Sunday morning, and I’m feelin’ fine…

I started the Artist’s Way yesterday.  I read the dozen or so pages at the beginning of the workbook that explain about “morning pages” and “artist’s dates.”  Then I got up early and wrote my morning pages.  I can tell you that I’m pretty excited about taking myself on an artist date.  I may go to the Y and swim, then jump in the jacuzzi and then steam myself dry in the sauna.  All… by… myself.  What a concept!  I’d love to go to some art museums, but I’ll have to do some research and see if there are any close to home.  I’m not fond of driving to LA, but may have to go out of my comfort zone.

I am committed to putting my faith in the process of the Artist’s Way.  I used to write every morning, just to siphon off the chatter that starts reverberating  as soon as I open my eyes.  As with everything else, I let it slide and then moved on to something else.  I’m beginning to wonder if I have ADHD, because I can do anything well for a week, and then I lose interest.  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve started knitting a scarf, but never have I finished one.  I think I just need to concentrate on short term projects, playing to my strengths, because boy can I rock it for 7 days!

I’ve also decided to keep on blogging, even if I don’t always send a link out to invite people to read it.  Blogging keeps my writing flowing from my fingers onto the screen, and that’s always a good thing.  Maybe someone will stumble across my musings and relate to the way my mind works.  The Artist’s Way seems to put a lot of faith in synchronicity, and I know my life is full of quirky little coincidences.  I think I’ll just put myself out there and see what happens.  Maybe I’ll come across other people who struggle with “stick-to-it-iveness?”

On a side note:  I’ve been having some interesting dreams lately, lots of adventure, danger and excitement.  They actually jolt me awake.  I’m going to start writing them down, as I can see the seeds of some short stories in there somewhere…

See you next time, same Bat time, same Bat channel!

It’s a new year, and time for a resolution…

Well here I am again, shamefacedly staring at my computer screen.  I keep hearing there’s no such thing as writer’s block, so what exactly the hell is wrong with me?  Performance anxiety?  Extreme self-doubt?  Crippling esteem issues?  Check.  But one more time, I sit, willing to pour my heart out on paper and try again.  I hope I never give up.

One of the first things I did today was root around on the Internet, looking up “short story writing prompts.”  I just spent 30 minutes reading someone else’s blog, and found some good tips.  The blogger, Dave Duggins, said, and I paraphrase, “if you don’t want to write about it, then you need to write about it.” 

Find the most powerful experience in your life and write about it.  Another tip from Dave.  My mind flashes between several different experiences.  Which one was most powerful?  Growing up in a home with both parents fighting like cats and dogs, then watching them pretend the next day that everything was perfect?  The three years we spent on a 40’ yacht traveling down through Mexico, through the Panama Canal and up the Eastern seaboard?  Our mast was struck by lightning during a storm, we weathered a hurricane in Halifax, Nova Scotia, and survived the Bermuda Triangle well before they were writing or making movies about it.  Sounds glamorous and full of adventure, but all I remember are bits and pieces.  I was afraid of the deep water and was always, always seasick. 

How about the experience of my own alcoholism, how it dragged me down to depths a nice girl from Palos Verdes would never admit to?  How I finally got sober and none of my so-called friends ever spoke to me again?  How my parents were glad I stopped showing up drunk and making an ass of myself but firmly believed I had joined a cult and weren’t too happy about my new-found spirituality? 

Yeah, I guess you could say I have a lot to write about.  That I need to write about.  First things first:  my New Year’s Resolution, I guess you could call it.  I’m going to stop torturing myself to write my novel.  The one about the psychic dog and his human companion saving the earth one person at a time.  It’s banging around in my head, but apparently it’s not ready, or I’m not ready to write it yet.  Instead I’m going to concentrate on what does make me happy:  short stories.  I’ve always loved them, I think I’ve written some good ones, and since I can do anything well for a week (but lose interest after Day 7), short stories are right up my alley.

