And now, the end is near

It is the last day of an incredibly difficult year. When I started this blog, I had no idea what this year would hold for me. I anticipated a year of challenge with work – and it has been that – and I hoped for a year of growth with my art.

When I look back on 2011, I think I will remember it as the year that I finally had to Grow Up.

My mother’s health took a serious down-turn in May. She went in for what we thought would be a straight-forward knee replacement. Four days after that surgery, she had a heart attack and nearly died.

I have been called home at least four times since then, each time sure that death was imminent.

During the crisis in May, Honey’s sister was scheduled to be married on the other side of our home state. We spent days crisscrossing that state, trying to meet the obligations of both families. Trying to remember Life even in Death’s shadow.

I spent the summer and fall calling every day for updates, and dreaded the ringing of my phone.

My poor Mother’s body has endured so much this year.

Earlier this month, I received a phone call from my aunt telling me that Mama’s kidneys are failing her, and that she is not a candidate for dialysis. The diagnosis at the time made it sound like we might be talking a matter of days. No more than a few weeks.

So I went home early for Christmas. I am so fortunate that I have a job that allows me to take work with me, and bosses who understood that I had to put my mother first. I am blessed that Honey’s bosses were equally understanding.

We spent two weeks caring for my mother, first in the hospital, and then at home. After talking with doctors and specialists, it became clear that dialysis might not be necessary, and would certainly not prolong her life either way. We elected to take her home under Hospice care. We decorated for Christmas. We counted the sodium in her food and limited her liquids. She became stronger and her spirits improved. I fell even more in love with Honey than I have been. She is a better daughter-in-law than anyone could ever imagine having, and a better spouse than I could have dreamed of. She was as tender with my mother as I was, and kept better humor. It made my heart clench in all the best ways, to hear them laughing together. I did not take that sound or that moment for granted.

I dealt with my father’s grief and denial as best I could. He is doing the best he can, which unfortunately is not always enough. I try to remind my aunt, who is carrying a great deal of the burden involved in keeping their lives going, that he is trying.

I have become the adult in my family. Roles have reversed in so many ways. My mind reels with this.

There are times when I realize that the moment I am in is a poem, and that I should write it. Sometimes, the wound is too fresh. More often than not, my hands have been too occupied with washing my mother’s skin, or her dishes, or helping her stand up.

But yes, there is so much poetry in all of this.

I dread this new year as I have never dreaded one before. It is hard for me to anticipate it as anything less than a harder year than this one has been. And yet, I have to look up and out in order to keep going. I must keep going.

So as I enter this new year, as I leave this old year, I have some very simple hopes. I hope that my Mama continues to strengthen, and will be able to have some enjoyment and happiness in the time she has left. I hope that she has more time than we fear she does. I hope that my Daddy learns to find patience and fortitude, and that he doesn’t give up. I hope that I will have the strength to do this – all of this. I hope that I can keep some of the plates of my normal life spinning. And I hope to continue to see the poetry, and to find a few moments to write it down.

May we all find the simple blessings that wait for us, and see the beauty in the pain as well as the joy.

Happy New Year.

Gearing up for NaNo and tying up loose ends

In October 2009, I decided that I would spend the month of November writing a novel. Well, technically, a novella, but hey 50,000 is daunting whatever you call it.

November is National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo), so dubbed by a group of 21 people in 1999 who decided that writing a novel in a month would be a good way to impress people.* NaNo has grown a lot since then, with well over 200,000 people participating in 2010.

I decided that I was going to do this on my own. Honey is a writer, but didn’t seem to be overly interested in participating, so while I stayed up late on Halloween night in order to start writing at the stroke of midnight, she went to sleep. The next day, I went to my first write-in** alone. I didn’t expect to meet anyone or make friends. This was about FINALLY getting my novel completed so that I could move on with my life.

I had so much fun that Honey signed up and started writing within a couple of days of the start. The people we ended up writing with every Wednesday night became our best friends.

