The Need to Write

I never feel the need to write more than when I'm stressed, wedged between responsibility and whim, on the edge of my own sanity. The semester begins and so do the stacks of papers to grade, classes to plan, committees to attend (and now, chair). That leaves little time for my own writing. The weekly essays I was getting out have halted, a screeching, smoke-building halt. I just don't have time.

But I have to make time because that writing is what keeps me sane. It's that simple.

So I'm stealing a few seconds between papers to come on here and blog. Because I don't have the time to work on anything longer. Because my trips in quiet solitude (or Starbucks solitude) are too few now to allow me to type out anything longer than a couple paragraphs of meandering thoughts. Because I want to write these stories that are swimming in my mind, reminding me of their existence, but I don't have the time to get them out. And it's frustrating. Infuriatingly frustrating.

It's not all gloom, however. In two weeks, I'll be attending the Sanibel Island Writer's Conference. I'm excited because I'll finally have a few days to write - just write. I'm hoping to attend some workshops on memoir, fiction, and young adult fiction. Maybe poetry, too, if I can fit the schedule. But my main projects now involve memoir/personal essay, fiction and young adult fiction, so that's where I hope to be. My hubby and son can enjoy the beaches and I'll enjoy the writing. I'm also excited because I have a manuscript consultation. I prepared and sent out the 10-page scene of my father's death and look forward to receiving feedback on it. At least I feel as if I'm getting some work done on my memoir.

I'm also waiting to hear back from Creative Nonfiction magazine and Brevity.com. I keep receiving rejections, but they haven't kept me down. Each rejection I receive puts me that much closer to receiving an acceptance. It also makes me better. I take that rejected piece, review it again, revise further, and resubmit. Sometimes, the piece is finished, for me, so I just resubmit. I wanted to submit a couple more pieces to Narrative Magazine and Glimmer Train (among others), but I haven't been able to work on those essays. We'll see if I get to make the deadlines.

But right now, my priority is to keep the words moving, dancing on the screen (or the page). My anxiety/panic attack this week is a confirmation that I need an outlet for my stress, and while others need to exercise, I need to write. Somehow, someway, I need to make that time.

Unhinged

I feel myself becoming
unhinged
the seams tearing
one by one,
breaking.
Submerged, perhaps,
but more than that
sequestered
inside the four walls
that bleed yellow into
a flowered wallpaper
like my father had in my Barbie house,
long ago, before he became unhinged.
The voices don't speak,
I hear silence except for the
pat-pat-pat of my heart,
the tempo rising so I cover my ears
but I still hear it.
Loud.
Strong.
My hands shake, my chest caves in.
I can't breathe.

Birthday Blues, or Singulair Side-Effect?

I've been feeling rather blue for the last two days. (I find that term so funny. Why blue? Why not maroon or green or yellow? The colors we associate with moods are interesting, for sure.)

Yesterday was a real doozy without a big reason. I felt odd, out of it. I couldn't make a decision and just felt lifeless. Sad. Overwhelmed. As if pressure were squeezing me slowly. My poor husband. It was my birthday weekend and Saturday we'd had a nice, small dinner at my mom's. I was okay then, only tired. Yesterday, we were supposed to go to a wedding in the afternoon and I was looking forward to dressing up, going out (sans kids) and dancing. It didn't happen. Earlier in the day, my husband tried cheering me up by forcing me to get a manicure and pedicure, which I hadn't gotten in several months, and it was okay. But it didn't cheer me up. All of this was minor and consciously, I knew it. I knew I had no reason to feel the way I did, but I just couldn't shake the sadness off. I felt like a dog wanting to shake herself after a bath but no matter how hard I shook, the water still clung on. I cried myself to sleep last night.

Of course, my son woke up several times last night, which means I didn't get a good night's rest. I woke up feeling better but the veil was still over me. I felt just like I did a few years back when I went through depression. There was no rhyme or reason; it just was. I wondered if I was feeling the birthday blues since tomorrow's my birthday, though that's new for me, too, because I love my birthdays. I love celebrating. I don't mind being another year older if I get to celebrate!

