– Julia Cameron, The Artist’s Way Every Day

I don’t think I’m yet in the process of recovering my creative self, but I’ll get there soon. I do still write, have been writing, but it’s been very sporadic, only about once a week lately. But I’m feeling something bubbling beneath the surface, and i’m hoping that I can bring it up soon. I believe I can.

It’s been a season of change. End of a relationship, end of an era.

I’m in my early 40s and wondering where did it all go, and where am I going from here?

I’ve been feeling like I’m learning to walk and talk again. Or going through puberty. Awkward, insecure, doubtful, emotional. I rescued a lost dog a few weeks ago and can’t get it out of my mind, but someone told me recently that I’m projecting, synthesizing the dog and myself (not that I didn’t know this, but to hear it from someone else stung and, of course, made more sense).

My teaching semester is coming to an end, and i’m partly relieved. It’s been a trying semester. But also partly sad. I love my Creative Nonfiction class. The students there are gifted, talkative (for the most part), opinionated. I love the energy of our workshops, the excitement in their faces upon hearing that your essay moved someone, the disagreeing, the challenging,  that we are dissecting and explicating and encouraging someone’s piece of writing– scary and exhilarating. I’m recalling my own days in workshops in undergrad and grad school–the nervous lump in your throat when you go up for workshop. The relief after. The walking out of the classroom into the cool night. The putting away of the piece for a few days then returning to it.

I want to take each of the writers in my class and shake them and tell them to not give up, to keep writing, to be serious, to try new things, to read read read, to write every day, to trust their creativity. I want someone to shake me up too. To tell me all of these things. To get unstuck. To pull me free.

I can’t talk about the trial/case, or give details (I’ve been sworn!) but suffice it to say that all is not resolved in an hour, like on Law & Order (and there’s no Chris Meloni to be found!). Still, it’s been very interesting–who knows, maybe a book will come out of it???

There are certainly no shortage of characters when you hang around a courthouse.

Speaking of… of course my book is getting major neglect right now, though I’ve been sketching out ideas and scenes in my journal.

And summer is two thirds over! I think I have maybe a month left? Yes! A month to the day and I’ll be driving to campus. All those plans I had for a creative summer (writing, reading, making stuff…) are a bit hazy now.

Wahh, wahh, wahh! I’ve still got those four weeks, right?

Julia Cameron, in her book The Artist’s Way Every Day says:

Creativity is inspiration coupled with initiative. It is an act of faith and, in that phrase, the word “act” looms as large as the “faith” that it requires. When we do not act in the direction of our dreams, we are only “dreaming.” Dreams coupled with the firm intention to manifest them take on a steely reality. Our dreams come true when we are true to them. Reality contains the word “real.” We begin to “reel” in our dreams when we toss out the baited hook of intention. When we shift our inner statement from “I’d love to” to “I’m going to,” we shift out of victim and into adventurer.

Well, my favorite is this one,

and especially the wonderful photo recipe for this frosting party dress–click on it to see it up close in all its glory!  Happy San Diego Pride Everyone!

And, oh yes, you will see collage made of these!

Anyway I went to The Grove Bookstore in South Park San Diego (where I ran into a few other San Diego writers including Jill Badonsky) to find the book Ten Thousand Saints by Eleanor Henderson which is getting great reviews (read this one from the NYTimes by the also wonderful writer Stacey D’Erasmo–just the first two paragraphs of the review had me hooked).

“By delving as deeply into the lives of her characters as she does, tracing their long relationships not only to one another but also to various substances, Henderson manages to catch something of the bloody, felt intersection of lives and cult bands, of overindulgence and monastic refusal, of the dark, apocalyptic quality of the ’80s. She gets extremes, and people who gravitate toward them.”

Alas, the book was not in stock so I purchased something else: The Crafter’s Devotional by Barbara Call. Sure, I need another book on craft projects like I need a hole in the head, but this one is different–really! It has something to do for every day of the year, i.e.

Monday: journaling

Tuesday: recycle, reuse, or revive

Wednesday: collection, stash, and materials

Thursday: personal history

Friday: noncraft inspiration

Sat. and Sunday: collaborate, gather, and experiment

Just something to keep the creative juices flowing. Right? See a sample page here.

So, where did YOU go and what did YOU purchase on Save a Bookstore Day?

Also, you may have heard, if you’re my Facebook friend, that I had a great time in my Sewing Class and came away with a really cool tote-bag. The class taught the basics of sewing machines and we practiced various stitches on a swatch of fabric until we felt confident enough to do some real sewing.

