To thine own self be true

Hamlet has given us many notable quotes and one of them especially resonates with me today as I write this. The quote I'm referencing is from Polonius' monologue (Act 1 Scene 3) where he is giving advice to his son Laertes and states, "To thine own self be true." The reason it sits with me is because it's so applicable to one's creativity. 

Years back, I tried to place a story about my affinity and history for fast food with a foodie magazine. I had a great contact (the editor was a former teacher of mine) and thought it was a sure thing. The editor loved the essay. But then an assistant editor was assigned to work with me on it and all of a sudden, we were going back and fourth for weeks. Eventually I realized that the piece didn't sound like me after rounds and rounds of edits. So, I pulled it. 

It was disappointing. Back then, I only had a few publication credits and it was a big deal. But ultimately, I knew I'd made the right call because the story was such a part of me. It wasn't just about food. It was a story about my family, and my generation, along with my history, and my hometown and culture. 

More than a few years later, after leaving the essay in a drawer, I pulled it out and submitted the same piece to a food writing based radio show and podcast that I adored called The Dirty Spoon. They accepted the story which I had retitled as "Fast Food Memories" (you can find it here:  http://www.dirty-spoon.com/fast-food-memories/) almost immediately. 

Amazingly, they pretty much took it as it was and left it untouched except for a few minor edits. They hired an actress to read it and it went live on their radio show and then it was archived on their podcast. The two hosts also did a fantastic introduction where they talked about their own obsessions with fast food. 

What that experience taught me was to trust my voice and to always listen to my instincts. It made me realize how important it is to trust one's gut when you know a story is good. I knew it was a strong piece you see. I knew it.

It also taught me that not everyone will get my writing but many will, or at least some people will. And that's enough for me.  

Friday

Yes, it's Friday night. 645 pm. I'm in the bathtub. You know you're getting old when you start hanging out at 5 pm and you're done by 6 pm. I'm just so tired. 

It was a hectic week. Work was ridiculously busy and I had a very important evidentiary hearing. I can't really chat about it here, but it was key to the program I run. And I had to call a witness so it was important. 

But then I think, let it go. Work that is. The hearing went fine, great even. I suppose I'm just realizing how much the stress gets to me. It really impacts my health and wellness.

But stress is also just part of life regardless. Yet, I think if I didn't have people's freedom in my hands, I might be able to sleep. For now, I'll just continue to do what I do. I'll keep on fighting the good fight. And I'll breathe today, deep breaths in and out, and thank God it's Friday.

Talking with myself

Even though I get the numbers, and know people are reading my rants, it's weird because I still feel as if I am talking to myself. But I suppose if I was talking to myself live, and not on the page, people might worry. But I talk to my dog all the time, and even do his voice to answer myself back, so be afraid, be very afraid. 

Saturday was a joy filled day. I did an event at the Upland Library with the band Refrigerator. I can't describe their music well. It's too eclectic and defies genre. But they're frigging rad. I love the lead singer Allen's voice and their lyrics about the Inland Empire intersect nicely with my stories. Plus the rest of the band, Dennis (guitar), Mark (guitar), Daniel (stand up bass) and Chris (drums) just inspire me so. 

I met the band through Mark (of Pelekenesis) and Dennis (of Shrimper Records) who together own Bamboo Dart Press, who published my first book. They're both fabulous writers, and musicians, and they made my book dream true. I can't tell you how indebted to them I am. 

So Saturday defied my expectations. I always kick myself the day of an event. It's a lot at times. A lot of pressure. Why do I make my life hard and stress myself out? Why don't I just take it easy and play Yahtzee all day? I know the answer already, it's not in my nature. So I was there. The band was there. The plan was to have the band play a song, and then another song, then I would read a story, and then a couple more songs, then I would read another story, and so on. 

It was so amazing. The guys' songs were beautiful. They lingered in the air. Then I would read. It was pretty seamless. Then at the end, the band surprised me with a version of one of my social protest/justice poems in song form! I really can't capture it. I was just so overwhelmed with happiness. 

Joy is a hard thing to capture in words. Yet, I can say that when the band sang, I knew every word and sang along in my head. I was singing inside. My whole body was humming along. 

And when they played their song Colton, their words almost made me cry. Because who writes about Colton but us? Who else really and truly writes about and sees us Inland Empire grown up now but once latch key carrying kids from the 1970s and 1980s? 

