To Do List

The Right to Write, by Julia Cameron, have you read it? The complete title proclaims, “An Invitation and Initiation into the Writing Life.” Of course this immediately appealed to me, but as Cameron points out though essays and example, “We come into life as writers.”  She believes we all have an innate need to write whether we profess to be a writer or not. I tend to agree.

I’ve known for years journaling is healthy. I easily get my feelings hurt or sit down on my pity-pot, yet from the depth of despair I have been lifted, simply by creating what I call a gratitude list—things we are grateful for—starting with the air we breathe, warm socks, or air conditioning. Hope springs from gratitude, and from a list of simple thanks bubbles joy. It is no small miracle available to anyone with pencil and a sheet of paper.  

Many years ago, I took a linguistics class where the professor pointed out the obvious—we are the only creatures with a written language. All animals have their own language, some seem to understand our dialect, but no other species besides the human animal have the ability to write and record. This was a revelation to me; something I never considered. It is not our intellect, but the ability to write that separates us. I am humbly grateful for this gift to clarify my thoughts, order my day, use metaphor, or write music.

Julia Cameron acknowledges and encourages each of us to utilize this gift on a daily basis. Each chapter in The Right to Write is an essay of poetic prose, contemplative, and designed to encourage the reader to write whether a proclaimed writer or not. She debunks writing myths and phobias of perfection, and I have found the exercises at the end of each chapter fun and helpful.

Someday meeting Julia Cameron – it’s on my bucket list. 

C'est la Vie

I go to my journal, my mentor, asking my spiritual muse to direct my hand, not just for commercial success, but for courage to share insights that speak to the greater good. I hope my words can touch the heart and spark a flame for change or contemplation. This sounds somewhat like a lofty ‘vision statement’ popular in today’s business world. I see this goal in my novel writing. Not so my blog. I have suffered over this blog, trying to write “something” each week, something worthy of printing.

Every conference I’ve attended in the past ten years has stressed the need for an electronic presence. In January I committed to blogging weekly. The whole thing seemed ego centric. Why would anyone want to read my words? Yet, I have learned to honor a deadline – not always successfully. I have written poorly and poetically, through personal good weather and bad. The words have tossed me or swung me gently into admission. I realize my best blogs are personal. Those honest glimpses of fatty humanity I tend to hide under blousy adjectives. When I’m willing to share, exposing those hidden rolls where we all live, that’s when I’m worth reading. I’m finding it’s not about the product, but the process. This is true with my writing as in life.  

Keep your feet on the path.

One Foot in Eden

A classic tale of passion and murder, One Foot in Eden, holds few surprises, but it's poetic prose captivated me. Ron Rash, a true Southern storyteller, kept me glued to the page with his drawling details of a crime from five different perspectives -- the sheriff, the murderer, his wife, their son (eighteen years later), and the deputy (after the fact.) The culture of Appalachia permeates the pages with mystical dark lore and human characters of the flawed type which everyone can identify. Pulled into rural South Carolina where murder and mysticism mixes with the rising waters of a modern damn, One Foot in Eden transcends ordinary with irony, leaving the reader with a sense of melancholy and satisfaction.
A great read from my Pulpwood Queen's Book List. www.swlapulpwoodqueens.blogspot.com 
I can't wait to read more from Ron Rash. www.harpercollins.com/authors/33503/Ron_Rash/index.aspx

"Suthern Priide"

Sitting in my living room, I can spot a small alligator in the river that flows past our little slice of Eden. We just returned from a stay in the stomping ground of our Yankee youth. Visiting with relatives both living and dead, we tramped through the cemetery and drove seventy-five miles both directions to hug the neck of my ninety-eight-yr.-old aunt. Life is good.
A dirt road provided exercise complete with blue sky and low humidity. A breeze under huge shade trees was the spot for lawn chairs and our cheering section, as children foot-raced with their grown cousins across the softest grass lawn.
I loved the visit, but my roots have grown deep into the Louisiana mud. A lifetime in this corner of the state has successfully grafted us "suthern." Cradled in hospitality and warm winters, we've been lulled into the slow lifestyle among the swamp grass and long-legged herons. Satiated with jambalaya, boudin, and pralines, we rocked willingly into a our pleasant lifestyle.
For thirty years we lived in the city, raised four children, and I used to get angry when ignorant Northerners queried about the alligators in our back yard. Now I sit on the wharf and smile sweetly, "Yes, Ma'am, his name is Gumbo."