There were several different styles and designs of fabric for the bag but I decided upon the burlap coffee sack– acquired by Home Ec Studios by a local coffee merchant. For the most part the sewing was easy– straight lines up and down the sides of the tote bag, but then I had to sew a liner inside the bag, and then straps, and you have to do it all inside out which is very confusing, but somehow it all worked. And it was fun. It was me and 6 women– all laughing and chatting and breaking thread and getting our stitches all knotted up.

Now I just have to remember it all so I can use my own machine. I have a ton of really cool vintage fabric, mostly of cowboys and cowgirls, that I want to turn into pillows.

Here’s a poem  by Naomi Shihab Nye

Sewing, Knitting, Crocheting,

A small striped sleeve in her lap,
navy and white,
needles carefully whipping in yarn
from two sides.
She reminds me of the wide-angled women
filled with calm
I pretended I was related to
in crowds.

In the next seat
a yellow burst of wool
grows into a hat with a tassel.
She looks young to crochet.
I’m glad history isn’t totally lost.
Her silver hook dips gracefuly.

And when’s the last time you saw
anyone sew a pocket onto a gray linen shirt
in public?
Her stitches must be invisible.
A bevelled thimble glitters in the light.

On Mother’s Day
three women who aren’t together
conduct delicate operations
in adjoining seats
between La Guardia and Dallas.
Miraculously, they never speak.
Three different kinds of needles,
three snippy scissors,
everybody else on the plane
snoozing with The Times.
When the flight attendant
offers free wine to celebrate,
you’d think they’d sit back,
chat a minute,
tell who they’re making it for,
trade patterns,
yes?

But a grave separateness
has invaded the world.
They sip with eyes shut
and never say
Amazing
or
Look at us
or
May your thread
never break.

In any case, I did read the 5 Nonfiction pieces by: Jennifer Egan, Junot Diaz, Tea Obreht, Edward P. Jones, and Salvatore Scibona. They were all good, but my favorites were Scibona’s Where I Learned to Read, Jones’ Shacks, and Diaz’ The Money (and also Jones, but I’ll save that for another blog post).

As a side note, I’m currently reading Tea Obreht’s novel, The Tiger’s Wife, which is getting phenomenal reviews, she’s being called a new wonderkind, and Colum McCann says, “Téa Obreht is the most thrilling literary discovery in years.” I’m only about 100 pages in though I’m enjoying it–especially the magical stories the narrator’s grandfather tells her (hence the title), that are woven throughout the book, which is essentially a mystery (the narrator is trying to discover why her grandfather left home to die without telling anyone).

Anyway, back to the 5 Nonfiction pieces. I love it when NYer does these 1 page shorts, because they’re so easy to use/teach in a writing class. I’m definitely going to be using these in my Fall Creative Nonfiction Workshop at the college.

Scibona’s particularly appealed to me because it’s basically a love letter to reading– though told through a twisty series of events in his young school life. But it reminded me of my own growing up, sneaking away at recess and lunch to the library in grade school to read those short bios of famous people– called the Childhood of Famous Americans Series: Lincoln, Dolly Madison, Jim Thorpe, Betsy Ross, Jane Addams. Remember those bios? They were meant for grade school, probably only about 50 pages (if that) and had the most basic information about the peoples’ lives– though all told very melodramatically (lots of exclamation points!). These were some of my best friends from 2nd to 6th grade.(I SO remember reading this one– Narcissa Whitman, Pioneer Girl).

In talking about finding his way to reading Scibona writes:

By senior year at St. John’s, we were reading Einstein in math, Darwin in lab, Baudelaire in French tutorial, Hegel in seminar. Seminar met twice a week for four years: eight o’clock to ten at night or later, all students addressed by surname. On weekends, I hung out with my friends. The surprise, the wild luck: I had friends. One sat in my room with a beer and “The Phenomenology of Spirit,” reading out a sentence at a time and stopping to ask, “All right, what did that mean?” The gravity of the whole thing would have been laughable if it hadn’t been so much fun, and if it hadn’t been such a gift to find my tribe.

You can also find out what these writers are reading this summer.

The premise of BB is simple: you come in, I read a prompt from my black box of prompts, and then we write for a set period of time (within an hour). After the time limit we then read our pieces aloud. No critique, just listening.

I’m so glad to be back. It makes for such a rewarding hour, especially since it’s on Tuesday; it helps to ease me into the rest of the week.

If you’re someone who has trouble finding that time to write then definitely join or start a group like this, or, hold your own private, one-person Brown Bag writing hour. (I recommend using Judy Reeves’ A Writer’s Book of Days !)