My novel will still percolate, but perhaps I won’t walk around feeling like a constant failure just because I’m not writing it down on paper.  This year I’m going to concentrate on what makes me happy, healthy and spiritually fit.  I’m going to stop beating myself up for my failures, and concentrate on what I can do:  Pray, write, watch what I eat, write some more, and remember to enjoy the journey.

I hope you too can come up with a plan of action that will similarly inspire you.   Happy New Year!

Quieting the Inner Critic (otherwise known as the Bitch who lives in my head)

I’m new at this blogging thing.  Now I know how my dad felt when the personal computer came along.  “Newfangled things, who needs ‘em.”  I don’t think he’s ever sent an email in his life.  He uses his PC like a fancy typewriter, carefully tapping out letters and then sending them to print.  He’s not quite sure why he needs a computer, but everyone else is using them, so — why not.  He’ll give it a shot.  The good ole college try, as my dad likes to say.

I approached blogging in the same tentative fashion.  I hesitantly typed out a few sentences, then sat and sneered at the screen.  “Not good enough.”  Those words reverberated through my skull, slowly getting louder.  “Not good enough.  Not Good Enough.  NOT GOOD ENOUGH.”  The story of my life.

But wait a minute.  Wait just a damn minute.  I AM good enough at writing.  I love to write.  Sometimes the words seem to pour from my fingertips, like a live electric current is flowing from my brain through my fingers to the screen.  Thoughts and ideas crowd in on me, clamoring to be set free.  The medium, my keyboard.

But there are those other times when I sit, staring glumly into space, at a loss for inspiration.  Then that bitter, hateful voice starts up.  The Bitch who lives in my head.  “Who do you think you’re kidding?  A writer… paugh!  Stick to your day job, kid, you’ll never make it.  They’ll laugh at you.”

If I persist in forging ahead, the voice gets louder, meaner.  “You’re terrible at this.”  The sweat starts beading at my forehead, sliding down the back of my neck.  “You’ll never be good enough.  Just like everything else you’ve ever tried, you’re going to fail.  Do you hear me!  Are you listening?!”

“Yeah, yeah,” I mumble.  “I hear you.”  Then I spin around in my chair and shout at the empty, malevolent air around me.  “Now shut the hell up!”  A peeved silence settles around me.  She’s sulking, but I don’t care.  As long as she leaves me alone for a little while… that’s all I need, just a few minutes to commune with my HP, to jot down those precious ideas before they ebb away.  I just have to keep trying… and not let the Bitch win.

Ugly duckling no more.

So you might be wondering what happened next.  Simple, really.  I started writing.  And writing.  And I liked what I was writing.  And others liked what I was writing.  And I was having fun doing it.

Then I got one of those moments of clarity when I realized that I was good at this.  Finally, good at something.  My mom is Suzie Homemaker.  She can cook, bake, sew, and knit, and can make gorgeous stained glass windows of every size and description.  She masters anything she’s ever turned her hand to.  I, on the other hand, am the ugly duckling in a family full of creativity.  I can’t even cut a straight line with a pair of scissors.  I’m housekeeping-challenged.  Every article of clothing I’ve ever tried to wash has shrunk and/or turned pink.  My daughter’s Barbies have been very well dressed.  I’ve been banished from the kitchen for years, although I am allowed to do the dishes if I’ve been especially good.  So I was rather excited to discover that I had a talent, for anything.  And that talent seems to be for writing.  How cool is that.

Hello world!

My name is Monique Happy and I love to write.

I recently rediscovered my love for writing when I sorta accidentally signed up for a Creative Writing class at the local community college.  I was there to sign up for general education classes and a handfull of law classes to obtain my AA degree and paralegal certificate.  While perusing the catalog, I stumbled across the Creative Writing class.  I thought to myself, as if hugging a secret treasure to my chest, “this is for me.  The other classes are for my career, to help support my family, but this one class, this one’s for me.”

And it was wonderful.