A Writing We Will Go...

I'm reading Adair Lara's book on writing called, "Naked, Drunk, and Writing: Shed Your Inhibitions and Craft a Compelling Memoir or Personal Essay". How's that for a specific title? She talks about how she and a friend compelled each other to write about 500 words a week based on a topic one or the other of them came up with. The catch is that they wouldn't talk about what was bad in the writing. instead, they would highlight in yellow what the reader liked. 

My friend, Poppy (not her real name, but I love that name, so "Poppy" she is...), and I are going to give it a go. At the very least, we'll get a few things back on track and it'll grease my inner brain cogs.

If you're interested in joining in, send a message to me on here.

If I were less busy writing, I'd have more to write here. Okay, that's not true. I've been busy watching all the new sitcoms and what not on TV - which, anyone who knows me knows this is so not like me. I'm the girl who spent 3 years without a TV while living in Berkeley. In fact, I used to leave my curtains open in my little luxury-spared apartment because even though I owned almost nothing except mismatched Tupperware, I still have 3 attempted break-ins. Not only that, my window, which slide open to the left, was left open and the idiots who tried to get in tried to jimmy the lock. Well, at least we know they weren't after the books.

Anyway, maybe if Poppy and I start this, they're be more to share.

Las Sirenas Gorditas... See High School Spanish Class Paid Off...

Las Sirenas Gorditas - See High School Spanish Class Paid Off...

About 4 or 5 years ago, a friend of mine and I headed out on what was supposed to be my one-year anniversary cruise but turned into my celebration-of-my-soon-to-be-annulled-ass cruise. I spent a week cruising up and down the coast of Mexico. One day found me ATVing from a tequila farm and production plant through the back woods of Puerto Vallarta just after the Day of the Dead celebrations, which meant there were these raucously decorated cemeteries with handmade headstones and fine, brushed dirt. Almost none of the windows had glass in them so that the thin curtains would flutter as we passed by.

Another day, I was riding through Acapulco on a hefty horse to match my hefty ass through a plantation filled with colorful parrots and macaws (it looked like) and then out through the streets and onto the beach where a young boy raced up beside us on his own mare with her colt darting beside her. They danced around at the young boy's commands, darting down the beach, through the water, back to our little entourage, and then bowing and finally sitting like a small pup, lifting his shoe to be shaken like a gentleman.

The streets were filled with buses and cars, but mostly bicycles. Even the mansions we passed had no glass in the windows, which is a strange thing to notice, I know. We passed the first church that had been built, which our guide instructed us was the habit as settlers moved about. They would firstly establish a church and then build the city or village up around it.

I saw my first honest-to-God bullfighting ring as we loped along the construction-filled roads in a bus that would take us through the mountains, hopping the median when traffic didn't move quickly enough. The ring was set aside, we were told, for the amateurs, the damaged but white-washed walls held together more by its cracks than by its mortar. Weeds grew up beside it and I tried to imagine how it would sound the next day, filled with anxious crowds waiting to relax and dispel their work week with Dos Equis and handmade cigars.

One of my most favorite days was also my most physically damaging day (my most emotionally damaging day was to come 3 days later). We stopped in the bay just outside of Ixtapa/Zihuatanejo, being ferried back and forth in tender that was enclosed and sent my companion into hysterics and me into a sweaty funk. Once on land, we boarded another boat - a sail boat - all decked out with our own Gene Hackman-lookalike captain and his scurvy crew.

We sailed for an hour around the bay, eventually landing on another side of the island. Once we anchored, the crew helped the passengers into the water with their underwater cameras. Me, I was stuck onboard, trying to convince my well-padded partner in crime that she would not drown, though she had convinced herself the opposite in spite of her wearing a ski belt, a full life vest, and blow-up kiddy swimmer’s wrist floaties. It wasn't until a well-meaning passenger already in the water tried out her recently-learned mantras on my companion that she tried to get in the water. And not because the woman had convinced her but rather because she figured the woman was an idiot and therefore a weak swimmer and even furtherfore that the sharks would get the woman before they got my companion.

Sigh....