I also love finding/getting my own prompts. Sometimes I’ll find them online, on a writing webpage, but most of the time I take lines from poetry or prose and use those as prompts. For example, here are some past prompts:

Write about Food and Comfort (from James Merrill’s Poem “Maisie”)

You became so attached to the objects of our home (from David Plante’s The Pure Lover: A Memoir of Grief)

This week’s prompt also came from James Merrill– I think all of the prompts I’ve used are from his book From the First Nine: Poems 1946-1976. (of which I have a first edition!).

Here is the prompt:

The street, if it ends at all, ends here (from “Light of the Street, Darkness of Your Own House”)

I’ve even used the title of the poem as a past prompt–which made for some great writing from everyone.

Here are some lines from the brief scene I wrote during that Brown Bag session:

There were no real streets on the reservation. No side walks. Nothing that indicated where one yard began and the other ended. No stops or starts. In this way we were all connected.  The warmth from the oven of one home was felt in the chest of someone in the next . The rise of bread, the sinking of hopes. An open window carried voices, songs, welcomed anger, provided temporary escape for regret.

If you’re in San Diego, come to Tuesday Brown Bag– every Tuesday 12pm to 1pm. Or Thursday Writers held at Lestat’s West Coffee House. More info here.

And definitely take a look at James Merrill’s poetry. It will inspire!

Yesterday had a great time at the Blazing Laptops Write-a-Thon to support San Diego Writers, Ink– the non-profit writing organization that I’m a part of. (you can still sponsor me! I really did write for 9 hours!). I’m offering a homemade collage postcard or collage book mark to anyone who sponsors $10 or more.

At the Write-a-Thon (which I did/teamed up with my BFF Kelli) I worked mostly on my novel. I did try a few of the prompts that were given out during the day but the bulk of my writing went to a new chapter. I drank a lot of coffee! Now that I’m off from teaching and have basically no real work for the summer (a good thing? a bad thing?) I’m ready to dive back in full time on the novel. As much as I had fun yesterday, I have to admit that being in a room full of people and trying to seriously write was difficult. I’ve always been one who needs quiet and my own space to write in.

Don’t get me wrong, I love being in the company of other writers and creative people, but I really cherish my office and how I can close the door and be in my own world in there. It helps that it has a terrific view of the Coronado bridge and some of downtown San Diego. I can’t remember if I’ve posted pics of the office here, but I’ll post some soon just in case.

The scene I was working on yesterday had several characters (most of them minor minor) talking– the main character of the book (or one of the main characters) was describing a scene where a bunch of Hollywood suits comes to his reservation to talk about the upcoming filming of a movie– and I realized that when I’m writing dialogue I need to ‘talk it out’ while writing, which was kind of hard to do in a quiet room of 20 people! I practice the dialogue that I write to see how it sounds, but I couldn’t really do that yesterday! arghh! I guess I’ve always done this but it seemed much more obvious to me yesterday because I couldn’t do it.

It made me think about writers who are good with dialogue– who are they?

I suppose Hemingway is considered a strong dialogue writer.

I like the dialogue in the new Nicole Krauss book, Great House, too. Though for me it’s always been about the interior monologues of her characters.

I’ve always thought Joshua Ferris was a master of dialogue (though he’s a relatively new writer).  Read his NewYorker story The Dinner Party to see what I mean.

Here’s an excerpt:

“They come in,” he said, “we take their coats. Everyone talks in a big hurry as if we didn’t have four long hours ahead of us. We self-medicate with alcohol. A lot of things are discussed, different issues. Everyone laughs a lot, but later no one can say what exactly was so witty. Compliments on the food. A couple of monologues. Then they start to yawn, we start to yawn. They say, ‘We should think about leaving, huh?,’ and we politely look away, like they’ve just decided to take a crap on the dinner table. Everyone stands, one of us gets their coats, peppy goodbyes. We all say what a lovely evening, do it again soon, blah-blah-blah. And then they leave and we talk about them and they hit the streets and talk about us.”

“What would make you happy?” she asked.

“A blow job.”

“Let’s wait until they get here for that,” she said.

She slid her finger along the blade to free the clinging onion. He handed her her glass. “Drink your wine,” he said. She took a sip. He left the kitchen.

He sat on the sofa and resumed reading an article. Then he got up and returned to the kitchen and poured himself a new drink.

“That’s another thing,” he said. “Their big surprise. Even their goddam surprises are predictable.”

“You need to act surprised for their sake,” she said.

