Sitting on top of the world

...can't believe how nervous and excited I am...

Recently I've been chomping my way through Writing Without a Parachute: the Art of Freefall by Barbara Turner-Vesselago. To keep up with the book I have to write everyday. Its been brilliant. Revealed my Writers Dragons and dredged up some long forgotten stories that have become little 'shorts' in their own right. I'll re-visit them some time in the future.

However, in the mean time, and the more exciting news is
 that it has has propelled me (like a rocket) to actually having a go at writing
 a 50,000 word (minimum) piece of work.

 (Unheard of for me. A total far-off fantasy. Feel like I'm sitting on top of the world.)

Yes I'm actually going to write a novel. I have signed up with NaNoWriMo with 80,000 (plus) others from around the world and committed myself to a month of 'just doing it'. I can't fail, the only goal I have is to have a go for myself. (The goal is to complete in ONE month: November.)

It's not for anyone or anything else other than me.
It doesn't have to be perfect, it doesn't have to have an audience or an outcome.
It doesn't have to be graded, peer reviewed, riveting, publishable, or best-seller material.
It simply has to hit 50,000 words or more in one month.

Just signing up with a blank canvas has propelled me forward. So far I've got:

• a rough story, 
• a bit of a skeleton/story-board, 
• several linked plots, 
• four key characters
• and  a focus and reason to write.

The real writing begins 1/11/13. But in the meantime I have developed the characters.

Already way ahead!  

I have never in my life sat down and actually run through a character development process.
Filling in details about each of the players including physical details, aspirations, perceptions, favourite foods, bad habits,  inner and outer personality traits, dreams, fears, hobbies, secrets etc, has already sunk me into another layer of the story.

I've surprised myself with the depth and twist of each of their characters. 

And especially the light and dark of the human condition that accompanies all of us. 

Just by doing this process I've stumbled across an intriguing parallel between two of the personalities that I wasn't even aware of. I am so looking forward to letting the story pour its own juice. The idea has landed. The scene has been set. I have no idea about the content. I'm simply going to sit down and write every night and let it flow.

All controls will be turned off. Inner critic, pedantic editor, merciless judge will just have to take a back seat and give the creative magic of a free-falling penstress lots of space to dance and sing and write.

Write through the block, write through the terror, write 'fear-ward'.

And here, just for you, a sneak preview at the very, very, very brief synopsis:

Three young women, a weekend summer music festival, and a tale that weaves and weeps both tatters and tapestry of  unexpected experience and consequence over the next decade of their lives. 

 Intimacy comes at a cost. Shame, guilt, fear and the need for forgiveness or revenge stalk the shadows, underpin life choices and demand attention.

I'll keep you posted

Lv D

Stoking the Fire

Ok; stoking the tale telling fire lately.
Got my motor running.
Daily practise installed.
Several approaches being tested and enjoyed.

Totally loving Freefall Without a Parachute. Working through the chapters and going 'fear ward' where the energy is..certainly stirring up some old tales. I'm really noticing my style of diving in. Not with the grace of an Olympian diver more with the circling tactic of an uncertain vulture...but when the moment is ripe diving in to the emotion of a moment or series of moments.

Following the wonderful guidance and stimulating prompts of this book is an interesting and inspiring journey. I am doing several 10 to 20 minute 'free falls' and an hour a day more intense writing block.

And a sucker for a challenge I've also signed up for the NaNoWriMo.
That is NAtional NOvel WRiting MOnth.
No sweat: 50,000 words in a month. More if you can.
So about 1600 words a day, every day. Good for a first draft of something.
What? I don't know. No idea. Just going to see what emerges. Ha ha.

So I am writing. Not blogging though.
I'll get back and share a few things later. It's nice to be pouring some words and nouns and verbs out of the grey matter though. Watching the ink treacle itself across the papyrus or decorate the LCD is my favourite play time.

Weather's starting to come good to...spring, then summer. Yey beach, sea, sun, fun! Bring it on.

Lv D

My sons birthday

Seems like the right thing to do -yeah- write something on my sons birthday.
My oldest son is now 20. Jeez where did that time go? Flick.

I stayed up late last night so I could be the first to offer him birthday wishes on Facebook. I know I'm sweet right! Ok and a bit mad. And a bit totally love my son.

He doesn't live with us as he's moved up to study at uni, share a crowded flat, play guitar and flip burgers in his spare time. So I didn't get to hang out with him, watch him blow out candles, unwrap gifts and other general birthday capers. But I couldn't stop thinking about him all day. I'd already Face-Booked him and rung him up first thing in the morning. I couldn't just keep contacting him all day. So I just sent him silent love puffs through the ether. (Yes, I've already confessed to being a tad mad.)

However my younger son, nearly 17, did have to sit and listen to my husband and I do the count down that went some thing like this...

 " ...at this time 20 my years ago  I was walking around the ward, stopping to rock every so often" 

Followed by hourly recounts of his older brothers birthing story. ( Not a pretty one either, far from natural and wonderful. More very long, hard work and then a very rushed emergency caesarian.) The worse thing is we didn't stop there. Oh no, no, no, no, no...

...we then continued to reminisce about the younger sons birth story. 

Also not pretty. Damned difficult - complete with two obstetricians at the end of the bed with white coats, goggles, suction cup and forceps, each of them balanced on one white gumboot while their other gum-booted foot leveraged against the end of the birthing bed. I told you not pretty. And I doubt that my 16 (nearly 17) year old really wanted the details.

Anyway it dawned on me that this is how you celebrate birthdays when your young have flown the nest. An hour by hour vigil and countdown to the moment. The very special moment, that no matter what the circumstance, will always and forever remain very special moments.

