Life Writing, Writing Life

Posted on May 15, 2018 by Heloise Jones

Something shifted bigtime this week for me. One would think the near-death event with the semi might’ve done that, and it did, but heaps of papers triggered the big turning––intentions jotted on notes and pads burying nearly half my desk; stacks of books still too much in the way days after I unpacked them; the once small pile of ‘look at laters’ on a counter threatening to tumble sideways. Chaos mirroring my insides that screamed over things undone and my inertia with them, while buckets of unknowns & changes piled on top. Clearly I needed to create space. And it felt like a whack-a-mole joke, one thing pushed down, another popping up.

Prompted by an email from a friend that contained a link to a writing contest with her note, ‘this reminds me of you,’ I made a decision. I turned to what I’ve wanted to do for months: write fiction.

The deadline for the competition was two days away. I edited 25 pages from my novel ‘Flight,’ submitted it. I also submitted an avant garde poem I love about my father’s death & my childhood. I made it with 1 hr. 20 min. to spare. I don’t know which one got me Finalist. It doesn’t matter. My reward is a 25% tuition waiver for a 10-day writing residency in Kenya (writing, room, board, craft, consults), safari included! A week in the valley Karen Blixen wrote in ‘Out of Africa (!!)’ + 3 days in Nairobi. With frequent flier and the waiver, the daily cost is lower than a week at the beach. The magical part is I’ve been saying for months I’m going to Africa. Who would’ve guessed this way. l won’t be the same when I return.

May 1st, another triumph. My short-short story The Honey Hour was published in The Ekphrastic Review. I love writing to visual prompts. Some of my best work comes from these sorts. And I’m always surprised what emerges. The story was a free-write in a workshop I took that week I tangled with a semi. I like that it’s with an international company of writers.

This sparked me to edit the entire novel, again. The book’s garnered advance praise. I got a lit agent in 3 weeks of my first queries. I have a file with compliments on my writing from famous NY pub acquisitions editors. And it’s moved thru life with me since that first season of trying to sell it. Revisited as I hone my craft further as a writer. The last time I went in was three years ago. A lit agent contacted me after rejecting it the year before. She couldn’t get the characters and story out of her mind, she said. I was living in Florida at the time. I remember it well. Year four there. This detail is significant.

Editing is a process with it’s own level of creativity within the rules. It’s immensely satisfying to me. I find zen in the process, and experience the joy of feeling the work take shape in a more refined way. I’m ‘listening and feeling,’ as well as ‘doing,’ This time I’d go in with breath. Edit intuitively like I do others’ works. I thought it’d be easy.

When I came to the first lifeless passage, I was confused. I wrote rework this in the margin. As I read on, I saw a pattern. The story was there. The paragraph structure was tight. Every scene was on target. And the lyricism was gone. The magic entering the dream of the narrative missing. The complex weave of relationships and desires flatlined. I felt I was reading someone’s poor copy of my work.

I opened the previous draft, saw all the beautiful sentences I remembered. The ones I later extracted as if with an Exacto knife. As I worked on, I kept both drafts open. When I came to a place that rang hollow, I looked to see what I’d written before. I reclaimed sentences and phrases, wove them in, put flesh and heart back into the story.

In my book The Writer’s Block Myth, I say our writing goes as our life in the real world goes.

When I first finished Flight, I discovered I’d written elements of my life in it. Unknown to me as I wrote. Much later I realized I’d rewritten my story with my mother. Halfway through the edits this time I realized that last draft reflected my life at the time I did it.

Living in Florida, I loved the clouds, the dawn hours I watched the sun rise on the bay, the reflections on water, the magical walks through the historic neighborhood where I lived. At times I was inexplicably overcome with Love for the world. I had wonderful moments of connection with folks here and there, and a few acquaintances. And for the first time in my life, I had no steady friends or colleagues. I felt isolated. Plus, I was writing very little. Most of my hours were at the computer, studying the exploding online landscape. At the same time, in a way that may sound counter-intuitive, I couldn’t find enough solitude. My husband and I were together 24/7. The lyricism and juicy heart of life was missing for me. As it was in the novel when I finished editing it.