“Wait for a little opening,” he said, “a little silence, and then he’ll say, he’ll be very coy, he’ll say, ‘Why don’t you tell them?’ And she’ll say, ‘No, you,’ and he’ll say, ‘No, you,’ and then she’ll say, ‘O.K., O.K., I’ll tell them.’ And we’ll take in the news like we’re genuinely surprised—like, holy shit, can you believe she’s knocked up, someone run down for a Lotto ticket, someone tell Veuve Clicquot, that bastard will want to know! And that’s just the worst, how predictable our response to their so-called news will be.”

“Well, O.K.,” she said. “When that happens, why don’t you suggest they have an abortion?”

He chewed his ice and nodded. “That would shake things up,” he said, “wouldn’t it?”

“Tell them we can do it right here with a little Veuve Clicquot and one of the bedroom hangers.”

“Delightful,” he said. “I’m in.”

“He’s O.K.,” he said. “They’re both O.K. I’m just being a dick.”

“We do this, what—at most, once or twice a year. I think you can handle it. And when they have the baby—”

“Oh, Christ.”

“When they have the baby, we’ll see even less of them.”

“Holiday cards. Here’s our little sun-chine. See our little sun-chine? Christ.”

“You aren’t the one who’s going to have to go to the baby shower,” she said.

“How much you wanna bet they buy a stroller?”

“A stroller?”

“A stroller.”

“A stroller,” she said. “To cart the baby around.”

He put cheese on a cracker. “For to cart the baby around in, yes,” he said.

“And you, if you had a baby, there’d be no stroller, right, because it would be oh so predictable? Absolutely no stroller?”

I have just one more day of giving final exams– next Wednesday– and then my summer begins.

Summer, for me, equals:

finishing current draft of novel (updates to come)

reading (my book list to come)

movies (what’s a summer without movies?)

making stuff (did I mention I’m going to take a class on how to use your sewing machine?)

travel (maybe?)

work– oops, nope! no work/teaching for me this summer! (good or bad thing?)

Here’s a good thing: poem, Summer Trips, by Jonathan Greene

Summer Trips

As a child sequestered in
the back seat on a long journey,
exiled in one’s own world,
a refuge. Deep sleep naps.
Ice-cream stand oases after
a long stretch of highway.

A whole year of work
brings us this week at the beach.
The Devil’s bargain parents made,
a contract that renews every time,
weary after the nine-to-fives,
they unlock the front door.

“Summer Trips” by Jonathan Greene, from Distillations and Siphonings. (c) Broadstone Books, 2010. From The Writer’s Almanac.

My dad called me and left this message:

Hey Bobby. Just called to wish you a happy birthday. Gosh, how old are you now? Let’s see, you were born in 69. 1969, 79, 89, 99, 2009, 2011. Are you 42 years old? Wow. Gosh you’re older than I am. Sorry I missed you. Talk to you later. Love you. Dad.
On my birthday I bought a belt for myself at American Apparel and it turns out it’s a womens belt (though some would call it Unisex). Sigh.

But had a fun night. Turf club then out with the gang at Whistle Stop bar.

In other news:

I met and had dinner with writer Dorothy Allison last week! She was part of our college’s Literary Arts Festival and she was pretty damn awesome. Funny as hell and oh my, the story she read– 45 minutes long– moving, scary, sharp. She’s such a master of dialogue. I was completely consumed by the reading– wholly taken out of the dingy theater with it’s avocado walls and bright red seats. She is without a doubt one of the great writers of our generation.

Recently bought a new book for my pulp-film-novel collection.

It’s hardly pulpy but it is a movie-tie-in. And it satisfies my June Allyson fetish. For now.

I’ve been wanting to post more about my recent fascination with Zines and about how I’d like to produce some in the near future.

Here’s a cool Zine I found online a couple of months ago and then it took me a while to order it and now it’s finally come!

The publisher is Elk Zine and they have such terrific zines, and films.

This one is by writer and photographer Vince Aletti (he was one of the first critics to write about Disco music) and has a gorgeous photo of Rebel Without a Cause actor Sal Mineo on the cover and inside it’s made up of beefcake photos mostly only of guys from the shoulders up, which I find is kind of charming.

There’s a cool write-up about it at Book Du Jour with more photos.

Ah Sal Mineo. I imagine that so many young gay men who saw Rebel Without a Cause in the theater must have felt such a connection and recognition with him.

How the heart aches when Plato (Sal Mineo) says to Jim (James Dean):

If only you could’a been my dad. We could have breakfast in the morning.