At work, I wasn't my usual cheerful self. I dragged through the day though I did start to feel progressively better towards the latter part. By the time I got home, I felt livelier. I didn't feel the pressure. I wasn't suffocating. I was aggravated and irritated by some things, but within my normal self. I was relieved. And then I thought - wait, I didn't take Singulair today. Click. My allergies were bothering me. They didn't bother me the last two days when I took them. Click. Oh crap - what are the side effects for Singulair? Click. So I looked it up, and here's what it says (online):

SINGULAIR may cause serious side effects.

Behavior and mood-related changes have been reported. Tell your healthcare provider right away if you or your child have any of these symptoms while taking SINGULAIR: 

• agitation including aggressive behavior or hostility
• bad or vivid dreams
• depression
• disorientation (confusion)
• feeling anxious
• hallucination (seeing or hearing things that are not really there)

• irritability
• restlessness
• sleep walking
• suicidal thoughts and actions (including suicide)
• tremor
• trouble sleeping

Great. That's the problem with any type of synthetic medications - side effects. Loads of them, too! Of course, I'm not feeling most of these, just a mild case of the blues (and maybe some agitation and irritability and anxiety), but still, maybe I'm going to skip the Singulair tomorrow and put a call in to my doctor. Just in case. Of course, I researched this after I took it this afternoon because my allergies were driving me crazy. Eh, we'll see how I feel tomorrow. I'm just happy to know that maybe this is just a side effect of the medication and I'm not depressed about turning older! ;)

Miami Skyline

I never get tired of seeing the Miami skyline. Or maybe it's because I don't see it that often that every time I have to drive towards Downtown and enter the highway, either from US1 or from 836), I suck my breath in and hold it for a few seconds. Awe washes over me and I feel poetic. You'd never think concrete buildings, glass, and towering structures could do that, but they do. As much as I feel I belong in the country (because, really, I'm a country, mountain girl at heart), the city sights really do it for me.

Today was one of those days. After rushing out of a doctor's appointment, and needing to head up north for a meeting, I decided to take a different route, one that took me by the city's center. As soon as my car entered the lanes of I95, I felt the change. The towers of white, gray and green rose from the side of the bridges and I inhaled sharply. It's beautiful. On either side of me, the buildings grew. Blues and yellows came in focus, adding to the palate. The glass window panels of the buildings reflected the sun; we had no rain today, so the clouds couldn't take away from the beauty.

The most striking part about this scenery is the contrast of wealth and poverty. I guess it's like this in many centers, but on that drive on I95, the differences are sharp. The roads need work, the cement sides are peeling, with graffiti in some corners. New buildings are erected everywhere, next to dilapidated towers, some barely standing. Camillus House stands next to the highway, reminding travelers of the reality of the homeless that, in this plummeting economy, have grown in number.

The pictures of the skyline are abundant. It's fed into advertisements for tourism precisely because of its beauty. It's undeniably impressive. But just looking at the buildings, really looking, gives us a glimpse beyond the facade.

New Bookmarks

Here are two more bookmarks. I have eleven more I'm working on, which I hope to finish sometime in the next week or so. It all depends on what happens with my writing and my grading.

My Love Affair: Starbucks

I admit it, rather candidly at first, my eyes downcast, my cheeks flushed: I have a love affair with Starbucks. Or, rather, with coffee shops with writing-inducing, relaxing atmospheres. There's just something about walking into a Starbucks (or the like), and inhaling deeply the rich scent of brewing coffee, that sets me right. It's my happy place. I can get a quick fix and just drop by to get my usual: a tall Caramel Macchiato; or, as I prefer, I can claim a table, bring out my laptop, set up my station, and just lean back and dive into my world, my memories. This is my time.

Not all coffee shops are created equal, not even all Starbucks's. The ideal ones have a few things in common: friendly baristas, good music that's not too loud (and I have no specifics for good music; I have an eclectic taste), and a collection of customers that come and go, leaving whispers of their days behind. That, for me, is perfection. Is that such a bad thing? Perhaps for my wallet and my waist line, though I do have my rewards card (so I can indulge in free coffee periodically) and I do limit myself (to one or two treats a day, depending on how hectic the day is).

So there. My confession for today.