Writing a book is a relationship. . . with the material, with yourself, and with your life. And as with all relationships, things shift, evolve, change, grow, shrink, hold surprises. I learned a long time ago that you don’t really know what your book is about ‘til you finish it. You start with an intention, follow a story, and then, when you’re engaged in the process and actively present, things emerge that can’t be fully seen until the work’s a cohesive whole. That was true when I wrote this novel. And it’s been unfolding ever since.

This round I saw how much culture is a character in ‘Flight,’ playing a role in defining the story. As I write this, I see how the characters’ loss of connection with their culture, one by outside circumstances, another by leaving, reflects my own loss at thirteen of my Armenian cultural heritage. Like so many authors before me, I’m re/writing, consciously or unconsciously, some of my own stories.

These lines by Joseph Campbell caused me to pause:

“People say that what we’re all seeking is a meaning for life. I don’t think that’s what we’re really seeking. I think that what we’re seeking is an experience of being alive. . .so that we actually feel the rapture of being alive.”

Seeing my life reflected back in my writing, both the experience and stories of it, I think the meaning of life and the experience of being alive are one and the same. It’s why story is the shortest distance between two people. They’re about being alive.

Near the end of the book I cried at two scenes. I’ve cried at these scenes since I first wrote them. It’s a good sign they still touch me. Don’t you think? And I decided it doesn’t matter I wrote little new material this time. I was present, observing with awareness, understanding more, and they’re still all my words. This is Writing. I love it.

Notice how you, and aspects of your life, are reflected in your written works.
Notice how you, and aspects of your life, are reflected in the things you do.

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The Sound in My Body

Posted on April 12, 2018 by Heloise Jones

“Courage is the measure of our heartfelt participation with life, with another,
with a community, a work; a future.”
~ David Whyte, poet

I walked in a cloud of birdsong the other morning. I didn’t notice the birds like this last spring. Nor did I notice how the birch looks as if eyes cover its trunk, and that it sprouts little furry raccoon tails before new leaves come in. I didn’t see the tight fists of leaves that look like knobs of tiny turbans on the limbs of other trees last year, either. It’s exhilarating, seeing all this now.

I also had my heart blown open by music this week. The Santa Fe Community Orchestra, a symphony orchestra so good it’s hard to believe they’re volunteer, had a guest violinist. She has an impressive resume – Carnegie Hall, Lincoln Center, & other famous venues. But I was not prepared for the exquisite perfection of the notes from her violin. There was a point I thought, ‘these are the strings that evoke the heart, are what makes one spontaneous weep.’ And I confess I felt myself disappear, smack into the midst of that music. Violin Concerto in D minor, Op. 47 (Sibelius) meant nothing to me before those minutes. And I will never be the same.

Why does this matter? I’m once again alive in my skin. And aware of the road I’ve been on.

In the aftermath of 5 years of isolation and stress, coming off a brutal 6 week push of packing my home, moving across country, editing and launching a book, followed by severe seasonal allergies, sleep deprived & unable to breathe fully for months, I completely missed the unfurling of spring last year. I noticed the abundant flowering trees in Santa Fe, how roses cover the town and flowers cover untended lots, and it wasn’t enough. Millions of small wonders went unnoticed and under-appreciated. Presence in the moments, the stuff life’s made of, was lost.

I ignored what I know feeds me, too. Such as the Soul Food of live symphony performances. Even when people are moved by my energy in the experience, and wonder if I know something they don’t. Strangers beside me who ask if I’m a professional musician. No, I say, I just feel the music deeply. Words said, and not heard by me!

One could say this heightened awareness is a result of my recent near death event with a semi 4 weeks ago. It’s truly a miracle I’m here. What I realize is near death is ongoing. A wrong step off a curb. What I know is observing with awareness is a conscious decision. It has layers. When we’re present, we know we’re connected. It’s a choice. And it’s not always easy.

