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Tag Archives: HoW

Taxi Ride

13 Saturday Jul 2019

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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At Last, Diana Ross, disco, Flooding, flying, HoW, music, prompt, taxi

There was a time when I didn’t want to fly because I hated flying. You know, the act of flying. That thing where wheels up, pressed into seat and all the bad things happen in the first few minutes or the last few minutes when rubber meets the road when it’s all gonna be okay or it’s the moment you wished you burned your journals before you left home. 

            Then there was the time I learned to understand how the act of flying works: you get over the fear of the crashing thing and realize the bigger picture is you’re at the mercy of the airlines. Sure you ordered a ticket online (which no one taught you how to do, you figured it all out yourself, wishing you had someone looking over your shoulder to guide you and say good job!), then you marked the days you’d be away, getting ready for the big day like you were cramming for a test the night before hoping there’d be no mechanical failures or oversold seats or the other dumb things dumb airlines do.  It all works out, once you realize how flying works, and as long as you keep taking deep breaths and pretend you are a mourning dove flying or a dolphin diving you are fine.

            Then it’s all over and you need a ride home in the soaking thunderstorm that kept you from getting a gate, sitting long on the runway but that’s okay, too. It’s like being stuck in a subway car or the DMV. It’s inconvenient but at least you’re in one piece, okay?  So I walked the mile to find my bag (which is actually Dad’s luggage he never used) and went outside to see if there’s a Norfolk taxi black and white available.  Nope.  Life is full of decisions, you know, like should I sleep on the plane or watch a crappy movie that the chick with the prosthetic right arm is streaming across the aisle.  I chose the Eastside taxi instead of calling for the usual because I was so tired, I just needed to get home and didn’t care as long as it had four wheels and a go.  An elderly black man abandoned his fast food meal on the front seat and loaded my one bag. I told him where I needed to go, that I preferred the back way but he said I-64 was fine this time of night, no traffic, so I said fine, whatever. He drove like an old man and I liked it and then I was annoyed and then I liked it because I wanted him to move faster but if he did he’d be hitting the deep puddles that had accumulated during the thunderstorm I’d been sitting in at the airport.  Norfolk gets a lot of water but hasn’t found a way to drain it effectively.  He was a conservative driver and part of me was like “go man go” and the other part was like “thank you for not hydroplaning us into a terrible accident that makes me regret not burning my journals before I left.” 

And then!  And then.  He plugged in his music playlist and it all came home: Diana Ross of the 80s through the speakers.  Goddamn, I wanted my roller skates and silk shirt and forgot the airplane and my ache from sitting twisted so my elbow didn’t touch the other guy’s elbow and the crappy movie and leaving a writer’s nest and missing him singing ‘At Last.’ We made small talk. I told him to avoid the I-64 entrance across the way because it’s probably 3 feet deep by now, go back up town. He appreciated the advice from someone who’s lived here a while.  I tipped him good then dumped my stuff on the couch and slept like I hadn’t slept before. 

Perfect Writing Room

22 Monday Feb 2016

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

amwriting, HoW, inspiration, International Authors, USMC

It’s all so complicated, but we make it so.   Perhaps writers and artists, creatives of any kind, will recognize the idea that they can’t (won’t) get started until everything is just right. Just the right tools at hand, the right weather, the right amount of background noise (or none at all.)  We somehow get it in our minds that we can’t create until everything is juuuust right. Thanks a lot, Goldilocks. I blame it squarely on her, Ms. Folktale, taking away our ability to sit in a chair too hard, sleep in a bed too soft, or eat foods that are too cold. Everything has to be just right, we heard in childhood. Seemed to make sense. Life is all about comfort, innit?

So, not writing is so much easier when I have Goldilocks to blame for my problems. Or the fact that my office is too cold, or there’s too many people in the house, or I haven’t had enough beer yet to be in that comfort zone, that sweet spot that opens and words pour through.