While snorkeling along on my own, snapping pictures of glorious spiny boxed puffer fish that I has adored since I had been with my first husband and working in a pet shop where I befriended the sole (ha, ha) spiny boxed puffer fish there (he was sent to fishy heaven when it was discovered one morning that the gorgeous angelfish that lived in his tank had turned herself on her side and speared herself on his spines, them both having been obviously frightened by something. The owner had his own love affair with the angelfish and was heartbroken at her death and dumped the puffer unceremoniously into another tank, causing his demise since the puffer had not been allowed time to acclimate.).

I scooted around the enclave, shooing the little native boy on his boogie board away from our group when he came up offering up close peeks at a few skulking nurse sharks. My companion would have jumped out of the water, hijacked the boat, and been halfway to Ensenada had she heard this, not knowing that nurse sharks rarely if ever attacked and were small enough you could pull them off you like an overgrown leech.

As I relaxed and ducked my head particularly underwater, I heard my companion scream. I kicked off hard so that I could get to her quickly. In doing so, I ripped huge hunks out of my left thigh, having hit a large shelf of coral. Trying to wrest myself from the pain and still get to her, I managed to gouge my other thigh on another looming hunk of coral. I dragged us both back to the boat, still unclear what had spooked her, but rising out of the water to see that I had become bait, what with all the pink water around me. 

Our captain tried not to look worried while covering my legs in iodine. I brushed off their concern, thinking they were worried about getting sued. I later learned that the poison from the coral could make you sick (it did) and my legs could carry permanent scars (they did). My companion doused her shake-inducing fears with shots of tequila and proceeded to flirt shamelessly – an unsuccessfully – with all the crew, one by one.

The rest of the ride, I took my damaged thighs and my own bottle of tequila to the netted middle of the sailboat as we raced around the bay, chasing seagulls, and allowing the crew to fish, catching a gorgeous marlin in the process. The water sprinkled water on my tanned back as I sunned, unterrified, with only a few threads between me and an ocean teeming with blood-hungry predators. I didn’t care; I was in love with this gorgeous place.  

After we docked, my companion and I strolled around the small village center, sneaking down deserted alleys, and perusing the makeshift fish market. We stumbled on what appeared to be a vintage store, full of used items. I found a beautiful rendition of a Botero painting on papyrus for the true love of my life, and gawked at the fantastic swirl of color around us.

As my companion and I jumbled through the crowds, we spotted a little restaurant called La Sirena Gorda - The Fat Mermaid. It seemed perfect for the two of us – half land-bound and half-ocean-loving. We decided right them to rename ourselves, albeit temporarily. For the rest of the trip, as we ferreted our ways through bars, alleys, shops, and restaurants, we jokingly referred to ourselves as Las Sirenas Gorditas – The Little Fat Mermaids - causing even the pedicab driver to giggle as he pedaled us around Cabo San Lucas.

I had not written about this trip because it had ended poorly on one hand and wonderfully on another hand, but today I stumbled on a picture Ixtapa/Zihuatanejo, and away my mind went.

For anyone interested, here is a picture of the area where we walked. Under a white a blue sign, you will see a little red sign. To the left of this sign, you will see a brownish circle. In that circle is the original La Sirena Gorda, the one we named ourselves after. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Boardwalk1Zihua.JPG

You're a real writer if...

You're a real writer if...
I hate sentences that start that way.

Or worse, "Real writers always..." or "Real writers never..."
There are books or speakers who present themselves as being the all-seeing eye into the path to becoming a "real writer". They mumble to themselves, dance around a fire, and then poof, smoke comes out and they proclaim this, this is what you need to do.

Aghhh... the sound of me vomiting a little in my mouth. I know, I know. It’s so lady-like.

Ga-ross.
I've never come across one of these books that has it all down.

Now, there are books out there that help you get started or help you when you have a hard time, or even better, they help you when you think your work is just oh-so-perfect, but none of your friends will even tell you the truth. Those books I like. They tend to be honest.

But if you come across a phrase that says something like, "All writers do. blank, blank, blank..." - then walk. Drop the book and run out.

