Paperback writer

It's easy to say, put out another book already. The reality is much harder. The first one I published when I was fifty. The second one, which I started fifteen years prior, came out soon after. 

I have at least two more books in the works, maybe three and a play. One is a YA novel (a few meh chapters), one is a book of essays (most of which are already written) and one is a sequel to "Portrait of a Deputy Public Defender". I also have a working draft of my play adaptation of "Tales of an Inland Empire Girl". 

I also have the beginnings of a one woman show.

But listen dear reader, you know that I work full-time as a lawyer in court most days, and come home exhausted. And on my weekends, I have a podcast. Plus, I'm finishing up my MFA one class at a time (where is where I've written my essays), along with three puppies and a husband. Life is full. 

I want to retire so I can write full time and finish these projects. But I'm more than a little obsessed with financial security. And in these times, you have to be. The good news is that I'm joining a two year writing collective next year and the organization and the cohort I join will help me finish my next book in two years. So there's that. 

Sometimes, I wish I could travel and do a summer workshop (which is how I generated "Tales of an Inland Empire Girl" over a ten year period), but the shih tzus will not have it. And I would miss them so. 

Let it be noted that I write every day. I have my practice. At 530 am, I write this blog at least weekly. During the semester, I write on the weekends and early morning for class. I'm not an evening writer. I can edit in the evenings, but my creative flow is early morning. Evenings are for chilling with my hubby along with my podcast recording and facilitation, and/or sleeping or playing with the puppies. Or watching tv, which I find inspiring creatively as well as relaxing. I've had a number of essays published in anthologies recently. That's where I lean toward. Unfortunately, I don't have time to submit my writings to journals. At this point, they're being saved for the next book. 

Today, I have to get the puppies groomed, so I'm gonna hang at a coffee shop and write for a couple hours. It's going to be heaven. Let's see if I can make any headway on my YA novel. Or on collating my essay collection. 

Hey, it will happen eventually. I promise. 

The mean lil shih tzu

Pippin is a brown and white shih tzu who weighs about 6 pounds. He is a barker and a biter. I am working on a data project so came home a bit early to work on it from home (mostly to save my neck and have some focus) and he saw me and yelped. "Ruff!" Then he said it again. "Ruff!" 

His brother and sister, Merry and Princess, each cocked an ear. I usually talk back to him so shouted back, "Give me a couple hours you mangy mutt." Then I went upstairs to work. Headphones on my ears in blissful silence. 

When I came back downstairs, it was time for the dogs to eat. Hubby and Suegra watched a soccer/futbol game. I grabbed a piece of the pizza my husband had made as I filled the dog's tiny bowls. The shih tzus ate. 

I took them outside. They ran in the backyard like maniacs. Animaniacs. In circles at high speeds. It was like watching a live cartoon. Merry who rarely barks, yelped at Pippin and growled. Princess looked on then retreated to a corner to watch them fight.

And Pippin was clearly spoiling for one. Back inside, he yelped at me. I decided to sit in his dog bed. I laid down and taunted him from the large dog bed that fits all three of them. Pippin got very angry and ran in circles and started nipping and barking at me. I was laughing hysterically. My husband was wondering what the heck was happening (I'm sure), but the game kept him mesmerized.

Then one of Pippin's nips got a lil harder. I decided to put the piranha slash shih tzu to bed in his play pen after calming him a bit and giving him a kiss on his forehead. 

Moral of the story is, don't mess with a shih tzu. And definitely, don't take his bed. 

The tanks are coming

The tanks are coming 

They're coming 

From panzer man

Our wanna be king

But no oh no 

Not in Cali

Please not here 

The governor said

Come arrest me 

He knows the tanks 

They're coming 

Panzer man is burning 

Our constitution

Due process ash

Democracy soot

The tanks are coming

They're coming 

You see 

They're coming

For us all 

Who dare 

Speak Truth to Power 

talking with myself

Sometimes, I feel like I am writing to talk to myself. This blog is a diary of sorts. My way of memorializing where I am in my life. Occasionally, I'll go through my prior blog posts (I am trying to create a book from them, but after more than a decade of posts, on average 2-4 a month, it's harder than you think) and I wonder, how in the heck did I write all of these?

What I like about the blog format is the brevity. I've always been a concise writer. It can be a detriment at times, especially when an editor tells you they want more, more, more, but it's usually a benefit to be short and to the point.

