Wringing Out the Old: in preparation for 2011

I'm emptying out in anticipation of the new year.  It's an odd feeling, not new, but I've never been so aware of this of my too-many phases.  The week before my birthday I traditionally cry and feel depressed (what a grand tradition!) which I accept as preparation.

Don't ask me for what.

This end-of-year emptiness, however, is deceptive. I am writing--finishing up--making nice--one of my 2010 short stories. It's been a boon year for fiction writing for me and may 2011 be a boon year for fiction publishing. For me.

The boon was half earned, if boon's can be earned, before 1989. My mom had saved every story I'd written up until then. I have already written about this. I found the stash earlier this month and have already sent out (submitted) at least four of the Lost Stories of Sarah Sarai.

There are one or two more I'm going to take a look a  tomorrow. Those may need some work. I'll have to decide if they are worth the effort.

This year I figured out a way, a sort of device so I could include family experiences in my fiction without plunging myself into pain or doubt, worry or grief. Maybe even looking back with joy? Nah! When at least one of the New Stories of Sarah Sarai is published, I'll explain more what the device is.

Have to go.  No promises but I probably should write something tomorrow and Friday, shouldn't I, given the year is about to end.   It was a hard one but a grand one.

All Fools Day, All Saints Day, the Tarot

I didn't become a Tarot reader, though that was a plan. The plumb line between a fixed star and intention is often bisected by will or choice. Or by the fact I couldn't memorize the cards to my satisfaction.

And by the way, today is All Saints Day. That means there are over one thousand designated helpers today. For me, that's enough meaning.

All Saints? Good topic. I immediately wrote All Fools, thought: It's quite a compliment.  In the Tarot deck, the Fool is the first card.  She's numbered "0." Definitely an air sign, without much plan, she leads the conga line of Tarot's major arcana and also of the eccentric, intuitive, original.

Some decks reveal the twelve astrological signs are in or hovering near her knapsack. She packs light but has everything needed, all aspects of personality, emotions, possibility, probability, strength, pitfall. Or so I say. Many others, too.

I'm asking the Fool to help me find a way beyond my concerns about process of the emotions and how people react to life--in writing and in life, though, really, mostly in writing. I need something different as I continue writing fiction, or else I'll feel I'm recycling myself.

I hope I return to the Tarot.  This posting feels light, incomplete, inconclusive, like the fool starting out for who knows where.

The artwork is from http://www.artfulalf.com/ and is by Alicia Lee Farnsworth.

Fiction and Frustration: The writing process, unemployment, e-mails.

Roman Verostko "Genesis"

On the one hand, my friends, I am not getting enough freelance work and am scared about my future plans. Well, there is only one plan right now, to hold onto my rent-stabilized apartment. So I look for work but am seduced--or allow myself, or pretend nothing is going to work out so I might as well. . .--by writing.

Case in point:  Monday I worked in an ad agency from two to ten (afternoon to evening), copyediting and proofreading. The flow was steady. I earned my money and return tomorrow, Friday. In between?

Tuesday morning I did the usual coffee drinking, NPR listening, moments of thoughtfulness, and started to "feel," for me a dangerous activity AT TIMES. This kind of "feeling," depressive, was the enemy for years.  I thought it couldn't be battled.

A friend of mine once  joked with me that we could have written a novel or two (or a year's worth of stand-up routines in her case) in the time we spent having feelings.

Tuesday as feelings descended I thought of a different friend, T. A month ago I realized I'd fallen back on my lazy non-writing ways and asked T. if I could email every day, for a while, to report. Five minutes. Two hours. Edited. Wrote. Like that. T.'s a good, as in goooood, writer, with a day job and a nice flow of output.

Soon after I email T. a responsive note appears with his output for the day. I hadn't planned on that part of the exchange, initially, and was, at first, only begrudgingly willing (or able) to read of T.'s work. I did the emails for a month last year with another writer who merely responded: Great work!

More and more, however, I knew T.'s output to be inspiration. On Tuesday when I was headed for that morass of depressive nihilistic thinking, I remembered T. Did I want to email "no work, I had to flagellate"? 

So I wrote a draft of a new story on Tuesday. I was at it (maniacally so) for five hours. I haven't yet taken a look at what I wrote--the steam of intensity is still too hot to allow approach--but whatever I wrote needed expression if only so it could be cleared and another story written. (Not saying it isn't good--I've written three new short stories this year and I'm happy with all three.) Just saying, well, who knows.

Time off, as in unemployed, makes my writing richer. Not being alone with my writing helps; definitely helps.  (I'm not a workshop person.) The balance between work and writing remains unsteady.