Windy Moment

It's hurricane season and for Southwest Louisiana it officially started with Issac. It's been seven years since Rita, our Nemesis, and her better known sister Katrina swung into town on Poseidon's shoulders. Those of us who cleaned up after the whores' party in 2005 remember, so it's no wonder poor little Issac is making the news. Unlike the spontaneity of a tornado or the manic energy of an earthquake, the media has days with an approaching hurricane to whip the fear factor. Like a good book everyone loves a good disaster it seems. The slow dis-ease of uncertainty creates a suspense novel while the fear of the known, what could be, creates a thriller.
The appliance repairman came by yesterday and asked what was happening with the hurricane. He was surprised I didn't have the television tuned to the weather. Still officially a tropical storm, I figured Issac would mature without my mothering. A teaspoon of fear for leavening, mixed with a cup of truth, add gallons of media attention and a frenzy has baked, albeit lopsided and raw in the middle.
It's a good thing for writers that people love drama. I wonder if it's our spoiled fat culture that doesn't have enough to do, so we create exercise equipment because we sit too much, and we create excitement because we lack joy and worthwhile human interaction in our lives. I don't know, but It's a beautiful day in Southwest Louisiana. A strong wind is blowing the humidity to Mexico, and I think I'll take the dog for a walk before the excitement rains. Who knows maybe I'll meet some dark mysterious evacuee from the east who loves dogs and wants to know my take on the weather situation. Maybe I'll come home with a plot for a new story. Maybe.

Salmon Fishing in the Yemen

I love a good movie. It's maddening for me to spend two perfectly good hours of escapism and walk away feeling I could have been mopping the floor. You know that pile of burning brown bag on the Blue-ray player with the stupid dialogue or predictable plot. My husband and I make sport of each other, depending who chose the last stinker.
Recently, I was reading pitches and watching trailers to find the perfect evening entertainment and decided to rent a DVD called Salmon Fishing in the Yemen. Since it didn't boast bloody neck biting or mutant muscled super heroes, I thought we'd give it a try. Billed an inspirational comedy, it definitely passed the popcorn test. Not a sappy romance, but superb acting, this film's subtle message that faith in God is not unique to any one religion, nor is violence and fear, was a significant lesson in the wake of the recent shooting deaths at the Sikh Temple in Wisconsin.

Ultimately, when the popcorn's gone, we are all alike, struggling with our humanness. Keep the faith and try Salmon Fishing in the Yemen. www.fishingintheyemen.com

Squirrelly

I've given up coffee, or more accurately, my body has given up on me. I had the flu about a month ago and ever since coffee hasn't held much appeal.

To many people that might not seem like a big deal, but I haven't missed my morning java since 1972. That is forty years of black ecstasy. I live in the land of Community Dark Roast where your spoon wilts if  not removed after stirring. Multiply that fact by several large mugs per day and you have a caffeine addict -- but not any more. If I make the mistake to override my taste buds to share coffee and camaraderie, my stomach rolls and flips tanking with gas. It’s just not worth the discomfort.

For years, magazines, special reports, my dentist all told me to give it a rest, but I wouldn’t listen. Now, I wonder if it was the flu or just a directive from the Big Guy to “give it up." What's next - sugar?

Since the forth grade, I’ve struggled with diets and eating correctly, but several years ago I realized my desires hedge (or slither) into the idolatrous realm. I want what I want, and damn those consequences.

The great 1^st century writer, Paul of Damascus fame, once penned, “I want to do what is right, but I can’t. I want to do what is good, but I don’t. I don’t want to do what is wrong, but I do it anyway.” I'm not sure what Paul was struggling with (chances are not a chocolate brownie topped with Blue Bell ice cream), but if a man, said to be a saint, admits he can’t shuck all his bad habits, maybe there’s hope for me, nuts and all. Ooh, pass the pistachios.