This year, I’m taking up the reins of co-ML*** for the Charleston region. We’re already planning writing workshops and presentations, write-ins and parties. While writing is certainly usually a solitary practice, it doesn’t have to be during NaNo. It can be a very social, competitive process, and we’re ready for it.

I’ve been thinking about the EVENT that is NaNo, but I haven’t given much thought to what I’m actually going to write yet. I’m STILL completing the novel I was working on in 2009. Last year, I managed to slog my way to just over 50K with another novel, but I hated the whole process. Even though I LOVED the subject matter and the concept for the 2010 novel, I wasn’t done with the first one. It was eating my brain.

So I’m going to try to complete the 2009 novel before NaNo begins. In 63 days. Now, that’s twice what I get during NaNo, and I figure I only have to write another 30,000 words. For some reason, though, this is tying me up in knots. I think it’s because I’ve carried this story around with me for years (YEARS, people), and I am not quite ready to let it go.

But go it must. The 2010 novel started a series that I want to write, that I’m passionate about writing. The series is set in 18th century America/Europe, and the 2009 novel is modern day Charleston. They don’t mix well.

So wish me luck. I’m embarking on a quest to write a measly 476 words a day, which should be a good warm-up for the 1667 a day minimum to complete this year’s NaNo.

Let the writing begin!

*Impress people = Convince people to date/sleep with them. Hey, they were young and horny.

**Write-in = A mostly informal gathering of Wrimos.**** We drink a lot of coffee, eat a lot of bagels, and compete with each other to see who can write the most words during sprints that we like to call Word Wars. Games and prizes are involved. It’s a good time.

***ML=Municipal Liaison. MLs are responsible for coordinating the NaNo events in a region, and generally offering pep talks and support for other Wrimos in their area. Charleston’s region has really grown – from approximately a dozen active participants in 2008 to over 300 in 2010.

****Wrimo = A NaNo participant. There’s a LOT of lingo to learn, but it’s not hard. Really.

A little independence and cash money are dangerous things

Happy Fifth of July, everyone. I hope you all still have your fingers and your toes attached to the appropriate appendages, and not floating in a jar of formaldehyde next to your bed.

I spent most of the holiday weekend vegetating on my sofa while watching seasons 4 and 5 of “Bones,” and playing with my new toy. It was an impulse buy – which is NOT my usual modus operandi. I normally research every purchase above $5.00, and plan for it well in advance. I’m still a bit stunned that I actually have this in my hot little hands.

I TOTALLY bought it for business.  ::nods::

Getting on my soapbox: Marriage Equality

Right now in New York, the government is standing on the cusp of a decision on whether or not to make same-sex marriage legal in that state. Honey and I live over a thousand miles away, in a state that is so red that the color reflects off the necks of most of the natives. I can say that, because I’m from good Redneck stock. I’m a southern girl, and I still live in a part of the world where decisions in favor of same-sex marriage are likely not going to happen without some serious prodding from the national government.

I live in South Carolina, the first state to secede from the Union. I live about 9 miles from the place where the citizens of South Carolina gave the metaphorical finger to the United States government that started the Civil War.

South Carolinians, and southerners in general, still don’t cotton to being told what to do or believe. The phrase “states’ rights” is still uttered here on a regular basis.

There is a projection to the world that South Carolinians are universally conservative, Church-going, Bible-thumping Gamecock and Clemson Tiger fans. We aren’t all cut to that image.

The local and state government are a reflection of that projection. Anyone who doesn’t fit into that mold doesn’t have much of a voice in our government.

As a person who has lived with the consequences of residence in a state that has officially defined marriage as only between one man and one woman, I can say that I am told that what I do and what I believe are wrong by the politicians who are paid with my tax dollars. I am not represented at all in my government. Gay rights are not a part of the discussion in the state house in Columbia.