We do. We write about it. Yes we do. 

"We can paint this town damn gray
We can count the ghosts on parade
We can hold our hands in the dark
Outside of Colton
Outside of Colton
Drunk and forgotten"

From Refrigerator's song Colton

Saying yes

I say yes to a lot of stuff. It's definitely harder for me (being a people pleaser) to say no but I'm learning because sometimes you have to. You have to learn to say no, so that when you do say yes, it's meaningful and intentional. You have to make the opportunities count. 

But saying yes brings the most blessings. It does. It can bring struggles and challenges, but usually the "yes" creates amazing experiences that you will never forget. And the "yes" will lead to more opportunities. Doors will open that you thought were locked. You had knocked on them for so very long. And then, the doors swing open as if by magic.

When I said yes to my vodcast all those years ago, it was on a whim. My friend from childhood, who was a radio show host, was starting a vodcast company and was looking for talent. She thought I might be able to do it. So I said yes. I tried. And guess what? I found a talent I never knew I had for performing and interviewing. Turns out, I'm kind of a theater kid. I was almost 49 when I realized this! How had I not discovered this? I always knew I was a ham, just ask my husband. He says it's my world and we're all just living in it. Truth. 

Then my MFA. It wasn't easy to decide to take it on while working full-time, but I decided to turn down my brick and mortar funded offer (which would require me to quit my job and lose my pension) and I found an online, very part time program at University of New Orleans that worked for me. So I said yes, but only to what was practical for me at the time. I'm a pragmatist at my core. Ask anyone. Even in practicing law, I'm always thinking, how do I get what I want for my client in the most pragmatic way? In theory, and in my writing, I am an idealist but in practice, I'm a realist. 

Then, what about events? I say yes to those too. My friend asked me to perform with his epic band at a library. Yes, it made me anxious. My knees were knocking just to imagine such a scary event where I would be on display and what if I couldn't perform up to the level I needed to? But then, I said frack it! Why not try? And then I prepared and prepared and I consulted and listened to their set list and put my reading list together and thought, okay, this will work!

There's more to talk about, but I think I will leave those thoughts and experiences for a second blog. But for now, I would urge you to say yes!

Desert music daze

Yesterday, we headed out to Joshua Tree to see Gary Numan at Pappy and Harriet's. But before the show, we decided to try out La Copine in Yucca Valley. We had heard people rave. We had read the magazine articles. Plus, I had a hard to get reservation. But first, I made Adrian stop at a vinyl and clothing antique store, where I found a leopard vintage caftan (swoon!) on sale and little copper and silver pot hanging earrings.

We got to La Copine and the first thing I noticed was the asthetic. It had a very cool vibe. And yes, it was very Joshua Tree in the amount of hipsters with multiple tables of boho attired groups of twenty somethings. Sun glass wearing, fringed hair with fringe jackets and cowboy boots (I am being a bit of a hypocrite wearing suede fringe boots myself). A lot of beards. A lot of faux fur (again, I brought a black and white striped faux fur, so I fit in just fine, but I added some edge with black pants and a replacements tee which I got two compliments on). 

The food and service were impeccable. I had a champagne cocktail with bitters and sugar and the steak skewer with papas with green onions. For desert, we shared a fig panna cotta that (for me as a salty perferring person) had the perfect smattering of salt. 

We checked into our hotel, which was next door to Pappy's and Harriet's. It's a little frontier hotel like place that's now hideously expensive, but worth the convenience. Plus, there's no TV, just a backgammon and checkers set and a small fridge. We got the "Annie Oakley" (every room is named after an old time Western star) and brought take out Mexican food to the room while listening to the industrial sounds of the opening band Front Line Assembly. 

We walked over to the concert and Gary Numan went on almost immediately. It was so loud I had to put my fingers in my ears. To save my hearing, I moved from the front of the stage to the back. The energy was infectious and the music was hard and industrial all the way and Gary did not disappoint. I rocked out and sipped a beer. We left before the show ended up and sipped a drink on the porch while the band played the last few songs. 

When I woke up, I listened to the birds chirping outside and grabbed a coffee from the canteen. Then I wrote this blog. 

Something writing this way comes

Today is Friday and I'm on my second espresso waiting for my black dress to dry for court. It's been a hectic work week. Yesterday was super hectic, so much so that I ate the delicious dinner my husband made and went straight to bed when I got home last night.