Lost Treasures

Today I relished in a day off from having to drive up to work. No thirty-six-mile commute for me. Instead, after dropping my son off at school, I drove three minutes to the nearest Starbucks, where everyone knows my name (I have the melody from Cheers in my mind...) I parked myself there, with a venti Caramel Macchiato, and proceeded to rewrite the scene of my father's death. I had decided that would be the scene I wanted to benefit from the manuscript consultation at Sanibel Island Writer's Conference because it's been one of the hardest to write. It will more than likely be one of the last chapters in my book, and one that is still raw. It's been two and a half-years since he died, but I still remember every second of that day (though some parts have begun to fade along the edges and time has warped a little.)

I sat for almost four hours. I had a six-page "draft" I had churned out about a year and a half-ago. But it was all telling. It was a synopsis of what happened, but not real writing. So I put it aside and started fresh from memory, choosing a starting point that wasn't the beginning, and worked it. I ended with ten pages, the limit I needed for the manuscript consultation. I know I can expand it more, though I don't know if I need to. We'll see how the consultation goes. It's a deeply personal piece, one that I hope can stand on its own (in narrative) and that will be a part of the bigger picture (the book.)

After I finished, I had a quick bite at Subway (the usual - six-inch turkey and provolone cheese with lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, spinach, oil, vinegar, salt and pepper - I don't stray from that either.) Then I  returned a pair of shoes, and sat in my car, not sure where to next. I had at least another hour before I could go pick up my little one, since he was napping at school, and then it hit me: Go to mom's house. I had to go anyway, because she'd made some Abui yogurt and soup, so it was the perfect excuse to go and esculcarle for the music sheets my dad had written me.

It's always the same when I go to my mom's house: I expect to see my dad. Even though a chair now sits at the head of the dining table, which was his place, and since he was in a wheelchair, didn't need a chair, there was a glass of water on the table and a small prescription drug bottle on that side. My mom's taken it over, but it reminds me of him.

(Note: I keep saying house, but it's an apartment. We just always called it la casita when referring to it among ourselves.)

Anyway, my first greeting was a large roach on its back, dying. I sprayed some Raid on it, which caused it to start wiggling, causing me to itch. I despise roaches. I emptied out a small, white trashcan my mom had and placed it over the roach, giving it privacy while it died and giving me comfort that it wouldn't suddenly spring back to life and chase me. Ha!

I went into my old bedroom, where I last knew the music sheets were, and I started searching. I looked around, moved books and boxes, removed bags, and found nothing. I prayed - Lord, illuminate me, give me an inclination where these things may be - and then I looked up. On the uppermost shelf of the closet where things, only I couldn't tell exactly what those things were. So I moved a chair, climbed up, and moved some more. Sure enough, all the way to the back and right was a stack of folders and a white box. I got them and saw what I'd been looking for and so much more: awards, certificates, letters, music sheets, pictures, my baby book, school years memories, and old stories and poems I'd written! There was also a folder with information, schedule, etc. of when I played the bells for the superintendent of schools back in 1990 representing Everglades Elementary. Cool!

I came home with my treasure, eager to sift through it. I discovered (and somehow, I'd forgotten) that I wrote short stories when I was in high school, the early years. I remember writing poetry (really cliched, love-struck, rhyming poetry) because poems plagued my journals. But in a notebook, there they were: typed short stories with character development on a side sheet, typed in the first computer I owned: a hand-me-down dot-matrix computer! Insane. They were better than the poems I wrote (though that doesn't necessarily say much about my writing back then)!

The best part, by far, has been the letters written to my mom and me by my dad, back in early 1990 when he went through a health crisis. He went to Colombia to get better, believing more in the doctors there than those here. These letters now give me a glimpse into his desperation, frustration and, more importantly, love. His love for us. His affection. I don't remember that, and I wish I did. I wish I remember his telling me he loved me and he was proud of me. I wish I remember that affection. I don't, but I now have these letters as proof they were real.

What prompted the search, though, and which I found, was the song he wrote for me when I turned nine. He played the piano, and he wanted me to learn. He also wrote music and lyrics, mostly religious ones when he was a priest. (I have recently found his collection of sheet music with church songs.) Well, he wrote two songs for me, that I remember: when I turned nine and when I went to Colombia by myself (I was also nine, almost ten.)