My dream is to write full-time. Without the pressures of a demanding job that saps my energy, I wonder what I could accomplish. But then again, I might just spend my time watching Gilmore Girls or West Wing straight through for the upteenth time. 

I'm watching my dogs play. I wish I could in the moment like they are. I'm usually in my head, thinking of the future or the past. Yet, still, as I get older, and older meh, I am trying to be less preoccupied and worry filled. The amount of unhappiness my anxiety has caused me would fill a dumpster, and I'm trying to get rid of all that. Mainly because it's impacted my life domains so much that I just need a change, and I want to be free of it.

I guess that's all I have to say. Time for another espresso and then I got to go get ready for work. Put on my dress and jacket (but even when I have to wear a suit, my new ankle bolt tattoo will remind me of who I am at my core) and face the day. 

Punk rock girl

I just got back from punk rock bowling in Vegas. It was an epic experience. I'd been before, last year for the first time. 

Before I attended last year, I'd always thought it was something it wasn't. The bowling is secondary. It's really just a music festival. We saw the Gang of Four, which was my favorite performance by far, as well as other old school punk bands like Cock Sparrer. I saw new bands like ATL's Upchuck, who I had never heard of. I learned about Laura Jane Grace, a singer I'm now obsessed with. 

I saw bands I'd seen previously at other concert venues such as The Adicts, the Damned and Social Distortion. I was able to watch Peter Hook do a full set of Joy Division songs. It was mesmerizing. 

There's also the small shows and we saw Bob Mould from Husker Du perform at Container Park as well as Johnny Two Bags perform solo stuff (he's the guitarist from Social Distortion). 

We went to the punk rock bowling museum. I got another lightning bolt tattoo. This one black with greyscale and black stars, another ode to Bowie. I met Monkey from the Adicts who was just hanging out in the museum bar with his Adicts makeup on.

It was just such a cool experience and it reminded me how much I love music and punk and post punk culture. As I've said and even written before, I am and will always be, a punk rock girl. 

Pasadena baby

This Saturday, I'm attending the Cruel World festival in Pasadena. I'm excited to see Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds,  Blancmange, Garbage, and Madness, who I've never seen live, along with OMD, Allison Moyet, and New Order, who I have seen live, amongst others. There's so much music. I dig the vibe, the goth aesthetic is my jam. 

Don't ask me what I'm wearing, because I don't know, yet. 

A few years back, we saw Siouxsie Sioux at Cruel World. It was phenomenal. I've written about it. Siouxsie was my idol in high school. And we saw punk rock icon Iggy Pop. There was a lightning storm so we actually had to go back Sunday night to see Siouxsie play. I danced hands in the air the entire time she sang. I felt 16 again. 

There's something about a festival. I adore the hours of music. I love the people watching. The fashion. The stall food. The beer. I am gonna try to keep it mellow though, because I have to make it all day and night.

I truly do believe that music keeps me young. It keeps me feeling. And alive. So alive. Lately, I've been feeling my age. I think the stress of being a public defender is getting to me again body wise. My neck, my back, and my stomach. Oh vey.

Most days, I dream of writing full-time and perhaps teaching on the side. Last weekend, I spoke at a senior center in Pasadena via zoom. It was so much fun. They had great questions. They were into it. And this Thursday night, I'm speaking to a writing class at PCC in Pasadena. 

Pasadena has been in my life recently. Is that a sign that this weekend will be epic? I hope so. 

The overthinking

I had an epiphany this weekend. I just need to write. I need to stop overthinking it.

Some of my first stories are my favorite ones. That's because they're written without craft in mind. I went with my gut, my heart, my subconscious, and the voice of my ancestors streaming in my head. I wrote in first person, present tense, child voice and sometimes, the writing was almost automatic. I became the words. 

Yet now, I've gotten to the point where all I can think about when I'm writing is about the act itself and that is not a good thing. It's harmful. Because writing is about the act of letting go. The craft can come in later in the editing and revision stage and even that can be too much overworking of the prose. 

For example, in my memoir, there were early stories that I went back to my original of after a decade of revisions because I preferred the earlier, less edited versions. 

As a writer, it's too easy to get in your head. You start to think that all of this can be tied together. You forget that writing, at least the good writing, is magic. It's about the heart. 

So I vow to let my pen or fingers slide effortlessly over the page and keys. Like a pianist, I just need to play. It needs to be fun, and it needs to be real. It needs to capture something that nothing else can capture, humanity. Because that in the end is what I'm here for. To somehow and someway, put my life into prose.