Tomorrow night, we are seeing Gary Numan perform in Joshua Tree/Pioneertown. It's gonna be cold so I will wear jeans with thermals under and my faux fur coat and gloves!

Life goes by so fast in your fifties. It speeds by like I'm in a race car. I barely have time to catch my breath. What with work, my writing/performing and my podcast and school, I'm always busy with something. Always working or planning. But my goal this weekend is to be present and relax. 

The question is, when I will find time to write my next book? It's there. Percolating. I can feel it. 

Yes, I have a few short chapters but they need to be drawn out. I need time. It's not that I don't write. I write every day.  I write this blog and for class and an essay here and there, but a long form project is different. It requires concerted effort and concentrations of time. It requires just sitting there at your writing desk until it comes. 

So hopefully soon, something writing this way will come. I will ask the universe to help me. To push me and make me push myself into that chair, to sit my butt down and just write.

Mantz girl

I'm rewatching the Gilmore Girls for the umpteenth time. It's relaxing to me. Like eating comfort food, it makes me feel peaceful. I like to listen to it in the background as I do my homework after a long day of work.

Yesterday, I spent my Easter writing an annotated bibliography for my Shakespeare class. I had no idea how much work it was. I had the research, but doing the citations and summarizing the ten articles I had pulled basically took me all day. I also watched Macbeth, directed by Joel Coen starring Denzel Washington and Frances McDormand. It is such a striking film. The witches are part human and part bird and are eerie, creepy creatures portrayed as triplets speaking in a Gollum like voice. The movie is in black and white and the film is stark and the asthetic is bare, but it emotes. It moves. It's powerful. 

The quest for "power" is not something I've ever been interested in. I certainly never contemplated summoning the spirits as Lady Macbeth does. But what really resonated with me is how femininity is portrayed in Macbeth. Why are the soothsaying three weird witch sisters so terrifying? Is it femaleness turned on its head? The idea of a premonition is one that I do believe in. But I also believe that to open those portals is a dangerous thing to engage in. 

Knowing what is to come would be helpful, but it's not needed and can be a curse not a blessing. The beauty of life may be in the unknowing.  

Instead, I tell myself to be patient. I don't need to know the future. All is well. Plus, I just want to be happy and sit here with Chewbacca surrounding myself with light. Tonight, I will burn my white candles and dance and sing and as Joni Mitchell herself warbled, "put some flowers round my room". 

With the Gilmore Girls in the background (of course).

Be still the heart

We just had a huge scare. My shih tzu Chewbacca, who is a spoiled 15 year old fur monster, started not feeling well last week. He has a very severe heart condition so we thought that was the issue. He was shivering and had a fever. I slept with him downstairs on the futon and cuddled him. Chewie whimpered in his sleep. 

After two days, I decided I have to take him in. His vet recently moved his practice to Santa Monica but he is in Glendora on Tuesdays. Because I couldn't reach him, I decided to try the emergency vet. 

Adrian drove me to the emergency. Chewie shivered and cried little yelps the whole way. When we got there, I advised them of his heart condition and they said his breathing was labored and they were going to get the oxygen tent ready. I said okay and put down a hefty deposit. Then they said they needed X-Rays and were going to an IV of Lasix to treat his heart.

The "beginning" estimate was a thousand dollars and they said they were going to keep him there over night and I could come back later. Something told me to leave. I just didn't feel right leaving him there. Plus, Adrian had said he thought it was an infection. Despite their warnings, I went with my gut  and checked Chewie out against their advice. Basically, I ran out of there with Chewie in my arms after paying their hefty exam fee.

The next morning, I took him to see his long time vet. It turns out, Adrian was right. It was an infection, a severe urinary tract one. After taking the liquid antibiotics, Chewbacca apparently perked up immediately. It was as if he had escaped death's door. My vet allowed to do a drop off before work And when I picked him up, I knew he was going to be okay.

So be still my heart, Chewbacca lives on. It's a happy ending to this story my friends. 

If you want to help support this blog and my podcast, which is all self funded, buy me a coffee here: https://www.buymeacoffee.com/jemmantz4

Asleep

Life is poignant. Things are going good and then of course, a hiccup. Chewbacca is struggling health wise again and I am struggling emotionally. Where do I go from here? How do I know when to let him go? I'm selfish I admit. I love him very much.  