Here are the words to my daddy's song (in Spanish, of course):

Mujercita eres ya
nueve son tus añitos. (Repeat)
El señor, que es tu Padre,
no te fallará jamás.
Siempre fiel a su amor.
Conducir te sabrá
por senderos oscuros
y llevarte a la gloria
de la ciencia y la virtud.

So yep, that was it. Short, but sweet and spiritual.

More Wooden Jewelmarks

 

More Bookmarks -

I've done a few more Wooden Jewelmarks, and I have a few more in the process. I'm looking forward to getting this on the road, and I hope to be creating either a website where I can sell them. In the meantime, look for them by word of mouth or at a trunk show coming soon! :)

Seafoam Star 

Red Lantern

More Bookmarks

Here are some more:

Latest Adventure: Bookmarks

Because I obviously don't have enough to do in my spare time *insert hugely sarcastic tone here* I decided to venture into new territory. I love pretty bookmarks. I love creative jewelmarks that hold the place of the story du jour while being aesthetically pleasing. So I set out on a quest at Michaels to find jewelry, ribbons, quotes, and other materials for my creations. I'm just getting started, so I think they're a little rusty, but still, I'm proud of my newest children.

Here are four that I recently did (I call this "The Wooden Collection):

Like with writing, the start is the spark that lights the ideas. I have all these ideas and themes for cute bookmarks. I started out with just a few paints in basic colors, so my next step is to look at different acrylic paints and stencils. I have other ideas, also, for materials. These are called "Wooden Collection" because they're made from wood. However, I'm have a few other possibilities in mind. Once I master the wood, I'll move on to the next raw material.

Goal, apart from unleashing creativity in yet another medium? I would love to sell these. :) Let's see how that goes!

The Twilight Saga

I reluctantly embarked in reading the whole series: Twilight, New Moon, Eclipse, and Breaking Dawn. I don't know why I was reluctant. Something about now being thirty and reading a young adult series discouraged me somehow. It wasn't meant to be proper literature, and after spending a decade studying "real" literature, I felt disconnected. Of course, this attitude was rather hypocritical on my part seeing as to how I'm an avid Harry Potter fan and that way back when I used to devour the Ann Rice Vampire Chronicle books. But that was eons ago, a different time and a different world for me. I think another reason I evaded Twilight, though, was the response my (female) students had to the books and, particularly, to the movies. So much was the teenage frenzy that, quite frankly, I didn't know if I could relate.

Well, I was sucked into this Twilight universe so quickly I didn't have a chance to resist! I read the first book, Twilight, in a few days. I read the second, New Moon, in two days (but really, about 6 hours, 3 each day); I read the third, Eclipse, in about 6 hours of one day. I became a Twifan, or whatever it is they're calling Twilight fans these days. Breaking Dawn, the fourth and final book in the saga, I read in a day. I became obsessed, donning a have-to-find-out-what-happens attitude that I think mimics the frenzy with which addicts take to their drugs. It was wonderful and disconcerting, all in one, and it resurfaced bits of me that had been long dormant, that I had pushed away in order to tend to reality.

It's not hard to get sucked in, though, if you remember anything about being 17 and in love. The intensity of first love, the power of finding out what these emotions do to you mentally and physically, is so vividly described in these books that I literally felt like I was 17 again, all giddy and giggly. I loved it! They're not perfect, but I loved them nonetheless.

So here's my take *warning: may contain spoilers*:

Twilight

I loved the characters from the beginning. There's a lot of criticism about the character Bella Swan, the damsel in distress who always needs to be protected by either Edward or Jacob. She's a hazard to herself because she's clumsy and a magnet for danger and trouble, but the connection between her and Edward is wonderful and Stephanie Meyer did a great job in writing and building the romantic tension between the two. Jacob doesn't have much a role in this first book. He's still a kid who has a crush on Bella. The main story here is Bella and Edward falling in love and figuring out that while they're so different (um, yea, one's human, the other's a vampire!), they still realize how much they love and need each other. It's a selfless, innocent love.