Because, as many other writers will tell you, all writers don't blankety, blank, blank or hoop-de-doo or even vo-de-oh-doe-doe. These people are up to something. They are your obstacle. They will get in the way of your writing because they will whisper in your ear and tell you that you don’t know what you’re doing because you’re not one of them, you’re not one of the published few, you don’t know what you’re doing and they do. They are going to show you how. They are going to show you which writing fork to use and when to use your comma napkin.

But what is it worth to you? What has it done for you? So what if you walk around with patches on your elbows. So what if you use an Underwood Standard Portable, Remington Model 12 like Faulkner? That’s not what’s going to make you sound like him and likely it’s not what’s going to make you sound like you.

Here’s a fact, there’s only one thing we writers all do – we write. And ever that’s not true. Go talk to Stephen Hawking and see how many times he sharpened his pencil. And yet, he's written books galore.

The thing I'm getting across here is don't let these people get to you and prevent you from writing.

You're a writer, so write. Read these other people with a grain of salt and a whole grinder of pepper. Maybe read them for ideas of how to get over your slump. But don’t read them as absolutes.



I've heard tell that Amy Fisher and Sarah Palin both wrote books. I'm fairly certain that whatever process that got them from A to Z (maybe actually learning their ABC's? - yikers, switch the ring!) is not identical to what I'm going through. Likely it won't be like you either. But don't let that stop you. Keep writing. Keep telling stories. Try ways that worked for other people and, if in the words of Janet Fitch, "It was boring", go on to something else. Just keep moving forward. At least, you're going somewhere.

A World without Complaints...

I stumbled across a sample of a book on my Kindle. Likely, I downloaded it at 4:37 in the morning when I can't sleep and I'm not making much sense. I've been know to record Britney Spears' Biography and the History of Skirts on my DVR during these times, so this book sample wasn't so unusual.

However, it turns out, there was a new idea I'm keen on...

It seems that the idea is to go an entire 21 days without complaining, criticizing, or gossiping. Why 21 days? Because that's usually how long it takes for a habit to take hold.

The people in the book have you purchase a rubbery bracelet like Lance Armstrong's LIVESTRONG bracelet, but in purple and with the word Spirit written across it. Every time you catch yourself complaining, criticizing, or gossiping, you take the bracelet off your arm and put it on the other arm. It's a physical reminder of what you've done. The goal is to keep the bracelet on one arm for more than 21 days.

Why do this? Because it's like going down the road late at night. If someone comes over the hill with their bright lights on and you stare at those lights, you'll veer towards the lights and likely have an accident. But, if you instead look on the right hand side of the road where there is sometimes painted a white safety line, you'll be perfectly safe and continue on your pleasant journey.

Huh?

If you keep focusing on all the bad things in your life, you veer towards them. You invite them in and you eventually crash right into the middle of them. If instead, you focus on positive things, then you invite them in and you move towards them. If you look at your positive goals and move forward, you are more likely to walk directly towards them.

I like this idea but I'm not a fan of paying someone for things like this. So, I opted to use a ring that fits my third finger on both hands. Every time I open my mouth and let a complaint, criticism, or piece of gossip across my lips, I switch the ring.

I have to be honest, when I first start thinking about doing this, I thought, "Well, hell, what else am I going to talk about?"

That's how pervasive it is in my life.

Yikers.

I started last night and I've already switched the ring 24 times in 12 hours - 8 of which I was asleep. I'm going to be doing this until I can get 21 days. If you're interested in doing it to, you're welcome to order the bracelet or get one like it, or just use a watch of something else you can see but won't be distracting.

Oh, and before you ask, thinking a bad thought doesn't count. The reason is that once you change what comes out of your mouth, your thoughts begin to follow. It's likely that as you go on with this experiment, you'll find your thoughts are just as positive as the words coming out of your mouth.

Also, if you do this with someone else and you hear them complaining, you can remind them to switch their bracelet, ring, or watch. But switch yours, too, because (as the  book says), you're complaining about their complaining.

Let me know if you decide to do this because I'd love some compatriots!