So, to quote a friend, “Bullshit.”  The sweet spot don’t exist, it’s a myth. Successful people, not just writers, but creatives, executives, cubicle creatures, scientists, students, it all applies to them:  They succeed because they worked for it instead of standing around waiting for their coffee to be the perfect temperature, their mood just right, the stars aligned, who the hell knows what the sign is that tells them it’s time to begin.  Successful people just keep at it. They want to, have to, and the truly lucky ones are doing it because they are in love with it. Perhaps a degree is helpful, but how much does it mean if you never use your gift (after polishing the hell out of it since forever.)

I read an article online recently that darkened a shadow that’s lurked behind me for some time.  I allowed the idea to take roost in my head that the best way for my work to be taken seriously when submitting to a poetry contest is to have MFA nestled somewhere in the bio. I looked back at previous winners and felt my sweet spot go right sour. Oh god, there’s no hope for me–or any fledgling writer–how can there be, when the “literary elites” are the ones who dictate what’s great–and publishable.  I shared my ongoing fear with authors and editors whom I respect, trust, and look up to.  The responses were passionate, as expected. One was particularly thrilling for the beautiful language he chose to assuage my concern.  Their responses shared the same message:  Don’t worry about “literary elites.” Just keep working.  Great writing will always find its way to the top, no degree required.  I do believe they blew my MFA shadow away into grains of sand in the wind.

But. There’s always a but. All this writing talk leads me to yet another article found on Literary Hub, shared here for your perusal.  The perfect room. Another myth. What kind of moment it was when I discovered the perfect room to write in is the one I am in right now. Last week it was the library. Two days ago it was in a spiral notebook with my feet in the cold sand, sun warm on my arms, waves wandering in, not especially concerned with fledgling words. The perfect manuscript does not exist. There will always be room for one more nip, one more tuck. Sure, a really great cup ‘o joe and the worlds most comfortable pen (or laptop with silent keys) can make the writing experience easier, more pleasurable. But none of it matters if there’s no thinking, dreaming, or writing going on.  I’m not known for being disciplined. I don’t think Goldilocks was, either, but one of us is going to sit in chair too hard, burn her mouth on something spicy, and put some words together that someday, somebody will really want to read.  I am the perfect room.

Oorah!

Late To The Party

08 Tuesday Dec 2015

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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Concrete Blonde, Flash fiction, Harry Potter, Henry Rollins, HoW, Jane Yolen, Junot Diaz, muse, NYPL

I don’t know if anyone else remembers it, the first time they received a piece of mail addressed to them that wasn’t a glittery birthday card from Mom Mom wishing you happiness, Xs and Os, along with a starched five dollar bill wrapped in a blank sheet of legal paper. Today I think about a piece of mail addressed to me of all people, my name, how did they get my name, how cool is this, to get a bit of correspondence from the New York Public Library, here in this place where I kind of lived, unsolicited. It arrived like… well…rather like Harry Potter’s acceptance letter from Hogwarts.  It was an invitation to a talk given by well-known authors, and sadly the only name I can recall is Jane Yolen. I was maybe 15 years of age and there was no way, in that time of my life, that I could conceive of asking my parents to take me to the event.   My best friend’s father died and I couldn’t even ask them for a ride to the funeral because I didn’t know how, and I knew without need of an oracle that my Dad would never drive me to the hated city for any reason at all. It was a folly, that bit of letter, and the idea that I-I–had been invited was very cool but that’s as far as it went.  (As an aside, the other letters I recall receiving in those days were heart-shredding solicitations from PETA and the Republican Party, neither of which I subscribe.)

Some years ago I came across a book of essays by Henry Rollins titled “Solipsis.” I flipped through it and found the writing visceral, angry, fascinating, but I wasn’t ready for it: I was too young to understand.  I have rediscovered Mr. Rollins who causes my writing self to be disturbed, unmoored, get a lady boner, and hungry. NOW I get it.  I made a few mouse clicks and discovered he has a spoken word tour going on, and lo and behold, one in traveling distance!  I went to click on the “buy ticket” button only to discover both nights have been sold out.  He won’t be back within 300 miles of me mostly likely for the rest of the year.  Late. Gutted.

