I do have are far away and because they are taking their destinies into their own hands (as am I) most are not able to fly around the country visiting and are equally unable to call on the telephone often. (We artists have to keep the expenses low if we're going to do our art). Though I love receiving email, let's face it, there are times when you need a sister fried (or brotherfriend) to sit down next to you with some Dunkin D's and listen to your plight. And understand. There are times when you want to feel human and not electronic.

I had thought of starting a collective, a mother/artist group, where we women (both married and single) could come together to raise our children and nurture our art collectively. A small group that would agree to exchange childcare or other services that would enable each of us more time to pursue our work without worrying how much it's going to cost or will I make it back in time before the fees kick in. Let's just say there's a painter in the group who doesn't necessarily need childcare but who's got an opening she wants to go to and is pressed for time. Dinner's got to be made and the kids have to be picked up from school. No problem. If you're part of a collective, you call up one of your member mom's and ask if she can pick up your kids that day in exchange for you watching hers one evening while she writes. The members come together (say once a month or every other month) to know each other, fellowship, break bread, talk about our work. Members agree to exchange services...not usurp others' time. Members have contact numbers, emergency numbers and all pertinent information relative to the child they're taking care of. The germ for this idea came from a brotherfriend who is writing a book about Mumia Abu-Jamal and traveled to San Francisco to collect some material essential to his book. He stayed in a private home of women who started a collective much like what I'm describing. These women were activists and artists, committed to both their work and their children. They created the collective for many of the same reasons I've said. But that's San Francisco and I'm on the East Coast where folks are as conservative as apple pie. Where folks are proud to be Americans. You get my drift.
So there is little art. And there ain't much activism. And there ain't many folks like me, who say, hey forget about that master's degree, I'm writing the book I've always wanted to write. I'm living the life I want to live.

Soo....here I am today, worrrying about me. Worrying about this whole task of mothering. Wondering at times, if I've got what it takes. Tired as all get out. Kid 1 awake and alert the minute the sun rises till the time it sets. Washing clothes, preparing meals, keeping the house functional all the while trying to balance my art and give them what they need and deserve. And since I know there are those who will bark, "Why are you complaining?? You should be glad to be a mother." I will simply say up front, I'm complaining because I'm human, cause I've got the right to do so and if you don't like it, you can click your back button till you get to the page you were on before you arrived here.

Nuff said.

And to those who understand, thanks for dropping in.

Be well. Be Love(d).
---a.