I recently watched a show about butterflies. How the oldest traced species, the painted lady, travels 9,000 miles round trip on annual migrations. Naturalists were baffled because the butterflies disappeared for a period during the trek. They discovered the fragile creatures fly 1500-2000 feet up into the atmosphere to join millions of other insects riding wind currents. Imagine! And that the journey is made by 3 or more generations of the things. The butterflies stop along the way, lay eggs, die, let the offspring continue the journey. At hearing this, I couldn’t help but think ‘We don’t know a thing about the full wonders of nature and other species, what marvels we’re missing, f**king with the planet like we are.’ Right after I read puffins have fluorescent beaks. I am so curious WHY! So in awe of life on Earth.

Two things socked me deep in my core, brought me home:

“You almost always hear a train before you see it. The whistle pierces the air to warn anyone nearby that a thousand tons of cargo are hustling through. You might see the train soon after hearing it, exhaust billowing from the engines as it chugs down the track. But even if you could not see or hear a nearby train, you know when it passes because you feel it. The ground rumbles for several blocks in every direction. Thousands of tons of steel reverberate bass tones up through the foundations of buildings and down toward the bedrock of a place. Things shake and rattle while the train rolls. Stuff falls off shelves. Vibrations slide up through your feet. The sound gets in your body…” ~ Greg Jarrell, on the train, and John Coltrane (the porch magazine)

And this by poet Rachel Ballentine:

“my art teacher said ” YOU CAN’T START WITH THE EYELASHES!” so I am thinking about art and love, if art is not about love then it is not about anything. love of color or the curve of an eyelid or a tree or the bend of a wrist or a mountain. love of the movements of drawing or painting. in front of me is a blue bottle with a purple iris and a plum blossom branch, it is so beautiful,. . .we are so helpless in the face of the overwhelming love that really is everywhere, maybe all we can do is surrender to it. no I can’t explain evil or violence, maybe it is separation from the love. so you have to put in the big gestures first and then at the end, you can paint the eyelashes. you can love in the general or the specific. big loves or tiny loves.”

The emphasis above is mine. I know these things by intuition and heart. We find them by observing with awareness what’s inside & outside us. Like the rock climber who’s present to each micro-second. His focus on every crevice and niche in the rock face, the placement of his fingers, the twitch of his muscle. It’s what a good writer does, too.

As a writer, my writing ignites and flows when I observe with awareness, am present to the moments. Am out of my own way. And when I let go of expectations for how it should look or be, my writing unfolds. And so it is with life. The Muse is always here. You have no idea how huge this is for me to experience right now.

Presence. Breath. Love. And something I knew and forgot, Courage:

“To be courageous is not necessarily to go anywhere or do anything except to make conscious those things we already feel deeply and then to live through the unending vulnerabilities of those consequences. . .On the inside we come to know who and what and how we love and what we can do to deepen that love; only from the outside and only by looking back, does it look like courage.” ~ David Whyte

Looking back, I remember how I sought birdsong on my early morning walks when I hurt most. How I stood under a mockingbird, let it’s strong, clear song piece my heart. The marvel I felt at how such a big sound could come from such a small bird. The beauty of so many melodies flowing from one soul, like stories. I didn’t understand why, then. I just knew I needed that birdsong. I understand now. Like the train, the knowing came first, and the sound got in my body: Love life. Seems so obvious.

My mother told me I cried in the womb.
They said: It will have luck.
Someone spoke every day of my life
in my ear, slowly, softly.
It said: live, live, live!
It was Death. ~ Jaime Sabines

Another small journey. Getting to Wise.
A Writer’s Life.
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The Gift of Curiosity

Posted on February 26, 2018 by Heloise Jones

“Life on earth is a written language
that is read through the
living of it. . .”
Jamie K. Reaser (from In This Way)
*

Curiosity was the theme at a talk I went to this week. Our name badges had the line ‘I am curious about…’ I finished it with Your story, and what excites you.

Not knowing they built 30 minutes in for mingling, I arrived long before the presentation. Unlike when I’m speaking in front of a group or crowd, I’m shy in these open room meet-n-greets. I followed the other early birds upstairs, found a seat in the rows of chairs.