So many things have opened up to me because of that magic thing called ‘internet.’ It’s how I discovered a taste for flash fiction, came to fall into the arms of a cadre of writers who help keep my creative mind moving, and more importantly, their friendships.  Thanks to this thing called a Twitter feed I was able to attend a conversation with Junot Diaz.  There are so many events and calls for submissions I find it hard to keep up.  I am drowning in opportunity, and the only thing holding me back is me!   I discovered a talk about Tarot and the Poetics of Imaginary Solutions fairly locally, but I found out a little too late. There was no way I was going to be able to wrest myself from my job in order to attend.  This morning I regret not trying hard enough to swap days with someone so I could attend. It was a little adventure I declined to fight for. What did I miss? What might I have gained? How many adventures have I declined? Oh god, that’s hard to think about.

I have been late to the party so many times, like that night I fell into Social Distortion and never looked back, or the day I was captured by Concrete Blonde; blessings.   These bands have been around a long time, and I’m running around waving my arms going “Hey look this is awesome! Wow!” And everyone else is like, “Yeah babe, we know, where you been?”  Today I am sorry I didn’t fight harder to attend a little bookstore talk, a missed opportunity, adventure.  There’s a little adventure in every day, there has to be.  I’m not some scared 15-year-old without access to a car and handwritten directions to get me to the parking garage so I can get to the NYPL, to be surrounded by a bunch of people that outrank me in every way… right?  Oh god…

Today I will meditate on how to get hungry enough to take it all, fill my plate, devour fearlessly, and fill reams of paper with results.  And write, baby, write!

 

 

Bonewitch

06 Sunday Sep 2015

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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Bonewitch, Flash fiction, HoW, progress, prompt

The goddess wants me to tell you the story of the witch who lives in the blue school bus.

I hope tonight I will dream her whole life, and find the words ready to write in the morning.

9/7 Update: Her name is Bonewitch.  And she learns her sidekick’s true name upon giving her last breath.

Post-Prompt Letdown

13 Thursday Aug 2015

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

≈ 5 Comments

Tags

HoW, prompt, stereotypes

A writing prompt was posted the other day and I took interest in it.  The other writers did a smash-up job creating a story to go along with a black and white photo from a dark moment in American history.   I gave myself a few minutes to write to the photo.  Driving home from work I realized that I did a smash-up job gathering Southern stereotypes and dumping them on the page.  I realized what sets the others’ work apart from mine: their originality.   So I have learned from this. The prompts keep me learning, and I am so grateful for that.

Another Day In Paradise

11 Tuesday Aug 2015

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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Tags

Flash fiction, HoW, prompt

I could feel him standing beside the bed like he always does.  He was hungry but didn’t have the sense to open the fridge door and put something on a plate he could set his teeth into.  He’d always been this way, and it was natural that he would come to my bedside the way we went to Momma’s bedside and beg for breakfast because only she could fill our plates with love.  After he stopped poking me and grinning, I got up and took three steps into the kitchen to put breakfast on, sky just barely light and the night creatures still calling Katy did but Katy didn’t. 

There’s a lot of things I know and one of them is what Katy’s brother did, that’s for sure.  We’re going to collect him up tonight and remind him what happens to folk when they put one toe out of line.  The other thing I know is that it’s a good thing I don’t sleep naked.  

I can tell by the look in Jeffy’s eyes he’s still hungry, so I scrape off my toast and grits onto his plate so I don’t have to hear him bellyachin for the rest of the day.  And if he tells me “I sure was beautiful back in the day” one more time, I swear to Christ on a crutch I won’t feed him for the rest of the week.  

Our Hands, With Love

10 Monday Aug 2015

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Flash fiction, HoW, inspiration, International Authors, Iron Maiden, Moorcock

Today I experienced privileged conversation. We are not a secret enclave set out to dominate and rule the world. Writers have better things to do, but don’t forget, we are an insular breed. Still, we find a way to open doors and windows so we can inspire and be inspired, impossibly.  Creatives of similar minds gravitate to this place. Privileged because we “get it” and we probably live in a world where our spouses and children, our family tree, our bosses and everyone in between just totally does not get it.