I’m a sweet tea drinking, big hat wearing, southern drawl speakin’ southern girl. I say “Yes ma’am” and “No sir” automatically, because I was raised to be polite. I feel like I’m in a foreign land when I get anywhere near the Mason-Dixon line. I don’t “look gay.” I don’t generally wave the Rainbow flag in my daily life. Not because I’m ashamed, but because my sexuality is a small part of my life. Just like it is for most normal, professional adults.

But I’m a southern girl who has considered traveling to parts north of here to marry the person I love. I’ve even considered, ever so briefly, moving to areas that are more tolerant of the fact that, one day, the perfect person told me that I was loved, and I was open-minded enough to listen, and open-hearted enough to know a gift when I got it.

Here’s the thing, though – I don’t cotton to being told what I can do or believe, just like most southerners I know. I don’t want to have to move somewhere that doesn’t feel like home in order to be accepted for who I am and who I love. I don’t really want my marriage certificate to bear another state’s seal.

So I’m praying that the sparks being lit in other parts of the country and the world will carry, and that someday they might just light a fire for equality here at home. It’s happened with other “impossible” causes in this state, and throughout the south. Interracial marriage was officially illegal in South Carolina until 1998. Things may change more slowly here than they do in other places, but I know that change is possible.

Until then, I’m living my life, just as I have for the last fifteen years. Nearly twelve years ago, I stood under an ancient tree with Honey, both of us in big white dresses, and made her some promises. At that time, I thought that legal same-sex marriage in the United States couldn’t happen in our lifetimes, but I still wanted to say those words to her. I have hope, because the world has changed a lot in these twelve years. I know that change is possible. I know that hearts and minds can be changed.

Today, I’m watching the news from New York, and later this week I hope to be cheering for a victory for couples who live in that state. I hope that there will be many happy weddings celebrated there soon.

Until then, I’ll be sipping my tea and holding her hand, because this is my life, and I’m going to live it. In happiness.

yes i said yes i will Yes

I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and first I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes. ~ Molly Bloom’s Soliloquy, “Ulysees”

I have always loved Molly Bloom’s Soliloquy, the last lines from the colossus that is “Ulysees.” For me it was always poetry, the firefly moment of passion before consummation. I have felt this emotion, thought these thoughts. I have been young and full of hope and hunger. Now that I am older, I understand clearly the longing for youth’s fire and abandon expressed in the tone of some of the rest of the last eight rambling sentences of the novel.

A couple of days ago, over on the Asiagoans blog, I lamented my lack of energy and drive. I felt bereft of any creativity. My brain felt like it had melted into pea soup.

I have these goals up on my whiteboard, and I stare at them every day. I wrote them down because they are more than goals – they are my fondest hope for myself. They represent What I Want To Be When I Grow Up. Some days, they seem to be too small, and others, they seem impossible. Each day, I sit here and look at them and chew my lip, trying to gauge where I am on that spectrum.

Today – they seem do-able. Today, I can see my way. Today, I can honestly say that I had at least 7 hours of sleep last night and didn’t eat crap yesterday. Today, I’m making my stand as a writer. Today, I’m going to live the dream, rather than just talk about it.

Today, in honor of Molly Bloom and in celebration of Bloomsday, I’m saying, “Yes, I can create, yes, oh  yes I can write. Yes I am a poet and a novelist. Yes, I have something to say. Yes, I am going to live my dream, in spite of all of the rest of the crap that life throws at me. Yes, I will share my heart. Yes I said yes I WILL. Yes.”

YES.

I promise, it’s not laziness that keeps me from you

It’s life. I’m not offering excuses.

I have managed to keep up with most of my weekly commitment to post at the Asiagoans blog, so if you’re curious about what’s been going on with me since late April, you’re welcome to check my posts out here.

Moving right along.

If you check out the Asiagoans blog, you’ll see that my last post was about some writing goals that I’ve made for myself. I wish that I could say that I’m feeling pumped up and energized now that I have some solid marks to hit. But honestly, I feel a lot like that guy to the left.