I like to chat with people sitting beside me at these things, so I turned to a couple, learned it was not their first time at one of these events. I noticed neither filled in the line on their name tag, so I asked. She was curious if I grew my own food. She was a gardener, and used to sell at the farmers market. As we talked, she said the most amazing thing: she didn’t like or appreciate flowers. She only grew them after she realized people would buy them. Function seemed important to her, so I asked if she ever planted marigolds alongside her vegetables to discourage bugs, or if she liked the flowers before they turned to seed or fruit. She shook her head. I’d never known anyone who didn’t appreciate flowers. A tiny purple flower sprouting on a rosemary sprig in my vase thrills me.

It was my turn. I’m curious, of all the stories you have, which would you like to share? He said nothing. She’s trying to be an artist, her words. As I do when I hear writers and artists say the words ‘trying to,’ I asked if she was making art, and affirmed her as an artist. Adding, ‘I wrote a book about this, so it’s dear to my heart.’ She got it! Then surprised me again. For the first time in the year since The Writer’s Block Myth was published, I wasn’t asked what the title of the book is.

Art isn’t necessary like food or clothing, she continued. My eyes widened. She was a fabric artist, found it wrong small art quilts got more money than quilts for the bed. I thought about Amish and Appalachian quilts, the functional Navajo and Turkish rugs, all commanding great price. I said again what’s close to my heart.

Art is a language. It evokes something inside us. It creates connections, within us and between us. Art and writing are so powerful, artists, poets, and writers are executed in some countries, even when their works aren’t blatantly political. ‘Art’s not the same as a burger or salad,’ I said, ‘and it’s still food. It has always been a part of us humans.’

She mentioned prehistoric cave drawings. Yes! And it was art. They rounded the bodies of the animals, put figures in different poses, doing different things. Art told their stories. I shared I’d just learned about the Cuerva de los Manos (Caves of Hands) in Patagonia. Wondered out loud what stories those early peoples were telling. Blank eyes stared back at me.

At that moment, 100 people poured in, took seats all around us. The quiet room noisy, I turned away.

I recently bought a book that sits on a table where I see it. The entire book feels like a work of artistry to me. The paper is luscious. The poetry simple and real. The cover & images inside lovely. It’s not art you’d see on my walls, and yet, I feel good when I look on–and in–it. It’s comforting, like certain foods. And the whole feels impeccable, like I envision my own books to be.

I didn’t notice the title until I got home. Leaves. I’ve loved leaf motifs forever. I have leaf finials, leaves on lamps, cards, tiles, and once across my bed on a duvet cover. I got rid of the cover in a move, and regret it. It was soft green with cream colored leaves woven all over with silky threads. Like the book, it held a mixture of things that feed my soul – texture, color, comfort, touch, a sense of home, a particular beauty.

The experience of these things is tied to what defines it in my mind & body beyond their physical bones. Just as we’re defined beyond blood, bones, and skin that holds us together. They’re more than talismans or symbols.

Many years ago I saw a short film that’s never left me. Rain falls in heavy sheets from a thick cloud-covered sky. 10 yr. kids in a classroom tease and taunt a girl who draws picture after picture of sunshine and flowers. We understand this is nuclear rain. They know sunshine and flowers are impossible. One day, they lock her in a closet. Moments later, the clouds part and the sun comes out. The kids rush outside, forget her. She bangs on the door, looks thru cracks in the wall at the sunshine she’s only seen in her imagination, and now can’t experience. Flowers spring up everywhere, cover a field. The kids laugh and play in the sunshine, gathering armloads of blossoms as they run. It lasts only a short time. The clouds close over, the rain falls. Once indoors, they remember the girl in the closet. With remorse on their faces, they unlock the door. One holds out the flowers as an offering.

On Valentine’s Day, in a high school in Utah, every single student received a rose. No one was left out because good people came together, donated time and money to make it happen. A student said the entire vibe in the school that day was one of smiles and sharing. Even the kids who act like they don’t care felt a part of it. What those roses represented transformed the entire school. Because one person was curious enough to see how every kid could get a rose.