New Moon

I started New Moon eagerly, wanting to know what happened to the Edward and Bella, knowing that somewhere I was going to understand the whole Team Edward and Team Jacob thing. And sure enough, when Edward leaves and Bella is plunged into the rawness of a broken heart, here came Jacob. I was a little annoyed at times in this book because the relationship between Bella/Jacob very much paralleled that of Bella/Edward in the first book. The same song and dance was going on. He (now turning into a werewolf) claims he's no good for her while she neglects reason and safety just to feel loved. The dialogue gave me some deja vu. Still, it was endearing seeing their relationship grow from friendship to something more, even if Bella wasn't admitting it. I do think if she'd never jumped off a cliff, and if Edward hadn't thought she was dead, and if he hadn't gone to the Volturi and she to go save him, Bella would've ended up with Jacob. As a human, Jacob was for her. But the events happened the way they did and, of course, there has to be some action other than just the romantic triangle. I was sad for Jacob in the end.

Eclipse

Of course, once I started with the series, I want - no, I need - to finish all books involved. In between getting the books, I read anything online I could get my hands on. I read the summaries, I read Stephanie Meyer's website. I wanted more. I needed to know more about the characters. It was fun. ;)

So Eclipse I anticipated much more than the other two. The first, well, I didn't know what I was getting myself into. The second, I saw the movie first, so I had more of an idea of what was happening (more on the whole movie/book thing later). But when I started Eclipse, I had only an idea of what was going on because of the movie trailers (the film had come out recently, on June 30) and Stephanie Meyer's website. So I took to it like air for my lungs and I read. This was my favorite of the saga. The raw emotions in this book were fabulous. The romantic triangle came around full force as Bella realized her true feelings for Jacob and, even though that didn't change how she felt about Edward, it brought vulnerability to her character. The despair she feels when she has to tell Jacob good-bye is real and fresh. I was sorely disappointed that Kristen Stewart couldn't give that same emotion in the movie and that those pivotal scenes were left out of the movie. Of course, the whole vampire + werewolf coalition was great and the fight scene was pretty well done. But my favorite parts of this book had to do with the way the characters really came to life while making sense of their feelings.

Breaking Dawn

Ah. Breaking Dawn. I read it because, in my mind, I had to. I could not start the series and not finish it. I liked it, sure. It gave me closure. I didn't hate it the way some of the critics raged about it. I didn't mind that they didn't fight in the end; in fact, I agree that the symbolism behind the cover (the queen in a chess game) and the idea of mind over brawn was pivotal for this book. But I was disappointed. I wanted more. The romantic tension between Edward and Bella was so strong in all three previous novels that I was expecting more in this final installment where they actually get married, go on their honeymoon and *gasp* have sex. While I didn't want to read porn, I did expect a little more build-up to the "sex-scenes" - if they can even be called that. I wanted more romance.

The birthing scene was a little too graphic, but it didn't bother me as much. It's hard not to have a graphic birthing scene with the type of pregnancy/birth that this was: a half-vampire, half-human that developed and grew at an alarmingly accelerated pace. I mean, she was ravenous the day after their first time together! Her pregnancy lasted a couple months, and it broke her, literally. I do like that this was how she became a vampire, though, because it was an act of love in a way.

I have mixed feelings about the whole shift in point-of-view in the second section. I like it because I love hearing inside all character heads. I read the part of Midnight Sun that Meyer has on her website, which is Twilight told from Edward's perspective, and I loved reading The Short Second Life of Bree Tanner for precisely the same reason: I want to know more about all the characters. I have so much invested in this story, in these characters, that I want to know more about them. However, I don't think that the voices are distinct enough. While reading Jacob, I still thought at times I was reading Bella. Still, it was nice getting that other perspective.

The third part of the book is probably my favorite for Breaking Dawn. I loved seeing Bella transform from clumsy human to agile vampire, and I loved that she was able to skip through the whole "newborn" phase. She had control; whether it was her own will or whether that was part of her natural power can be contested, but it was great. I loved the introduction of all the other vampire covens and seeing Bella become the savior for her family. She was no longer the damsel in distress but the knight, ready to defend her family and thinking logically for the best move. I am undecided yet about how I feel about the whole Jacob imprinting on Renesmee, though. I thought that was an awkward resolution to the Edward/Bella/Jacob triangle. I guess the magic of imprinting erases all past strings, and I know that's what was being alluded, but still... I don't know. It didn't work great for me.

