Gaia: DIVING DEEPER: A Writing Workshop

Re: Heaven

http://drechanteuse.gaia.com — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 22:40:12 GMT

I didn't know if you were aware that you had posted the same story twice, so I took the liberty of removing the second copy. It made the post very long, so I figured it was better to remove the duplicate so more people who open it would not feel daunted by the length.

This is a pretty difficult subject to take on, and I think you have done an admirable job at tackling it. I especially enjoyed reading the character of Etty, whose intelligence and compassion for others is unmistakeable. And the God character seems kind and fatherly. I also like the way time is still marked but doesn't matter in the same way that it would have in life.

I can tell that the Hitler character is beginning to change, but I wonder if he will ever admit that he has made an "error in judgement?" It seems, with the fear he had of people discovering that mental illness ran in his family, that he might know he was wrong, but cling to his beliefs out of a need for self-preservation. Hmmmm. I wonder how he will play it?

Very interesting, brave stuff, and very nicely written.

Andrea

DAY ELEVEN - 2009

http://sandrajensen.gaia.com — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 22:28:58 GMT

Well this is a powerful number, 11, the number of inspiration, and, yes, (see below below..) LIGHT.

However, clearly the cards are telling us once again that there are deep, dark waters to navigate:

Seven of Disks: Failure

Restriction, resignation, hesitation, apparently insurmountable obstacles, fear of failing

The fear of making mistakes touches every arena of life... if you fear you cannot manage the obstacles you perceive in front of you, you tend to draw back, resigned, and limit your actions to the old and familiar ways of dealing with problems.

Fears and dread belong to the mental plane, and don't necessarily reflect physical reality, but there is meaningful connection between the two. Negative expectations are powerful thought forms and when nourished (either consciously or unconsciously) they can help to create the situation you are afraid of. The same applies to positive thought forms and expectations.

This card indicates that fear is present, and now is the time to recognize, perceive, and accept the fear or fears. These are the steps in overcoming fear, letting it go and creating a more positive motif. Thoughts which affirm life in all its fullness and beauty, along with a positive attitude, create the proper energy to change the unpleasant experiences you expect into joyful ones.

Suggestion: write a list of your worst expectations. Take a new piece of paper and change each fear into its positive opposite. Keep working with these lists, perhaps finding someone to support you in this.

Draw another card (see below) with the awareness that fears can be accepted and dropped.

Affirmation: I have the courage to believe that all that happens in my life serves for the best.

And then, we have as support for the letting go of fears, perhaps an indication of what is possible when we are no longer controlled by them:

XIX The Sun

Highly creative energy, awareness, fulfilled relationships, wisdom, spirituality, transformation

The sun radiates as the center, in the middle of the twelve astrological signs, and bathes everything in its light. From its ineterior blooms the rose of realization. Its light is the essence of clarity and highest consciousness.

Freedom is gained, and there is ecstatic joy and enthusiasm. All energies are fully available for a common creative purpose. The goal is here and now, it is not something wished for off in the distance. Everything is here and it is good.

Suggestion: Visualize the light and warmth of the Sun in your chest and heart. Remind yourself several times daily that the sun is shining in and through you.

Affirmation: I am in harmony with the divine Light which fills and guides me.

-------------------------------

Both great cards. I think even if we feel we don't have fears as regards our writing, almost for sure they are there, finding ways to limit us and 'keep us safe'. Facing the fears, acknowledging them, not necessarily 'doing' anything to stop/avoid them, is the key.

Staying 'safe' is never comfortable, in my experience, I always end up feeling kinda itchy. And it's not really safe anyway. What is safe? something our minds keep searching for, in all the wrong places. I don't think it exists. What does exist is excitement ( really the flip side or even another word for 'fear') and joy, and that rush of knowing we have given something our all. Who cares what the outcome is? It's all in the ride, in the sheer exuberance of the present moment - no matter what the flavour of that present moment - flat, wicked, boring, delightful, crazy... it's all wonderful.

What have we got to lose here, in NaNo? Nothing, and we have everything to gain. So thank those fears, they might have served you well in the past when you were young, but now they can be burned away by the bright light that you truly are....

Re: DAY TEN - 2009

http://sandrajensen.gaia.com — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 22:16:05 GMT

She picked up my suitcase and led me to the nearest automatic door, then to the parking lot and to where she had parked her car. Truly inspired expired writing. :)

well I don't know about expired, Ruth, but you get a medal for making me laugh!