But I don't want Chewie to be in pain or watch him suffer. He's fifteen years old. He's been spoiled, snuggled and loved beyond measure his whole life. I'm happy we have had him this long. He adds a lot of joy to my life. When I come home and see his fluffy face and his tongue hanging out, and he runs up to me, it makes me happy no matter how bad my day's been. 

They say dogs teach us how to grieve because their life spans are shorter than ours. Losing Frodo was hard, but I know losing Chewbacca will be unbearably harder. It will be like losing a piece of myself. But I just hope I'm strong enough to make the right decision when it's time. 

I have to take Chewie to the groomer today and should get him up. He looks so peaceful as he snores and I don't want to wake up him yet. So I pat his head, kiss his little brown nose and watch him sleep. 

Epiphany epiphanies

So I'm having some epiphanies. Work has been a little overwhelming of late and I've realized a few things. I'm basically a happy person. I love writing, reading, and helping people. Plus, I'm a natural scholar and I'm enthusiastic. 

I met with my professor for my Shakespeare class at lunch a few days ago to talk about my final paper, and she was so encouraging and kind. She told me I was a joy to have in class and she loved my perspective on law and literature. She encouraged me to continue writing about law and literature. 

The interaction was so markedly different than what I am used to as a lawyer. It made me realize that I'm a bit stunted and don't always feel encouraged to be me. And look, I'm a tough girl, I am. I don't need someone to hold my hand or give me positive affirmations but sometimes I just wish I was appreciated for everything and all I am. And that people saw me. 

But you can't make that happen. Another epiphany. I can't control how others see me. People see me through their own lens which can be distorted by their own biases and perceptions. As Ru Paul says, what others think of me is none of my business. So I've realized that I just need to do me. As my friend told me recently, "do you boo." 

So I shall. 

The light

I met with my advisor last night for my MFA creative nonfiction program at the University of New Orleans. Finally, I can see the finish line. It's been a long road. After all these years, I finally have an anticipated graduation date. I have been going very part time for almost 4 years and it looks like I will graduate in Fall 2025. That's a year and a half away, but I started this process so long ago. It feels like eons, so to realize that graduation can happen in the foreseeable future, well it is a big relief. After having my surgeries a few years ago, I thought if I don't finish and graduate, that's okay too. 

This graduation date assumes that I will take a class this summer and do my thesis hours (for my play adaption of my memoir if they allow it). I also have to stay on track next year. But I am gonna graduate, hopefully with my 4.0 GPA intact. 

I'm going to travel to New Orleans (with hubby) to walk in my cap and gown because this degree is really all for me. Just for me. It isn't practical like my USC Law degree. It is my dream, and I just keep thinking, New Orleans baby. Of all places. It seems fitting. 

Having a MFA won't make me a writer because this I know, I'm already one. Yet, I'm over the moon. I can see it happening. I am almost there. 

Busy bee

You know I'm busy when I'm not blogging. Usually, I'm super consistent but sometimes work and life gets in the way.

I do a lot. I know this. I have pulled back. I'm saying no much more often. I'm thinking about what brings me bliss. And I'm starting to have some epiphanies. They're not fully formed yet but they're there. I talked to a class of high school kids recently and it made me happy. Seeing their bright, and shiny faces, it made me remember. When they all raised their hands to ask questions, I got choked up. 

When I was a kid, life was not always easy going, but at least in many ways, I was free. Free to read, free to explore and free to think. But of course, all I really wanted was to get older. And when we get older, life is just a series of tasks and decisions. And I'm kind of sick of it.

It would be easy to be super responsible and stay for my finances sake. And by the time I'm free, I'll be too old to enjoy my free time. Or I could make some tough decisions. Downgrade. And just jump.

I'm not really ready yet, but I'm close. I'm at the end of the diving board looking at the water, hands in the air. I keep thinking, just do it. My students loans are paid off, my car is all mine, pink slip and all and I'm really just working to pay for my expenses and health care. 

Maybe I'm crazy. Or maybe just maybe, I'm thinking clearly for the first time in a long time. 

Writing time

It's 4:47 am when I start writing this. I've been a tad obsessed with time lately. I feel as if time is moving fast. They say as you get older, and I might have even mentioned this before, that time moves fast because there's less of it left in your life. Meaning, we are all crouching our way towards death, minute by minute, hour by hour. Despite this, I plan on living my life to the fullest in the time I have left. 