At the same time, in a high school in Florida, one beautiful girl got nine bullets in her back as she ran from a shooter. 16 others died with her. The question here is are we curious enough to hear each other.

When the presentation around curiosity began, we were told to exchange answers to what we wrote on our name tags. The beautiful woman beside me was curious where I was from. I answered, thinking as I spoke, of all the things to be curious about in this moment with this theme, why that. There were so many possibilities, her answer could be fascinating. I didn’t have a chance to ask.

I went home, wrote on Facebook: Do you consider yourself a person with a good dose of curiosity about life & the world? Why or why not? What tweaks your curiosity? I really want to know. What people said is exactly what I would say. And it says it all:

Being curious – pursuing the unfamiliar, unknown, and even the uncomfortable opens us up to discovery. . .the view is much bigger. Experiencing nature. Knowing how things work, or grow, and what they turn into. Spirituality. People. And a fellow writer follows her curiosity wherever it leads her, whether it’s how to buy a camel or uranium mining. We’re a citizen of the bigger world.

Another small journey. Getting to Wise.
A Writer’s Life.

What are you curious about? Share it the comments below.
When writing, let curiosity guide you. See where it takes your story.

Photo by Polychrome Creative

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Found Between Pause & Doing

Posted on February 13, 2018 by Heloise Jones

The daylight is more than halfway gone as I listen to the snow melt on the flat roof of this Santa Fe house. The stream from the roof is loud as it hits a puddle beside the raised concrete slab of the portal. This day there’s something about the snow that says it’s okay to slow down and meander thru the rooms in my small home. Pretend it’s a holiday. Let go the stomp of shoulds that other wide-open days engender. Even with the sun shining, the sky blue and clear of clouds over the glitter of snow covering the ground, let your mind wander. Perhaps it’s the cushioned silence, or the soft edges the snow puts on the world that makes me feel this way.

What if I simply wrote stories today, I think. See what comes. What if I forget work and soften into this thing twisting me inside out, turning my middle to stone. A feeling I’ve never had before in my long journey with writing.

I was in second grade when I planned my first book. I had a title, table of contents, and several stories written. My parents thought this little book and me brilliant. I abandoned it when it stopped being fun.

I was in third grade the first time I had writer’s block. I sat outside at wooden table and bench composing a poem, inspired by one I saw in the school newsletter. No one ever saw that poem. I didn’t know if I’d done it right, had no sense if it was good or bad, and wouldn’t allow myself to find out.

My first award for creative writing was in 6th grade. My story displayed at an arts fair. ‘Heloise is good at creative writing’ was the note my teacher wrote in my report card that year. At 18, I failed creative writing in college. Our one assignment each Friday in class was to write, anything. Each Friday I turned in a blank sheet of paper. I didn’t know what to write. Didn’t know how to start.

Nine years later, poems flew in like birds and angels as I navigated a painful divorce. Spontaneous, rhyming, complete. Unbidden. I had no way to call them at will. Once I was strong, they disappeared as quickly as they appeared.

Never during these years did I think I was a person who wrote. Even as I journaled. Even with the poems. I was an artist. Visual arts my creative expression and aspiration. It didn’t occur to me that all my jobs involved creativity and writing as I listened and helped people get what they desired.

In my late 30s, in school for the 5th time to earn my bachelor’s degree, I heard a new word – patriarchy. I listened to young women talk about date rape as if it was normal, an accepted risk. I thought of my own experiences. I ignited. I took my Voice and became an activist on that huge university campus. Organizing, writing, speaking to groups, meeting with administrators & professors, founding a campus-wide newsletter for women students & faculty. I was known for my Voice. It was my Superpower. And I used it to lead, and as my instrument to establish a Women’s Center on campus. My experience on that campus is what led me to being a writer. Because six years later, I realized I’d lost my Voice.