And Gabriele, I thought your last line perfectly delightful. Sideways smile.. oh SO descriptive (i.e GREAT SENSUOUS DETAIL !!)

And Kathy.. So I guess to recognize that this avoidance has to do with some fear
you must be mind-reading Day Eleven's card. Maybe take a peek once it's up. And I agree with Ruth, sometimes getting to the 'core' takes a gestation period. I just know I couldn't have written a 'core-ish' piece to save my life today. Instead I did the writing version of sharpen pencils: write 'summary' rather than blood-red scene. Actually, we need this in most stories, a way of moving from one thing to another, a kind of breath, pause, before we go headfirst again.

I'm almost sleep-walking right now so I'm afraid I'm off to post the Day Eleven thread and then to bed. I have read everyone's posts on this thread, and smiled, and giggled, and sighed, and nodded my head many many times.

night night. Don't have too much fun without me, ok? Or wake me up!!

Re: Capricorn's Moon (NaNo excerpts)

http://sandrajensen.gaia.com — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 22:02:14 GMT

Ruth: And part of me is concerned with thinking that if I'm going to do this already then I should make it as true as possible, and yes, I know that sort of thinking is a block in itself…

This made me think of that Diana Athill interview I posted.
Her talking about 'getting it right'. I think there are two approaches to this, and one 'works', the other can get in the way. The one is really climbing in there, as if it were happening now, as you write, seeing everything, feeling it and so on, and writing it down, not looking for better words, but experiencing as fully as possible the world that you find yourself in, the other is wanting to the piece to be 'true' in the sense of 'how it really happened'. I think if one does the first, then the second naturally occurs, regardless of the truth of the actual facts. But I know you know this.

My sense is that you ARE climbing in here, it might look a little different to some ways of climbing in, but it's happening.

Interestingly I have a different but similar struggle: wanting it to be absolutely 'true' but at the same time not tied down and limited by 'actual' events... it feels like walking on a tightrope!

xo

Re: GG's NaNo: Bird Steps

http://drechanteuse.gaia.com — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 22:00:45 GMT

Wow. I think just writing about a band releases so many constraints that other characters with more straightlaced lives may be faced with. I am intrigued by the characters as you describe them, and can see from the excerpt that you posted that you can go so many ways with this. Not everything has to be true, some of it can be dream sequence or fantasy. It is a really liberating subject, and your themes are very intriguing. Psychology of destiny is something we all need to know a little more about, I'd say.

xo
Andrea

Re: DAY TEN - 2009

http://eternalquestion.gaia.com — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 21:56:11 GMT

Ruth that is SO awesome! Love what you said. That gestation period, rather than an avoidance period. That is so true, THAT is what feels like is happening today. YES! YES!! You are brilliant. REcognizing the truth of what you're saying...and knowing that this "space" is somehow pregnant. Big hugs!

Re: Sandra's NaNo thread - excerpts ii

http://drechanteuse.gaia.com — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 21:39:58 GMT

Oh, Sandra. I have been reading along and not saying anything because my brain feels like cottage cheese after my weekend of horror with my insignificant other, but this excerpt really got to me. You don't know how many times I have tried to write about a love like this, and I have always gotten the comments back that people couldn't understand the motivation for the love. Here, you have so brilliantly captured the feelings a young woman goes through during every waking breathing moment when they are in love, no matter the motivation. I am captivated by every second of it, and the voice is so "there", present.

I hate to think you have lead us here, built us up for Sue's fall, but it is so wonderfully and intricately woven like a house of cards, and now I am so afraid of what will happen next. I almost can't bear the suspense.

xo
Andrea

Re: DAY TEN - 2009

http://gospelwriter.gaia.com — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 21:37:29 GMT

So I guess to recognize that this avoidance has to do with some fear…

Hey, Kathy, speaking strictly for me, avoidance always leads me to fear if I look hard enough, and when I do, it always leads me out of fear as well---but only after it draws me in deeper, diving-wise. I should know, been doin' a lot of the 'necessary' stuff myself lately. Like playing around on the Internet, check. :)

But having said that, and responding to this now:

To get to the core…and that makes me wonder why we try to avoid that core, that basic-ness, to fill it up with all sorts of pencil-sharpening activities.