It’s been over a year since I had a vacation, or a even a long weekend away. In that time, I’ve moved through three jobs with no time off in-between. There have been family events and family crises. I feel like I’ve been trapped in one long Groundhog Day of meeting the expectations of others. Hell, I even dreamed about it all night last night. I almost never feel truly rested.

So why am I putting more pressure on myself NOW?

Because if I don’t, I won’t ever achieve what I want with this writing life. I will always be tired and I will always have other things pulling me away from the computer. If I don’t create some structure for myself, this thing that I love and that I have wanted for my whole life will never be real. It’s worth being a little more tired and a little more drained.

But damn, I could sure use a writer’s retreat in the sunshine, beside a lazy river, with a Pina Colada close by.

Deliver me in a black-winged bird

When I think of heaven(Deliver me in a black-winged bird)
I think of flying down into a sea of pens and feathers
and all other instruments of faith and sex and God
In the belly of a black-winged bird  – Counting Crows, “Rain King”*

For many years, indeed for most of my life, I associated writing with pain. I saw it as an outlet, a method of slitting the wrists of my anger and hurt and letting all of the poison in my system out on the page. I believed that in order to be a great writer, I had to bleed words. I had no concept of writing as a joyful act.

I wrote some beautiful and lyrical poems and prose during that time in my life. When I take it out to read it, I ache. Readers would too, in all the right ways. I never had a problem with tapping the root of the Tree of Evil to get what I wanted.

The side effect of this method of writing, though, is the necessity of being in a state of anger, or hurt, and generally living on the lip of suicidal thoughts and tendencies. I don’t look emo, but I was emo way before it was cool. I believed that I couldn’t write my stories if I was happy. I struggled with a need to treat depression and anxiety in order to survive as a person, and a profound resistance to that change because I believed that I would lose my ability to write.

Mama, why am I so alone?
I can’t go outside
I’m scared I might not make it home
I’m alive but I’m sinking in
If there’s anyone at home at your place
Why don’t you invite me in
Don’t try to bleed me
I’ve been there before and I deserve a little more

I finally reached a point when I was so unhappy, so near allowing myself to hit the re-set button on life, that I decided that I was willing to give up writing if it would mean that I could keep on living, that I could get up and face every day with something other than unhappiness in my chest.

I thought that the price of my life was a sacrifice of my art.

For a while, I let myself believe that there were other dreams to pursue. But inside, there was always the little girl who loved writing stories on her mom’s IBM Selectric typewriter, and that little girl was always asking me, “When can we write again?”

Hey, I only want the same as anyone
Henderson is waiting for the sun
Oh, it seems night endlessly begins and ends
After all the dreaming I come home again…

So I tried writing in happiness. And here’s where I was surprised, because that emotion poured forth on the page, too. For the first time since I was a very small girl, I was able to write stories and poems of hope and joy. I could see that the Tree of Evil had another side after all, and I tapped into that root of happiness.

This discovery fed my WHOLE life, not just my writing life. I saw that light and shadow really could live inside one person, reside side by side, and feed my art.

When I think of heaven (Deliver me in a black-winged bird)
I think of dying Lay me down in a field of flame and heather
Render up my body into the burning heart of God in the belly of a black-winged bird
Don’t try to bleed me
I’ve been here before and I deserve a little more

I don’t have to bleed for my art, at least not most of the time. I have gone that route, learned the pitfalls of it. I can draw maps through the minefield of depression-based writing, and manage to walk through it rather than becoming mired in the emotion. The same goes for joy. I learned that I deserved more out of life, and more out of expressing myself through writing, than I was getting living in that deep well of doubt and fear. It has enabled me to write playful scenes, and scenes of trust and friendship, that I would have never been able to touch before. They balance out the scenes of terror and anger, making my characters more true to life. My characters can reflect the truth of MY experiences, in all the complexity of a real life fully lived.

*This song is one of my favorites, and reflects much of how I feel about creativity and life and death. I think Adam Duritz, the writer of this song and the lead singer of Counting Crows, has a crazy sexy, lickable brain and I bow to his ability to express so much in a few words. From most accounts of his life, it’s obvious he’s walked some dark roads too, but that he’s always looking for that light.