Yesterday, however, time moved kind of slow. We watched television, Adrian cooked, and I cuddled Chewbacca who is having a good week. There was no task list or running around. I sat on the couch and chilled out. I even left my homework because of the Monday holiday. 

We're reading Othello in my Shakespeare class. Othello is an example of letting a toxic person, namely Iago in the case of Othello, into your brain and life and the damage and havoc it can cause. Desdemona and Othello could have been happy but for Iago. I know it's only a play, a contrived construct and story, but what I find most interesting in my recent study of Shakespeare is the psychological issues in all of his plays. 

If I can take anything away from it, I would say trust yourself, trust those you love, and most of all, trust the happiness life brings. It is too easy to always be looking for the next shoe to fall, or focusing on the latest catastrophe, as opposed to looking at one's own life and what one has.

The rain just started to fall. I put the phone down to take a break from writing for a few and when I picked it back up, the sky was pouring out buckets of water. That's how time works you see. Everything changes in the moments that pass. 

Make believe

There is a lot of make believe in life. Pretending is part of life. We all play roles. We must. Punk rock girl Juanita, the writer aka JEM, is not who I am at work. At work, I'm a different person. Not really me I'm realizing. And that's because I can't be me there. I'm a version of me for work. And that's okay. I've reconciled myself to that. 

Yet, even outside of work, it's a struggle to be me sometimes. It's probably because I don't always know who I am or who I want to be. I'm 52 people and I'm still struggling to find myself. 

On the page, things are different. Thank goodness. The words flow. I'm here. I'm me. I'm open. I'm honest. I try to be true and kind. I have a mean side. I have a dark side. I am ambitious and crave recognition and accolades more than I ever want to admit.

Truth be told, the real me is still that little girl squinting at the chalkboard in class, waving her hand, aching to be called on.  

AWP Kansas City: the magic

I like to pretend I have it all together. I'm organized. I'm strong. I'm efficient. I'm motivated. But I'm also anxious and very bad with directions and get frustrated easily. 

When I drove into Kansas City for a writing conference, from my sister's house in Raymore who we were staying with, I couldn't find the Convention Center. I drove in circles. My navigation kept telling me I had arrived. I thought, okay one of these big buildings has to be it. So I parked at the Lowe's hotel downtown so at least I would know where my car was parked. I looked across the street. Was that it? I asked the universe for help and kissed my black and silver Bowie bolt necklace. 

I decided to find someone for directions. A man walked by. He was white, good looking, had a beard and was carrying a tote bag so he was obviously a writer. He was nice but abrupt and just pointed across the street at a door. I went across the street and pulled at the door but it was locked. Then I saw another person, a young Indian man, walking right where I had been. I yelled across the lanes of street, "Hey, are you a writer?" 

He yelled back, "What?" I screamed back, "Where's AWP?" 

He held up a hand then ran across the street. He had a kind face and once he was close, he told me his name was Kiran Bhat and that he was a writer. He told me he was on his way to AWP too and had been by yesterday to find it and that he was happy to help guide me. We talked and walked. 

It turns out that I had been trying to open a door on the wrong side of the convention center. He had a panel at nine as well, one about using innovative ways to get writing out in the world for people of color. He told me he was serializing his novel on a site with a paywall. I told him he had to come on my podcast and gave him a card. He was so sweet and walked me all the way to registration. 

That's why sometimes even one's struggles can lead to gold and a chance encounter with another writing soul. I may have been lost but I asked the universe for help and found my way there along with a new writing friend. 

330 am

It's 330 am and I can't sleep. I often get a topsy turvy stomach when I plan to travel and today is no exception. We are getting on a plane this morning to Kansas City and I just hope I settle down. 

At least I fell asleep early, around 8 pm, or was it 7? It's hard not to fall asleep early when you've been going since 5 am. 

When I was a kid, fifty-two seemed so far away. Eons. Yet, here I am. I don't feel my age most days, except when I try to get my overpacked Eiffel Tower patterned suitcase down the stairs and wreck my back. My mom's menthol rub helped. 

Age is a number is something people say. But it's also a signifier. It denotes what generation you're from. I'm Gen X of course, and it also denotes how much life you've lived and have left to live. 

In some ways, I wish I'd known how much I would yearn for my youth when I was older. My younger years were spent trying to get where I am and yes I am glad I'm here. I've done quite a lot, but I wish I'd appreciated my twenties and thirties more. I feel like all I did was rush around working at this or that. Trying to get here or there or everywhere.