Life-giving, Life-time moments...

And I wonder when the grandchildren come along (if and when they do - no pressure - and at this point certainly no hurry), will I be sharing the birth story of my sons to my sons as their sons (or daughters) burst in to the world.

Life goes on...

Touching Hearts

It's been a while. Too long! I've been leading a blog-less existence. Stumbling around in the shortened light of a southern solstice. Seeking words and inspiration in the half-light. Misplacing ideas. Distracted by curious dark tales and fading shadows.

I've had quite a contracted solstice experience. Rather than being pulled in by my creative inner magnet I've been pushed in by the squeeze of the shortened days. 

A seasonal bottleneck. 

I've not felt like writing - instead I have been colouring-in. 

Yes I confess I find playing with soft pastels that can be smudged, rubbed and blended using all my fingers and palms very cathartic. I find the waves of colour, and ease of gentle mixing a great way to let go and just let the magic happen. 

It's aimless, goal-less and pointless. It has no actual rational adult-world reason. 

I don't care what happens, where the patterns start or stop, 

what it looks like , if it's finished, 

if it says or means anything. 

I let my tongue poke out, curl to the left and lick my top lip. I'm like an 8 year old deeply embedded in my own mysterious moment. 

I don't analyse the colourful pages. I don't label them. 

I don't seek any validation for their childlike impressions. 

I simply LOVE the experience. 

I love feeling calm, peaceful, unhindered, relaxed and creative.

Blank white becomes full colour. Lines flow, swirls appear, and my heart opens up. Truly, as I let go of the need to do anything but play, I can feel my heart peeping through a 

window in my chest; checking out the terrain.

Slowly she peels back the lacey curtain that veils her solstice view and recognises the magnificence of doing nothing; just being with a blank page. 

She stretches into the possibility of a long winter full of the beauty 

of smudged shadows and blurred pastels. 

She is touched by the innocence and the unconditional invitation to just let go and play. 

And she opens the window...

into the world of hearts.

Weeping Glacier

We cut a
Diamond staircase
Into the Misty Mountain 
Where maiden tears 
Kissed 
Rippling 
Frozen sea.
Aqua blue 
See through
Pearls and prisms
Graced resting giants 
frozen chest.
And wind whistled a
Sharp crisp call
Across the suspended
Ancient slippery vein;
That is slowly 
Slipping away

Shadows dance free

The naked woman who leaps

Into the painting of her own shadow

Bathes in the cleanse of the mother moon

Lets her Shadows dance free.

Feeding the Tiger

"The world is but a canvas to your imagination." (Henry Thoreau)

A sphere of infinite possibility orbits beneath your feet. An endless stream of nighttime stars and distant galaxies conduct orchestras of light and unknown echoes deep beyond the blackness. 

Yet you sit here stuck searching for a story. Something to anchor your creative potential; a bone to chew; something to get the creative juices flowing. 

You wish to salivate upon the empty page until it is soaked with your shine. Yet all that emerges is a stuttering dribble;a jagged rimless vessel of jerky words. Where no sense wished to emerge. 

You look to the moon, gibbous and gorgeous in the corner of the western sky.
And it smiles silver,
a friendly fang incising the dark. 

You are distracted by non flow. Confused by the conflict between the desire to create and the thickness of your fingers that wait for download. They are hungry to pounce across the qwerty map, devour vowels and consonants. But no you still dribble. 

You dally around the flashing cursor as if some lightening strike of inspiration may at any moment tremble through you.

And still nothing. 

You shut your eyes take deep breaths ...'dream me up a story' your mantra...dreaming a starting line. 'Give me a place to start on this canvas of possibility.'
 The harder you try to focus the more restricted your creative tendons feel.
Your mind has become your Achilles heel. 

Aaah and now your fingers are loosening up and there seems to be a slight swell of excitement. Like  the tide is about to change. Like the moon is about to tip some magic dust your way. A shovel full of wonder to twinkle over you.

In the absence of outstanding literary endeavour you pick up your pen. You choose to use this empty moment to develop characters. They're as boring as the blank page. You put down the pen in disgust and restlessness begins to pinch you.

You return to the keyboard hoping, praying for something to emerge, something, anything...and you wait. You keep the words flowing, that's what they tell you to do. 

Don't stop not now ... Keep going , just keep doing that... Aaarrrgghh like chasing the elusive orgasm. You know it's there but nothing seems to free it. Nothing seems to get you to the  point of no return. 

The sweep subsides it was just a tease. 

The mind returns chuckling at your foolishness and the fact that you thought you could just make a start and the rest would simply flow. 

Come on where are you. Impatience arrives. Not welcome but there nevertheless. You cast it a cursory glance but decide to truck on. Adrenalin begins to kick in. The race has started. Dopamine enlivens the neurotransmitters and the thrill of the hunt starts to bubble through your limbs. You can feel it. Searching, seeking, chasing that elusive tale, prose or bombshell thrilling creative moment. 

You crouch in the shade of the human brain panting, waiting, knowing it won't be long now and soon yes very soon all will be revealed.
The thunderous crack and roll of outstanding creative delight will pour through you, your veins will tingle and the tiger will be set free. 

The tiger will run from stand still into sleek speedy pursuit of the unsuspecting story line. You'll catch it by the tail, bite its neck, bring it to the ground and devour it. Belly first. The guts of the game. 

Blood and gore of unsuspecting bright pink flesh will burst and splatter across the page and you will shiver with delight. You will have conquered the drought. The famine will be broken,  the gods happy and the writer fed again.