But I did get closure, sort of. I want to know what else happens to the new, happy family throughout eternity. ;)

Thinking ahead, I see so much possibility for using these books in my classes. It makes me giddy all over again! From making connections to the "classics" Meyer references in all four books, to philosophical questions about whether we really have free will to choose between right and wrong (or between what we're born into/with and what we want to be), to the history of all the vampire characters and important historical moments they cover. It's a goldmine!

The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls

This is going to be on the short side, and while I should be going straight to sleep, I have to make this transition from end of book to the mundane (have I mentioned I like that word?).

I just finished The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls, and I had to take a deep breath. This was a toughie for me. I spent the good first half of the memoir shaking my head and wondering whether I really wanted to keep reading through this dysfunctional family. I kept wanting the Department of Children and Families to go in and swoop the four kids away from those reckless parents. But then again, it wouldn't have left as much of an imprint, I think. By the end of the memoir, I want to know what happens and I'm rooting for Jeannette and her siblings to get out of that oppressive hole.

The Glass Castle is certainly a memoir about acceptance. Where Eat, Pray, Love contained a self-conscious, woe-is-me tone, Walls writes without blame. She is matter-of-fact, here is what happened, and she doesn't succumb to lamenting her childhood. It proves how strong she really is.

It's also a memoir about love, in a dysfunctional, different kind of way. It astounds me that two brilliant people like her parents could be so irresponsible. I have an almost-three-year-old son and I could never imagine doing the things Walls's mom did. I shook my head many times during this past week, while I read her memoir. I shook my head in incredulity.

I brought out my imaginary pom-poms, though, when she finally had enough and told her mom and dad off, and when she and her sisters and brother broke free. The parents became the children and the children the parents. Sometimes it's more obvious than others, and in The Glass Castle it certainly was obvious.

But the end. Oh the end. The part when her dad asks to speak to her and, in the same call, asks for a bottle of Vodka - that part reminded me of my dad. Not because of the alcohol, because my dad didn't drink, but because my dad's addiction to smoking was just as bad as her dad's with alcohol. In the end, I gave up fighting his smoking habits and indulged him. It killed him indirectly, in the end, but I still indulged him.

So I definitely recommend this memoir, but it's not for the faint of mind. Those with children, beware, because it has you clutching on to your own kids more dearly. I'm still amazed that after going through such a childhood, Jeannette Walls came out brilliant and overcame the set backs in which she was born.

Memories

My mother and I used to play Parques, much like the American Parcheesi, but the Colombian version. Mom and I would sit cross legged on our sofa and begin the game. This is back when I wasn't a teenage yet and my mom still had energy and hadn't been dragged down by my dad's illnesses. We were happy then, and we laughed.

The games would happen sometimes during the week nights, but more often than not, our Parques game night happened on Saturday nights, after dinner, and while we watched Sabado Gigante back when it was still somewhat decent and women were three-quarters clothes (as opposed to the now three-quarters naked women pushing their Latin sexuality on the audiences). Dad never played; this was Mom's and my game. I would go to the closet and bring out the box with the vibrant greens, yellows, reds and blues. Mom would sit on the sofa, trimming her cuticles while she waited. I'd set up the game and chose the color - Mom would always let me choose the color - and then we'd start. I won often, and sometimes I think she'd let me win. We would talk and laugh and enjoy that time.

Then Dad stopped sleeping and started taking some sleeping pills sent from Colombia. Our games stopped around then. We were in the 2-bedroom apartment with the den. My godparents had died in the 1990 plane crash in New York, and we had left Westchester for good. I was a new face, with glasses and braces, in a new school, secluded to my studies. That's when Dad started breaking more glasses, and when the screaming became ordinary. My mom and I would go walking now; no more Parques games because something would set my dad off and the board would fly, the game pieces would get lost, and my mom would cry.

I miss those games.