Now that I'm in my fifties, I have some space and stability to really think about what I want out of the next decades to come. I suppose what I want most is to just be happy and content and most of all, well. 

By well I mean physically. It's time to focus on that too. It's easy to just sit and write all weekend, and read, you know how much I adore a good book, but I need to move. The chips and dips (some people eat bon bons but I prefer a salty chip and a creamy onion dill dip) are delicious but only in moderation. So my goal this next six months is to find a happy medium where I work, read, sit and move. Move it sister! It's time. You may not have all the time in the world to get there, but you have now. 

5 am again and AWP

It's 5 am. The rain is pounding the roof. Hard and fast, like a rock song. The beating of the drops has a nice rat a tat tat rhythm. 

Chewie snores in unison with the sound of the raindrops. I am leaving for Kansas City tomorrow so I'm hoping it stops soon.

On Thursday and Saturday, I am reading, signing and presenting at a conference in Kansas City called AWP. It is the largest writer's conference in the United States and it happens yearly. 

AWP takes place in a different city every year. I first went years back when it was in Los Angeles. Since then, I've been to AWPs in Florida, San Antonio and Seattle. I even did a reading in Oregon virtually. 

I'm lucky I suppose. I usually get on a panel discussion or a reading at the conference. I always like to pitch at least one myself and my own panels have been accepted twice now and I've appeared in other people's lineups both on site and off site. This year, I'm so honored to read and present with some amazing writers and people. It's a dream come true.

I've been rejected of course. We all have. But I just keep on trucking. I try to never let the "nays" get me down because they're just a way to eventually get a yes. 

The best year was Florida, when I appeared on a reading about witches. I met a woman there who has since become a close friend. That's the magic of AWP. You meet the coolest people, and they're all writers. Another year, in San Antonio, my friend Samuel and I were in line to get in and we met a well known writer who asked us to be in her panel, on site for Samuel and off site for me. 

Last year, in Seattle, hubby came along. He was a good sport because I had pledged to work the Inlandia table and had a number of commitments at AWP, both on site and off. I tried to balance it all but it was difficult. Yet, I'm glad he went. He met a few of my writer friends he didn't know and we hung out after hours with a few he did know. I had kept my writing world compartmentalized from the rest of my life and it was nice to merge my worlds into one universe.

This year, because AWP is in Kansas City, my focus is split between the conference and visiting my big sister Roberta who lives right outside Kansas City. I'm looking forward to spending time with Roberta and her family. We're both getting older and it's so important to make the time for one another. I'm happy to say that Adrian is coming along. So my priority is the family time.  

I've learned in the last few years that love and family is what matters. It's what sustains me. (Plus, it's material for the next memoir or essay percolating in my brain.)

The writing accolades and experiences are nice, yes they are, but it's also important to live in the moment. As a memoir writer, being present can be hard. It's too easy to live in your memories rather than creating new ones. 

This year, I'll be reading, presenting and signing, but I'll also be living life to the fullest, making those memories that matter most of all. 

The Doors

There is an old saying, that when one door closes another opens. I know it's a trite saying attributed to the man who invented the telephone. So I acknowledge the cliche, but it's true. 

Recently, I pulled back on a few boards deciding that I need to focus on my writing in my free time. After work, I was spending my evenings in non work related meetings, mostly on Zoom, and it was just too much. And a lot of my lunchtime too, forcing me to eat fast and ugly which I have begun to refrain from doing. 

Plus, have I ever told you that I abhor meetings? Truth be told, I am not my best self in them. I am a very efficient yet also very impatient person. I can barely handle waiting in line at the store. These traits don't transfer to chilling out in a meeting for two hours. I acknowledge in my work life, they're a necessary evil. But that's work, which pays the bills. 

(Note: This is different from my podcast which I do record virtually, but I consider it more of a performative conversation between two people. Thus, it's not a meeting, it's more of a meet up. And I love me a meetup.)

So I pulled back. Plus, I'm revving up in school trying to finish my MFA and I'd decided to take a Shakespeare course. It's a lot. In fact, it's 330 am on a Sunday and after I write this blog, I'm going to listen to a podcast about Twelfth Night and then we're on to Othello and Macbeth, and then King Lear.

I've also decided to finish my YA novel this year, a book tentatively titled "The Runaways" so I've got to get going on that. 

