Words Summon...

Today was a special day. For the past couple years, pen has been placed to paper in a Moleskine Classic. The blank pages allow freedom, unlike the lined notebooks that make a writer stick to uniformity. The purchase of a new journal marked the completion of the one before. It presented the notion I could leave what was written in the pages behind, start anew: fresh.

But this isn't reality. That last notebook contained many of my thoughts and ideas that I couldn't fully form into words. Secrets that continue to haunt me with their lack of clarity and structure. Ideas that never came to fruition.

As a writer, words are building blocks. Words allow the possibility to make the intangible tangible. Words provide insight and decode all that is mystic, uncertain, and difficult.

Brushing hand over binding of the journal, it mocks me. Nothing is bound, no matter how hard you try to lock the diary, the past trespasses upon the present. The words are missing. The wrapping is still smothering what I can only imagine are pristine pages. Life has become a foreign language not yet learned. All efforts to connect block to block lead to a tumbling tower, and I am left the child, sweeping the mess of LEGOs off the floor into a massive bucket. Each noun, article, and verb creating a swirl of colors. The mix intrigues me, but they are liquid with no foundation to hold them together.

And so I type. I type instead as this feels fleeting. The idea not essential to place on flesh of page.

Fifteen Minutes...

With all the talk of needing to find the time to write, I find myself a hypocrite. For the last year, every class that comes my way there is a moment in the quarter when these words are uttered from my mouth:
  
“You just have to do, it. Write. Find the time to write. Even if it’s only fifteen minutes a day.”

And then what do I do. I spend the week, bouncing from one job to the next, free time is spent developing lesson plans, searching for full time work, or cooking a rare dinner in the hopes I have enough calories in my system to not fall over while teaching.

What isn’t found in my routine; what I preach every quarter.

Make the time to write.

I’m tired of it. Being a hypocrite is not what I want to be. I want to be that instructor whose students look to and say, “Well, damn… If she can do it, so can I.”

So I have fifteen minutes to write before the thirty-five minute drive to teach class. And in this rare fifteen minutes, I have found time to write. I have also decided I must write at least fifteen minutes a day. I must find the time as I tell my students they must. And so begins a new journey for this blog, journal, thingumabob, or whatever you want to call the random postings I’ve been placing haphazardly on-line the last few years.

It’s time to write every day, all the time, maybe even for contests. I don’t care if what I write is drivel to most, what I want (what I think all writers want) is that rare moment when a sentence works; a moment when it all comes together, even if it’s just one paragraph out of many. I promise to you I will write, and when I say “to you,” I mean me. Who knows where the words will take us. No matter where, it will sure be better than sitting in an office chair crunching numbers. It will be better than the re-run of Criminal Minds you have seen for the hundredth time (no offense to the T.V. show, as you can see I was willing to watch your show repeatedly). Not anymore though.

In fifteen minutes, I could walk on sandy beaches while having my cat cuddle with me in my chair as I type. In fifteen minutes, I could be inventing a machine that doesn’t exist and flying across galaxies. In fifteen minutes, I might be in a fantasy kingdom with strong and vivacious princesses and cunning masculine knights (did you notice how I threw a bit of romance in there). With fifteen minutes, I could change my life.

I have fifteen minutes, do you want to listen.

How do you play?

Recently, I've been asked quite a bit, "What do you do for fun?"

The true response would be, "I play with words." But I don't think most people would understand this. It's more than reading a good book at the coffee shop in the sun. It's more than sitting at home with either pen and paper or computer for my writing.

I play with words daily through my conversations with people. Twisting and turning word definitions, the context of a conversation, and placing cultural signifiers into a game of:
"Did You REALLY Just Say THAT!"

Let me give you an example from last night:

Me: (Asking one of the various questions I have running through my head every second.)
Josh: (Answered without actually answering the question.)
Me: (Silent and contemplative.)

Josh: "I like it when you're QUIET."

Me: (Laughing hysterically.)

You had to be there.

But yeah, I play with words.

Chance Encounters II...

And Salt Lake City is blanketed in white....

Again!!!

I'm going to say it. I'm truly looking forward to January being over. For the past four days I've been chiseling sections of ice off the alleyway that is the driveway to my house (and surrounding neighbors). Each day, two hours of slamming ice with a plastic snow shovel in the hope I won't slide into a neighbors car. I'm waiting for warmer weather, for walks in the Spring night air. For a walk in general. This month has been one of those where I feel like a trapped animal. Only, I have hot coco mix to keep me from going insane.

But every now and then, I escape. Escape to the local coffee shop and sit mingled with others looking for a warm place other than their home. Looking for conversations with real people versus the glowing characters on a T.V. screen. And every now and then you get one of those moments where the snow, grey skies, and inversion all melt away because of the simple act of interacting with other human beings.

As I walked into my coffee shop today there was a young girl, no older than three, getting bundled up by her mother. Puffy-warm jacket on, mittens in place, and knitted winter hat being adjusted. The girl pointed at me and said, "I like that girl." As her mom didn't respond, she pointed and stated again, "I like her."

Sometimes that's all you need. Someone you don't know telling you that you're alright in there book. And so I sit in the warmth of the coffee shop, as the snow descends on the roads and sidewalks, smiling. Someone likes me. :)

Chance Encounter...

You never know who you'll meet who might change your day. The past night I had a five minute conversation with a man on the street. Somehow, he said the exact words I needed to hear. He said them with sincerity.

"I want to read your book."

...

I've been frustrated lately with my writing. Some of you know, I'm working on a book about personal family issues. The writing has been taking me through a ringer of emotional ups and downs. 

So I distanced myself form writing, from the issues, yet again. But it keeps pounding in my mind anytime I have a moment to breath.

I took some advice from the author of Eat, Pray, Love. She spoke on an NPR program and stated she talked with her creativity (muse, writing voice, or whatever you want to call it) as if it's a person. It was a challenge. Give creativity time as you would a friend. Let it know your intentions, as you do in any good relationship.

This gets a bit tricky, because as you speak out loud to creativity, people around you tend to think you're going crazy. Being viewed as crazy might be worth it though. I asked recently for help from creativity, for guidance, for support, for courage. And she provided me a stranger on the street to talk "story" with, to give me encouragement that even if some people don't want to hear what I have to say, one person does... And one person can be everything.