It’s not a writer’s life. . .but then it is

So I’ve been insanely, exhaustingly busy this week, and aside from a ton of e-mails, I haven’t gotten much writing done. So what’s been keeping me from my sessions with the Muse?

I submit to you, dear readers, photographic evidence of my week:

Last Saturday, my youngest, hip, drinking buddy aunt (who lost over 80 lbs in the last year or so), walked the Cooper River Bridge Run and Walk for the first time. No, this isn’t a picture of her – I was squeeing and waving around a “Team Linda – You GO GIRL!” sign when she went by. However, I DID see almost all 42,000 people pass by our spot in front of the Francis Marion Hotel.

On the way there, in the wee hours before dawn, I saw this graffiti and had to take a picture.

I posted it on Facebook, and I had friends say they thought it was a statement on homelessness. Another said that it was the name of a local band. When I took it, though, it felt more like a statement about Charleston – that this remarkably beautiful city IS home. At least, that’s why I took the picture. Or, a more amusing thought was that the people who lived in the apartment above this sidewalk regularly stumbled home drunk, and needed confirmation of where they should go.

Sunday: My Daddy, who has been married to my Mom since April 1954 (yes, children, that translates to 57 years this coming week), finally decided he could be apart from her no longer and drove down from NC. He brought with him my repaired lawn tractor and my mom’s Cadillac of wheelie walkers. We already had the wheelchair for her. Honey couldn’t resist snapping a picture of the three of us in our unconventional yard seats.

My mother would KILL ME if she knew I put a picture of her in shorts and knee high socks on the internet. SHHhhhh. . . .

Monday – Friday: I work from home. This is my messy desk in my still un-finished office.

Yes, that’s a cassette tape you see. Don’t judge me.

THIS is what I see, 6-8 hours a day:

Well. . .to be honest, I should have a Facebook chat session up with the Asiagoans, but those are private and I WOULD get my ass beat for showing you THAT.

On Wednesday, I got to take my Daddy out on the Thriller Charleston boat, which I promote as part of my day job. He was an early NASCAR small track race car driver, so I knew that the adrenaline rush would be perfect for him.

I did NOT expect him to wrap up against the spray from the waves like a Babushka.

We did have a blast.

Sadly, I don’t have photos of my Wednesday evening event – a fancy cocktail party I had to attend for work. I took my aunt, who loves a good party, along for company. She bought an outfit for the occasion, so I really will have to share a picture later. She looked WAY more glamorous than I did (as she always does), and greatly enjoyed the premium booze and food while I schmoozed. We then retired to Mercato, where I had a fantastic glass of wine and the yummiest pizza I’ve had in a long while. But alas, again, no photos. I was too busy nomming.

Again, Monday – Friday: My family can’t just visit. Oh no. Their hands itch to be busy all the time, but especially when they visit me in my old fixer-upper 1940s era house. I had a list of things I wanted to accomplish – finish the office (including paint and new curtains) and new curtains for the living room. Well. . .we at least bought the fabric for the curtains.*

The rest of the week, the family decided to make their own agenda. You see, Honey and I have an enormous yard full of old growth azaleas and trees. We both also have allergies to a most everything out there, so I leave the weekly maintenance to a yard guy and let the vines and dead growth just. . you know. . .create a thicker privacy barrier. Well, the family couldn’t take it anymore.

That neighboring house? We couldn’t see it before yesterday.** My Dad and aunt have been to the dump to haul so much brush away that I’m going to have to buy them a tank of gas.

What have I been doing, besides working the day job (and occasionally wandering outside to beg them to stop) while they did this? I’ve been doing this:

Squoozing Chaucer McLovin the Lovin’ Kitty makes it ALL BETTER.

Tonight: Dinner with the fabulous Angela Morgane and her equally fantastic main squeeze.