Plus, I love spending time with my husband. He really is so kind and loving. He's handy too (he just fixed our washer!) and a great cook. No one tells you when you decide to become a writer that balance will be the hardest part. You can't just write in your room all weekend, even though you may want to. You have to still live and love. So I do. I really do. 

I know

It's 230 am and I'm up with Chewbacca. He's having a rough night. My life just fades away in these moments. It's just me and him. I comfort him, then myself. I know the time is coming. I hug him close. He licks my face and I stare into his eyes. "Go to sleep buddy," I tell him. "I'm right here."

This is not a blog I will boost. If someone reads it okay, you've got my broken heart on the page, but this blog is just me telling you, and by you I mean myself, that I'm just so sad.

The sadness is deep. It's in my heart. Inside of it. It's in my bones. They ache with the anticipation of grief. My grief will know no bounds. I'm already preparing. 

Damn it. Why does everything beautiful have to end? I know that it's because there is a pattern to all of this. A hand is drawing the story somehow. It's not my hand. I do believe. On my best days, I do. I do. I promise. So I pray. And ask for some more days. For some more good times. However short they are. For some more moments. 

And then I try and go back to sleep. 

To sleep, perchance to dream

I want to sleep hours and hours. I want to fall into bed and dream of kittens and rainbows. I want to relax into slumber.

But alas, no. This week has again been a stretch to get my full 8 hours. Chewie has to go out often, at times in the middle of the night, and if he's having a bad night, we stay downstairs where I toss and turn on the futon. So my sleep is off. I was groggy yesterday and a little grumpy, but being at work and in court revitalized me until I crashed in the middle of the afternoon. 

I think I used to take sleep for granted. Then came menopause and I would sweat all night. Now post menopause, I shiver all night and toss and turn. 

People don't tell you when you're young, how blissful it is. Nothing hurts. No back pain. You can eat whatever you want. No stomach or restroom complaints. Sleeping is easy. 

Now, at the ripe age of 52, I would give (almost) anything for a few great weeks of sleep. But yet, to have my little fur monster Chewbacca still next to me, at times annoying the hell out of me, is something I'm estatic about, sleep or no sleep. 

Pied piper of creativity

It's 6 am. Per my usual practice, I am listening to some Bowie. He's talking about a star man in the sky. A kind of pied piper to the children. A harbinger of rock and roll. 

I've always been drawn to the idea of other worlds. As a kid, I fell into the Wizard of Oz books. Than the Hobbit. 

I saw 2001: A Space Odyssey in the 1970s. It was one of my dad's favorite movies. He loved Kubrick. I probably heard Bowie's song Space Oddity for the first time in junior high in the early 1980s. It drew me in. The mythical astronaut named Major Tom captivated my imagination. I would picture him in my mind's eye drifting in space. The quiet enormous and vast. Constellations floating by. A little prince of sorts. 

Thinking about this with relation to my creative bursts is interesting. Writing is a muscle. You can learn how to write well. Yet creativity is the adrenaline you need. It's the propeller. The accelerant. The rocket fuel.

I am not always in a creative frame of mind. My best stories come out almost fully formed. They take a lot of pondering. I sometimes feel as if I've lost that spark. Then I find the flame again. Music always helps. Like now. 

So I turn the music up and write. Then write some more. 

Raindrops and more

Rain keeps falling. It's pitter pattering on the roof. I hear the drops hitting the windows. I find the sounds peaceful, almost like a song. 

The rain lulls my mind. I've been up for the last half hour reading Oxford scholarly articles on Hamlet and madness for a research project for class. I find it fun. I keep changing my mind regarding which one to use and summarize for my class.  I eventually decide on one that maps the intricacy of Hamlet's thought patterns.

My mom is here. She's sleeping on the futon snoring as I write this blog on my couch. Chewbacca came downstairs with me and now he's sleeping too.

Life is a funny thing. Life's changed so much for me. I have slowed down a lot. There's many less concerts. Less travel. Less chaos. I have a lot more "at home" time, but I like it. I adore taking a master class in Shakespeare (it's rated as an elective for my creative writing MFA program), although I find it challenging. I do my homework on the weekends and early morning during the week. 

I've learned that I am a natural student, and love school. It's my happy place, and it feels natural. Before I went to law school, I'd considered getting a doctorate in English Literature and I think I would have loved it. Yet, I also think I chose the right path. Is there a wrong path? Or are they just different paths?