When the internet was new to me, I explored everything I had a passion for–things that swept me away, things that elevated and saved me. I only knew what my soul stood up and responded to, what my writers mind reacted to and appreciated, recognized lines I wish I had written in the books written by Michael Moorcock, for one. He and Stephen King (and Iron Maiden) had the earliest impact on my writers mind.

By fate I came to a place that challenged me to write in the format of six sentences–flash fiction.  I come from a background of cathartic writing, often from the hood of a Ford Bronco beneath a moon and alongside the Hudson river.  Looking back I can see how far I’ve come, which doesn’t mean “I OWN.” It simply means I see the growth and want it to continue. By chance, fate, fortune, by the Universe’s manipulations, call it what you will, I landed on a page where my primordial, cathartic words were seen and I was asked to come, to be, to participate in a House of Writers.  True to form, I gave a thousand and one excuses why I could not come.  I was summoned, and despite myself, I went to meet strangers at a secluded chalet in the shaded woods of North Carolina. It was the best thing I ever did for my writing life and for my spirit. I wish grateful thoughts were dollars so my writing friends could be millionaires because they deserve it.  Later, we came together by the ocean, and I was reacquainted with myself and this Writing Thing that demands my care and attention. My love for words and for those writing friends only grows.

Today I focus on the words “privileged conversation” because sharing the foundations of writing is important to me. I was privileged to listen to authors sharing their origins, their interests, and what our future writings will be.  What I focus on is not so much the authors that inspired them. Instead I focus on what their passions are driving them towards today.  Meeting with these authors and creatives raises the bar. It causes me to examine my work microscopically and challenges me in so many other ways.  So. Your hand holds a lantern which lights my way. In my hand holds all soul and passion and destiny. It is my realistic hope that wonderful things are on the way. By my hand, holding yours.

International Authors meet-up

09 Sunday Aug 2015

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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HoW, International Authors, meeting

Much to do and little time to do it. But this is the old sin of a creative person, that habit of procrastination. We aren’t driven unless we are under the clock, or writhing with guilt?  But that cannot be the only thing that drives us on, it just can’t be. It’s unhealthy, so bad for the spirit. (Yeah, I didn’t just make that up. That’s the shades of Steven Pressfield and Julia Cameron hanging around with me.)

So we have to take care of our Selves because no one else will do it for us. Take care of our Spirits. And we have to make the proper amount of time to write, otherwise we will spend the rest of the day distracted, thinking about the notes we did not jot down, dreams from the night before, a To-Do list to keep ourselves on track instead of hurtling through our lives like a kid in a mine car a la Indiana Jones. Full disclosure: this is not something I’ve always done… this is a “new thing” in this writers life, and it seems to have fallen in quite nicely. And falls off. Then I pick it back up again…

So if it matters, gotta make a plan. Take care of the plan and allow for deviating from it because stuff happens.  But just make sure the words arrive, eh?

This morning doing some blogging and preparing to drive down to the city to meet up with a fascinating bunch of writers, authors, and artists of varied stripe. Looking forward to new faces and soaking in the vibe. Not looking forward to getting lost and walking around the same block twice, but hey. If that’s the worst that happens today, no biggie.  Note to self: Update flash drive files and take the right one with me, helloooo…

There’s been a lot of writing going on in my head lately and I think it’s because the House of Writers retreat is still creeping around inside my body like immortal red blood cells, unseen but doing their job, keeping the inspiration going.  I suppose it’s my job to keep vibe going, to put more fire on the coals, every. single. day. And whenever the words strike.  I miss my friends and wish I could see them all the time. I know “absence makes the heart grow fonder” and I know if we lived together, communal-like, we’d wind up getting on each others nerves, so I take the precious few hours allowed us each year and hold them close.  They are dearer to me than family, and maybe that’s a sin to pronounce, but I don’t care. Truth is truth, and that’s what this life is about.

Time to shift gears, not just in the writing but do the girly thing and figure out an outfit to wear. I’m thinking something black. With boots. And a leather wristband.  And a shirt, I suppose.

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