Tomorrow: The World Grits Festival, where there will apparently be people rolling in grits. Ah, the glamour. Hey, but then I get to have dinner with Matt Dean and HIS fantastic darling of a life mate, so the glamour quotient WILL go up for the day.

I swear, there’s poetry in ALL OF THIS. I just have to sit down long enough to write it.

*This actually took DAYS, and involved buying and returning stuff. My aunt is an artiste and often changes her mind.

**And we LIKED IT THAT WAY. Damn it. We’re hermits and we don’t like our neighbors LOOKING AT US.

Procrastination and Other Evils

“Procrastination is the bad habit of putting off until the day after tomorrow what should have been done the day before yesterday.” ~ Napoleon Hill

It has been nearly two months since my last blog post. When I began, I had every intention of sticking to a daily post schedule, even if that post ended up being a short update on the day, or a link to a cute YouTube video.

I obviously didn’t stick with it, and I must apologize to you, dear readers.

My reasons are lame, and mostly have to do with procrastination. The greatest evil of procrastination is that it breeds yet more procrastination, which leads to profound guilt and self-loathing, which leads to even MORE procrastination.

I decided today would be the day to cut through the ties that have bound me to that pattern. My life lately has involved an awful lot of letting go of the stuff that holds me back.

If you’re curious about what I’ve been up to since the beginning of February, you can get a taste over at the Asiagoans group blog (where I have faithfully been posting my weekly obligatory post because it was a commitment to a group effort, and not just me prattling on to the ether).

Oh, what the heck. Here’s a quick re-cap:

1) Jobby job work. Things move along. We’re still in early days with building our client base, but overall I’m feeling optimistic.

2) My office, which for several years has been more of a storage unit than a productive work space, is in the middle of a major overhaul. I have taken out bags and bags of old bills and files and garbage, several bins of yard sale goods, and offered a sofa and a couple of bookcases to a friend who is setting up house. In return, I get lovely turquoise blue walls, a full wall of bookcases, and room to THINK. More to come on this project. It’s having babies and spreading into other parts of my house.

3) Honey had surgery to remove her gallbladder last week. We’ve been dealing with nearly two months of tests and doctor appointments to get to the point of having it removed. That involved much worry, and certainly pain on her point. Here’s hoping that surgery indeed solves at least THIS issue.

So here’s what I can promise, dear readers. I am going to make a concerted effort to post more frequently. I’m going to aim at a more reasonable 2-3 times a week. I invite you to call me on it if you find that I’m not holding up to my commitment. Sometimes a girl needs to know that she’s talking to someone besides herself. Give me a holler, will you? Leave a comment here, or contact me directly at SarahTurpinLeyland@gmail.com.

Knitting*

I grew up in a family populated with extremely talented, crafty women.  My grandmother was a born seamstress.  If “Project Runway” had existed in her day, there would have been no question of her winning.  I spent the first ten years of my life almost exclusively wearing clothes that she made on her 1940′s Singer, and I still sleep beneath a quilt that she made.  Every stitch is perfect.

Her eldest daughter, my Aunt Belle, could not only sew almost as well as my grandmother, but could knit, crochet, tat, and master any type of needlepoint you can imagine.  When I remember her, it is with some sort of textile in her hands.  Every knit hat or lace collar that I wore until puberty was her work.  There were no mistakes, no dropped stitches.

My youngest aunt, Ellen, is a whiz not only at making curtains and duvet covers, but at tiling bathrooms, building shelving units, and wallpapering a house from top to bottom.  The grout lines are always straight, and you can’t find the seam in the pattern of anything she makes.

My mother, the middle daughter, was not gifted in any of these things.  She recognized it early and chose to retreat to the tobacco fields to help her Daddy with the “boy” work.

I was not as smart as my mother.

You see, I wanted to make pretty things like the rest of the women in my family.  As I grew up, I watched my older female cousin pick up cross stitch and render works so beautiful that they made my grandmother cry.  I wanted to feel the needle between my fingers, to have my place around the edge of the quilting rack.

