Deep Freeze and Closets

Back in October, the lovely Beki and I spent a long weekend at the beach at our very own Writer’s Retreat. The whole weekend was wonderful. Lots of laughing, walks on the beach to talk about story and work off too many doughnuts, and lots and lots of writing. Since then? I’ve written Nada. Nothing. Zilch.

It’s been very depressing and frustrating.

For much of the time since October I’ve struggled with the thought that maybe I wasn’t meant to be a writer. By writer, I mean published writer, but I also mean just someone who likes to tell the stories floating around in her head. If I couldn’t manage to eek out a sentence in seven freaking months, then maybe I was just kidding myself. Writing wasn’t where my future lie. Because if I were a writer — a real writer — I wouldn’t have struggled with having the energy to write, would I? I would have been able to get up early in the morning and write before going to the day job. I did that for years, why can’t I do it now?

All of this internal angst served to do little else but make me feel guilty, depressed and frustrated.
Then, last week, I had a bit of an epiphany. I realized that I’m not avoiding writing, I’m avoiding feeling. I don’t know about other writers, but when I write I have to open a couple of doors in my head. The first door is the door to the basement where “The Girls” live. “The Girls” are the muses that send me story pieces and then I have to figure out how the pieces fit together. But, the other door I have to open is the door to my emotions.

For me, and I suspect for all writers, I can’t write with any kind of truth if I can’t let myself feel what my characters are feeling. If my character is feeling pain, happiness, sorrow, or even love, I can’t find the words I need to paint the picture of my stories without letting myself feel those same emotions. I’ve always thought that writers and actors have a lot in common because we both have to insert ourselves into a character’s head to fully tell their story.

But, lately, there’s been one huge cloud looming on the horizon of my life that I’ve been studiously and actively ignoring. And, the only way to ignore it was to shove the door to my emotions closed and flip the lock. That “cloud” has been my imminent transition from single mom to empty nester. I’m writing more about this over on My Not So Empty Nest blog, but how the whole experience is affecting my writing goes here. What hit me upside the head like a giant two-by-four was that I’ve been avoiding dealing with all the sadness I feel about Sunshine going off to college, and in doing so, I’ve locked my emotions into a deep freeze. How am I supposed to write when I can’t bring myself to open that door? Subconsciously, because, again, big time ignoring going on, I’ve been scared that if I open that door, what I’m feeling about Sunshine going off to college will escape and dive bomb me like crows in an Alfred Hitchcock movie and I won’t be able to get the door shut again. Nor would I be able to crack open the door and just pull out those emotions I need. Nope, doesn’t work that way for me. I’m an all or nothing kinda girl. That door is going to be wide open and breezy, or closed and locked up tight.

So, what’s a writer who can’t let herself feel to do? Well, in my case, I came home, numbed myself with TV and skidded off into the ditch. For seven freaking months. I’ve read that the first step to fixing the problem is naming the problem. So, I’ve taken the first step. I’ve named it. Fear. That’s pretty much what it comes down to. It’s not pretty, but there it is, the Truth. Well, my Truth anyway.

I’m still having moments when I’m not sure I’m supposed to write. But, if I look at what’s going on in my head and in my writing space at home, my actions aren’t necessarily jiving with my thoughts. I still have my collage of the current WIP sitting on my desk. I still think about the characters. I still think about other stories I’d like to write. I’m still buying stickies to use for specific stories. Heck, I’m still writing dialogue in my head. So, maybe I do still want to be a writer. Now, I just need to get my Truth to overpower my Fear and get me out of the ditch.

I’ll keep ya’ll posted…☺

Remembering Daddy

I’ve always been a Daddy’s Girl.  From the time I was a little girl, if I wanted something, I was pretty sure “My Da-aaddy will get it for me.”  And, he usually did.   But, a few years ago, the heart disease he’d been battling for most of his life finally won.

Daddy and me at Disney World the summer after I graduated from high school.

This past Sunday was Daddy’s birthday (And, yes, I called him Daddy and still do.  It’s a Southern thing).  He would have been 62 years old.  Way to young too not be here anymore.  Because it’s his birthday week, I’ve been thinking about him a lot.  His hands mostly, his fingers were like hot dogs and his palms as large as saucers.  Big and round and strong and rough and callused, stained from tobacco and working outside for so many years.   They always looked a bit dirty, even when they were clean.  He had large wide nails, very pink, the white part a bit yellowish.  He kept a pocket knife in his pocket and he would clean under his nails all the time.  Another Southern thing.  Don’t ask me why, I have no idea.  I’ve seen my brother and uncles do the same thing.

He always wore a pinkie ring with diamonds in it.  He also always wore a wedding ring, and sometimes other rings, and maybe a bracelet with big gold links.  Daddy liked his bling.

Daddy circa early 80's.

I have a couple of his rings and sometimes I take them out.  They won’t even fit on my thumb, they are so large.  My sister-in-law has one of them too.  She cut it down so she could wear it.  My fingers are too small for even that.  So, I keep them in my jewelry box and I take them out occasionally and smile and remember Daddy.

What is it about Daddy’s hands?

He had a big laugh and a wide smile too, his hair still a little blonde and fading back from his forehead.  I have his forehead.  Luckily, my hair isn’t fading back from it.

I don’t know why I remember his hands more than any other part of him.  I remember them working on the car.  I remember them picking me up.  I remember them holding my baby.

I remember them laying at his side in his coffin.  I remember my nephew, eight years old at the time, slipping a pokemon card in his right hand before the funeral director closed the lid.

It makes me cry to think about it.

I still miss him so much.

He always called me Chelle, and “Baby Girl”.  If he left me a message on my voice mail it would always be “Hey Baby Girl, it’s yo Daddy.  Call me.”  He was Daddy and I was his Baby Girl until the day he died.  It didn’t matter that I was almost forty at the time.  I was still and always would be his Baby Girl.  I call my daughter the same thing.

Daddy about ten years ago with my baby girl and my nephew.

As I’m writing this, it’s hard to see through my tears.  It’s been five years and I miss him every day.  He’d be so happy I’d moved back home.  That Sunshine and I were close enough that he could see us every weekend.  He’d be thrilled that Sunshine had gotten into her favorite college and everyone up at the local bar would know about.  When my brother’s new baby was born last year Daddy would have stolen him away to the local bar to show him off to all of his bar buddies.  He’s missed a lot by being gone.  And we miss him.

Happy Birthday, Daddy.

Breakfast of Champion…Readers

The incomparable Jenny Crusie had this link on her blog and I had to share.  What a way to start the day!!  Go to Gizmodo.

This particular toaster is not yet available, but once it is what a way to start the day!!

I wrote something!

I had a dream that turned into a scene!  Okay, it’s two people I’ve never met for a book I’m not writing (No, it doesn’t go into the book I’m supposedly writing) and I have no idea what going to happen with it, or what I’m supposed to do with it, Buuuuuut – I wrote a scene!

And for today, that’s enough.