The rain is still falling and the rhythm has changed. It's louder. Almost like a drum. Beckoning the listener to tap along. 

 

Melancholy, Madness, Hamlet and My Dog

Dear readers, I've been neglecting you. If you only knew. My dog Chewbacca has been very ill, I've been slammed at work, and I'm taking a Shakespeare class that I am a tad obsessed with.

Hamlet is an interesting character. He's soulful, philosophical and revengeful. He can be callous, manipulative and yet, I feel for him. Life has driven him a bit mad and he's had to suck on a lot of lemons.

You wonder what would have happened had the ghost, or whatever it is, had just left him alone. Prince Hamlet may have had suspicions, but perhaps he would have let them go. His father was dead, but if he'd never received confirmation of his uncle poisoning his father, perhaps he could have just lived his life with his mom and newly anointed stepfather. Would Hamlet and Ophelia be married? Maybe Hamlet would have written a book about philosophy. Would Polonius still be alive, no doubt waxing on and on and on? 

But maybe what Shakespeare was trying to show was that everyone eventually gets their due. All acts have consequences. And all of us must live with our choices. 

I felt a bit like Hamlet this week. Melancholiness is also something I've been dealing with. I'm far from mad but very sad about Chewbacca's health and having to reconcile what's to come eventually. I know, you non dog obsessed people might think, he's just a dog. But he's not. I've spent more than 15 years caring for this fur covered, neurotic, lovable and soulful Shih Tzu.

But life goes on. The sun rises and sets. The world turns. And as Hamlet would say, "The rest is silence."

To be

Today I had jury duty in San Bernardino. It was a rough night with Chewbacca. He's struggling with his health and it's hard. It's been two nights in a row, with only a few hours of good sleep.

Groggy, I drank two double expressos and got on the road by 7:30 am. When I got inside at 8 am, there was already a line. I tried to multi task by calling the vet, and checking my work's voicemail system. 

I started my master class' Shakespeare homework once I was checked in. Stubbornly, I refused to cart the five pound textbook with me so instead, I squinted at a screenshot of act one of Hamlet. And squinted some more. I thought about ghosts and delusions. What they mean or don't mean.

Then I started promoting my podcast. I felt as if I was really using the waiting time in a productive way. Then boom, I was in a courtroom. It felt familiar but not. I knew as a deputy public defender that I was very unlikely to be sat as a juror on a multi-week murder case. 

I was right. Later that afternoon, I was released, free to handle my calendar tomorrow which I still needed to work on prepping. You see, my work as a deputy public defender never really ends. What I can't get to today, must be done eventually, jury duty or no jury duty. To be or not to be is not an option. I must do. And do again. And again.

The Writer

I've always said that as a memoir writer, my character, the narrator, the protagonist, or whatever you call her, is not me. It's merely a version of me that I choose to let you the reader see. Especially when I'm recreating my younger self, I am definitely not that person any longer. So in some ways, the use of first person is an illusion. 

That said, this blog is probably the closest you as a reader will get to knowing who I really am. That's why I do love the use of first person. It's intimate. You're often in my head. Hearing my innermost thoughts. But still, this person on the page is not me because I'm more than that. I contain mountains, rivers and streams. I'm the daughter of a Caucasian truck driving Montana born cowboy, and a Chicana waitress. They both loved music and dancing, as I do. There it is again. The I. The eye. It is all seeing at times. I've been working on a YA fiction novel and the use of different persons and perspectives in fiction is perplexing to me. I'll figure it out or I might just write it in first person. 

Back to the separation between the writer and the narrator. It's an important one. One that takes years to understand. I think I finally get it after all this time. Then it slides away from me and I have to remind myself. You are the writer. You are a writer, in your very soul.

The days after

The days after New Years are what counts. As I've said, every day is a possibility yes, but you need to be able to see them. You need to be able to focus. 

I feel like I've been overextended for far too long. I am having to make some hard decisions and pull back from some things. It's just too too much at times. I hope everyone understands. But it's my life and if they don't, that's okay.

Recently, I've realized that most of all, I need space, time and some open range, metaphorically speaking. I need to be able to breathe and rest and open my creative heart so I can write. 

Yes, it may be selfish. But it's necessary. It's time to really sit down and write my next book. It's time to take care of me and what I need and want most. It's time for me to truly be present in everything I do. 

Now is the time. It's time. Yes it is.