In a round-about way I joined a circle of women who met Tuesday afternoons to write to prompts. We read our raw work aloud, responded with a few words to what we heard. And for a year the group sat mute after I read. I vowed I’d quit. I was encouraged to stick with it.

One day, wanting badly to understand why people had nothing to say to my writing, I asked the right question: what can I do to connect? ‘Give them something grounded in the physical world to hold on to,’ the answer.

I started observing the world in a new way. I worked at finding the words to describe what I saw and felt. I stepped close to my experience, wanted to bring the reader & listener close in with me. I studied my craft. Stuck was never an issue to worry about. It was something to ride out. Until now.

These past two weeks since I came out of an intentional two-month pause have bedeviled me.

I know the value of pauses, have written often about it. We put distance between us and our work, come back with new eyes & perspectives. They’re periods of gestation and/or assessment. Ideas & thoughts take form within the relief of space and time. Intentional Pauses are an action. What happened next is where I got lost.

I jumped to the next action phase as I saw it, tasks. . .my interpretation of a favorite quote, ‘When you’re in motion, the form will emerge’ by Michael Hyatt. And something went wrong. I wasn’t moving. Couldn’t make myself move. Even with wanting it and seeing how my intentions dovetailed who I am, what I love to do, my skills & genius, and my beliefs & purpose. This was more than fear, or procrastination, or perfectionism. It felt so.darned.hard. I flogged myself, then decided to feed my soul.

I saw author Colum McCann in conversation with actor Gabriel Byrne. Their entire conversation about STORY. Colum McCann struck me deep when he said, “The best writing makes us sit up and take notice and it makes us glad that we are––however briefly––alive.” Yes, oh Yes.

I went to a monthly talk put on by the Georgia O’Keeffe Museum. That day’s presentation called ‘Color as a Verb.’ It featured a well-known artist, Sam Scott, and the Museum’s preservationist. I loved it. Especially the part about the science of color in the brain, and how our brain creates most of the colors we see because it wants all the primary colors. That reminded me of hunger and longing in a story. When Sam Scott said, “See art with the eye of your heart, not with your expectations,” I substituted Story for art, heard the echo of my own words.

Once I relaxed and followed my intuition, what I needed to move forward arrived in wondrous ways – Bam! Thank you! with a big Yea. My brilliant ideas had legs.

I was lost in that middle ground of awareness and receptivity – the action between pause and doing. The place that asks the all-important right questions for connection. And it’s where I got found.

This Folk art birdy has been with me since 1998.
We’d left Santa Fe for Asheville, NC. The house we bought was owned by a collector. The birdies were permanently attached to branches along the windows of a closed-in porch. I still have three. Their beaks & tails are chipped. Their metal wings bent. Scars. All results from falling from high places, the perches I chose for them. And still they smile. I love them. In a way, they kinda remind me of Me.

We’re alive. We’re in motion.

Another small journey. Getting to Wise.
A Writer’s Life.

Photo: Thought Catalog

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Writing My Way Out

Posted on January 12, 2018 by Heloise Jones

“Telling stories and reading stories changes you. Both allow one human being to reach more deeply into the experiences of another. Both involve our two greatest gifts:
the tools of empathy and imagination.”
~ Nancy Peacock, author & NC Piedmont Laureate

I’ve been in a deep pause for weeks – from who I thought I was in the shape of my life, and with writing. It’s been insular, and quiet, and pregnant with something I don’t know, yet.

I know the value of pauses. I wrote about it here. Even included a half dozen ways to intentionally pause. And this pause has not been easy to sink into with trust that what matters to me, like connecting with you each week, will be there when I come back. Hovering in the back of my mind is what might melt away.

A pause can be a journey when you soften into it. We come out the other side changed, often with unimagined insights or a valuable shift in perspective. The same as when reading a book, or traveling. And yet, it’s not the same as riding the length of an archipelago in Taiwan on the back of a scooter, or diving into another’s created world.