...maybe it isn't avoidance at all, maybe there's a gestation period that needs to be allowed, the feelings or inner workings that drive the writing perhaps need to be given time (filled by what you call pencil-sharpening activities, which can be quite meditative) to mature to some extent before they can emerge onto the page in a way that makes sense, or in a way that continues to forward the writing.

Re: Capricorn's Moon (NaNo excerpts)

http://gospelwriter.gaia.com — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 21:13:44 GMT

Ayla, Leigh-Anne, Deb, Sandra again, Andrea:

You guys are so awesome, coming here and reading and appreciating verbally. It means a lot to me to read your comments about this part of the story that came out like blazes in the first two days, and then left me feeling flat and stuck and... I didn't actually think I'd share these pages, but now I'm glad I did.

Sandra: ...what I feel is happening here is a kind of hovering, a circling that has to happen before the big dive.

That makes sense, thanks, and from the writing I've done since it looks like there might be a whole lot more circling to do before the actual dive. :) I'm ok with that as long as it doesn't start looking like the circling is an end in itself. And I'm thinking that, so far at least, I'm on track (for the amount of time I've spent writing anyway). There is so much 'stuff'... and this isn't a story I've attempted before, or even thought I would/could attempt. And part of me is concerned with thinking that if I'm going to do this already then I should make it as true as possible, and yes, I know that sort of thinking is a block in itself...

And I meant but forgot to comment to what you said in your earlier post (and I think elsewhere as well, though not in the same words), about being amazed at the story, (with a capital T and a capital S) that is swirling around some of us these days. How true, and it feels good to be in such excellent company. Courage in numbers, as the saying goes.

Re: DAY TEN - 2009

http://GabrieleStehle.gaia.com — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 20:54:57 GMT

There you go! Well done, brave heart. :)

Re: DAY TEN - 2009

http://eternalquestion.gaia.com — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 20:53:38 GMT

I am doing everything today BUT write that novel. Walked outside, check. Wrote outdoor blog, check. Made dinner, check (even though we haven't eaten it). Went to town, check. Now playing around on the Internet, check.

Jenni you said you were "trying to pare myself down to my basics". I, too, have a strong desire to that. Just to get down to basics beneath all the Extra Stuff that seems to pile on. To get to the core...and that makes me wonder why we try to avoid that core, that basic-ness, to fill it up with all sorts of pencil-sharpening activities.

I guess I didn't like how one of the characters turned up yesterday. He makes me uncomfortable. Well, he made the main character uncomfortable, too. So I guess to recognize that this avoidance has to do with some fear...OK, after dinner will sit down and write for an hour and get another 2,000 words out. I promise. I think...

Re: Sandra's NaNo thread - excerpts

http://gospelwriter.gaia.com — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 20:48:11 GMT

Rob said: I tried putting up an excerpt here but it disappeared...

Rob, just so you know, Sandra gave your excerpt its own thread here.

Re: Lady for a Day - an excerpt from Preserving Grace

http://drechanteuse.gaia.com — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 20:44:02 GMT

Well, I am just amazed that you all took your time away from writing your own beautiful pieces to read mine. Thank you, truly. I am not surprised that you were confused, Ruth and Ayla, at the beginning because it is not the "beginning" but way up into the 18,000 words area of the story, about chapter 6 or so. Believe me, all of the characters have been introduced earlier on, so that doesn't trouble me. Not one bit, and I'm glad you mentioned it. There are many characters in this story, a circus event of a tale.

Also, at the beginning of this next excerpt, there is a bit of telling what happened in the character's day, and it's there as a recap. I think it's necessary, but who knows in the end.

Lady for a Day (cont'd)

At exactly 2:00, Charisse, who was glowing as she watched the steamy frames of this Mexican movie with subtitles chug through the loops and across the lens of her projector, felt a lump in her throat. For a woman who had begun her day too early when the phone rang in the middle of the night with her ex –boyfriend on the other end, begging her to return, and then moved on to an early morning flirtation with the next-door neighbor over a flat tire and daydreams of romance novel covers, to a mid-morning meeting with the man that she had fallen in love with while watching him be interviewed on TV, she had no idea why that lump in her throat had formed. It was anxiety, for sure, and possibly a premonition that something was about to go terribly wrong, but it wasn’t defined. She tried to ignore the muscles tensing in her back by immersing herself into the movie even farther, cutting Lupe Velez out of the picture entirely and casting herself as the heroine. When she did this, she the quickly realized that she could also replace Antonio Carril with his grandson, who was presently older than he was at the time of his death.