So I asked to learn all manner of things.  I don’t remember what came first – maybe simple quilting with my grandmother.  By the time I was seven or eight, I had made attempts at cross stitch, crochet and knitting.  No matter what I picked up, the lesson always went the same way.  We would sit down on my Aunt Belle’s olive green pleather sofa, and my teacher (usually Aunt Belle) would show me, in her perfect, fluid movements, how to begin.  She would then hand me the craft and wait for me to repeat what she had done.  My fingers would all turn to thumbs.  I would knot the yarn, break the string.  My aunt would sigh, and help me get started again.  Within a few minutes, I would mess up worse than the first time.  At this point, her sigh would turn into this sound that I have only ever heard a member of my family make – a cross between a sigh and a whistle of disgust.  The craft would be taken from me, my mistake pointed out in great detail, and then she would say to me, “Why don’t you let me get it started?  You can try again later.”  Later never came.  I would watch in miserable silence as each perfect stitch was made, my fingers twitching with a desire to learn how to do what she was doing.  I would watch until she grew tired of having me stare at her, and then would be sent outside to play.

As I grew to womanhood, it was occasionally said that I was my mother’s child for sure.

Fast forward thirty or so years.  I am a professional, educated woman.  I can pay my own bills and cook my own dinner (a talent that boggled my mother’s mind when she first ate my cooking – she didn’t think I could learn on my own).  Until recently, anything that was done to improve my house was done by one of my crafty family members.  My Aunt Ellen forbade me to paint my own plaster walls without her assistance.  They don’t even expect me to help.  It was decided years ago that it would just be easier if they take care of things and keep me out of the way.  They don’t call my name – they call for Honey, who IS crafty and capable with a hammer.

I realized this week that this pattern has affected my whole creative life.

A few days ago, I decided to give knitting another shot.  I have wanted to try again for years, but always talked myself out of it.  Finally, Honey suggested I take a class.  I pursued signing up, a feeling of dread sitting at the pit of my stomach.  My solace was that I would at least be paying these people with money I earned myself.  They HAD to teach me.

A friend heard my plan though, and (not knowing my painful history), offered to teach me.  She showed up at a regular gathering with needles and yarn.  To my surprise, I wasn’t as bad at it as I expected, and she was a very patient teacher.  When I started for home that evening, I stopped to buy some yarn and needles and sat down to try it on my own.  I watched several online videos, and they all looked simple enough.  When I picked up the needles and yarn to begin, though, I was all thumbs again, and I felt a terror that I haven’t known since I was a little girl with blonde hair.  I kept making mistakes.  When I finally figured out something and got some confidence, I would drop a stitch or lose count.  The specter of my aunts and grandmother loomed large.

My writing has followed a similar path.  I have always started with optimism and confidence, but when I would find myself following pointless plot bunnies, or experiencing one of those days when the words just wouldn’t flow, I would stop and panic.  Why write if I didn’t write perfectly every time?  I want to be Anne Rice at the pinnacle of her writing flow (IMHO, 1990′s “The Witching Hour,”), not some hack who won’t ever be picked up by an agent.  If I’m not perfect, what is the point?  Maybe I should just give up and let the pros do it.

But here’s the thing, folks.  My fingers have always wanted to move over a keyboard, and they have ached to create beautiful things.  I have spent my life watching other people do what they love, and render it perfect.  I haven’t had a lot of experience with starting and finishing something worthy of sharing with others.

So what did I do with the knitting?  I unraveled it and started again.  I’m going to keep doing that until I’ve learned from my experiences with the yarn and needles.  I’m done with giving up and letting other people take over my dreams.  I am tired of being jealous of people who create while I watch.  So no matter how ugly the start is, or how many times I have to unravel a scarf or a story until I figure out how to make it well, I’m going to do it.  I’m going to practice until it’s perfect, and I’m going to figure out how to fix my own mistakes.  The time of surrendering to masters is past.  This self-taught Creatrix is going to apprentice herself.

*Originally posted at http://www.asiagoans.com