Last week, thinking the December pause was over, I had two strong days flying toward goals, feeling gloriously in the flow of my two words for 2018 (Connect & Commit). I told myself ‘I’ve got this’. . . then, Bam. Violent, ugly, mean, ravaging food poisoning the very night of my high five with myself. Dehydrating fast, my legs crunched into excruciating cramps in the midst of it. All night it had me, giving me no rest ‘til 5:30am.

I didn’t move from the bed for the next 24 hrs. I slept. A glass & pitcher of water on the bedside table. Drifting in and out, I heard the soft cool hum of the small humidifier atop a towel on the floor, noticed the shift in the light thru the blinds at the window, glanced at the bright red numbers on the clock. I felt the hollow of my empty middle, and the cool straight stream of water running throat to stomach inside me each time I had a sip. I noted the 3 count glug from the humidifier when the water in the reservoir dropped, and the click in the radiators when they turned on. Waterwaterwater.

I took no measure of how I felt beyond the weight of the blankets. Gave no thought to what I was missing beyond regret over the talk I really wanted to hear about Georgia O’Keefe’s intentional garb for her persona. My world and being was rest & hydration, care of my body. The only thing that mattered.

The next day I rose with the sun. Fatigued and foggy-brained, I intended to recover that whole day I lost. I was on a roll, had to catch up, my thinking. And the fog in the brain simply wouldn’t clear. It was as if all progress forward and my list of to-do’s floated away on a breeze, and I could only watch.

The hard part is I fought that fog with every half-firing brain cell I had for two entire days. When I finally gave in, I remembered those little details of my day in bed. Marveled at how present I must’ve been to my environment. And I thought back to the Christmas fable of my last blog.

Shortly after I published ‘A Christmas Fable,’ I read a blog from 13 months earlier. I was in Santa Fe for my yearly sojourn. A time I looked forward to every year. I spent most of my days on that trip at the computer writing The Writer’s Block Myth. In the midst of this writing retreat, an author came for a personal 4-day retreat to work with me on her book. I was busy. My favorite drives into the countryside where the sky felt forever and lines of golden-yellow trees ran along waterways were rare. I mostly gazed at the saturated blue fall sky thru windows. Watched aspens and cottonwoods in the garden move thru yellows & golds to dropping their leaves. And yet, the tone of that blog was light, as was the name, ‘Saying the Word Lucky.’ The language vivid. I was present to the writing, and there was joy at the heart of my sharing. A strong contrast to the blog I’d just written where I described a day where I was indeed intensely present in every moment, and yet, not present in the writing.

I went back into ‘A Christmas Fable,’ added sensory details. I saw again the tiny things that touched me, and added them. I asked a writer-friend to re-read and share what she thought. Then, in some strange twist, I never saw her response.

When I rose from bed fatigued and spent the day after recovery, the first emails I saw were hers and another’s. Both about the Christmas fable. Both arriving 4 days earlier, before my two high-five days! I was stunned.

Each said how much the blog touched them. Joy to the heart, tears in the eyes touched them. Writing is connection. Presence in writing is the heart of connection.

I then became present to the series of pauses I’ve gone thru, and continue to be in. Both in life and in writing. I’d not written in a month, a pause that was needed. And I’d not paused in the writing for connection with myself or the reader. That pause also something needed. I caught the disconnect, and still it took the pause with foggy brain to bring me back to the present of what matters right now as I chart this next year.

I don’t know what this extended deep pause is about. It feels like I’m near some sort of new, unknown event horizon. I can make myself crazy, or I can trust it to unfold and focus on the next thing in front of me. What I know is how we are with our writing is how we are in our life, and visa versa. As actress Elizabeth Moss said, “We are the story in print, and we are writing the story ourselves.” And in the writing, we change a little inside. It’s a very good thing. It’s time I get back writing.

I leave you with this wish from Neil Gaiman, and me:

“May your coming year be filled with magic and dreams and good madness. I hope you read some fine books and kiss someone who thinks you’re wonderful, and don’t forget to make some art — write or draw or build or sing or live as only you can. And I hope, somewhere in the next <this> year, you surprise yourself.”

Time to surprise ourselves.

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