Charisse had created a fantasy world in almost an instant, and soon, she had forgotten all about that uncomfortable tightening in her throat. She stared at Antonio Carril’s face, those same penetrating eyes. She imagined the smell of him, tequila and sweat and of course, horse, since he had just ridden back from town. There was another smell, his smell, very personal and all man. Even through all of the layers of scents the day had heaped upon him, she knew that up close, there was a lingering fragrance of clean about him. Yes, he would wash up nicely, Charisse assured herself.

Antonio Carril’s grandson had left her office just a few hours before. She still did not know very much about him, except for the fact that he was a mayor of an out-of-the-way California desert town. The town was the setting of his grandfather’s last movie, and he looked like a dead ringer for his handsome movie star grandfather. When she asked him his name, he handed her a business card that read Gabriel A. Carril. She wondered if the name had been shortened from Carrillo, and if so, why? Was it because that was business as usual during the classic studio era in Hollywood? She wasn’t sure if it was a shame or not, to change a family name. She only knew that it had lasting repercussions, stripping future generations of their true identities and instead providing them with a more acceptable, generalized, maybe even sanitized form of a name. Or maybe a made-up name that just sounded good to some studio exec.

She also wondered what it was about the film that was so important to the town that Gabriel A. Carril mayored. She could tell by the way that he rationed his smiles that he was a serious man, and so his desire to have the movie restored had to have very important reasons driving it. He hadn’t seen fit to tell her that much yet, but he had promised before leaving that he would be in touch, and that soon, everything would be explained. For right now, he just wanted her to work the film into her schedule. He, of course, had no idea how easy that would be since Charisse and all of her colleagues with the exception of Azure, the tour guide, were unfortunately only working a four day week. So, Charisse’s Fridays would be dedicated to the film, “Milagro de la Tierra.” She wasn’t even sure if she was going to be getting paid for her work, as Mr. Silverman had clearly told her not to worry about those small details at this point. However, there was so much about this project that made Charisse not care at all about compensation, the most obvious of reasons was that as long as she was working on restoring the film, she would be in contact with Gabriel Carril, the miracle man who had popped out of the television and onto the museum stairs.

In her car, on the way home that evening, she continued to replay the day from the moment that Gabriel Carril had caught her attempting to meditate in the middle of the boardroom table. There was something about him, and there she was, going back to Tesla and the theory of electromagnetism, but she really felt a pull towards him. It was so strong. She didn’t know how she managed to be in a dark room with the man without locking the door and tearing his clothes off. He made her go weak at the knees. It was an expression that she had never really understood until today when her legs felt like lasagne noodles in his presence. Only once before had she experienced noodle-legs and that was at the ice skating rink on the evening she had an unfortunate anxiety attack and forgot forever how to balance on the ice. Since, she had gone back several times, usually shortly after the winter Olympics, to try to regain her confidence, and she had managed to get on the ice and skate around once while holding onto the sides as much as she could, but she was not about to regain the talent she exhibited in the 4th grade when she was the only one in her Girl Scout troop who had an aptitude for skating a figure 8 and doing simple jumps.

The 10 freeway had been fairly clear this evening, as was the tunnel that marked the beginning of the Pacific Coast Highway. Charisse enjoyed the PCH always, as she sniffed the salty seaweed-laden smell of the ocean. She was sure that in some other lifetime she had been a siren of the sea or the sad wife of a fisherman who never returned after a sullen storm swept his boat away in early November. She had always had pictures floating in her head of a small New England fishing village where painted wood signs marked the Main Street businesses, and the docks were filled with men in rubber boots and nets full of the daily catch and life preservers with names like “Betty Jean” printed in red were fastened to fishing boats of all shapes and ages. She had a memory of a light house, of waiting there, the waves crashing harder and harder into the rocks below, and the misty salt-air rising up from the sea like upside-down rain which met the pouring rain that was falling and concerned her so that she had decided to just wait there for the boat she wanted to return to be seen on the horizon. This was not her life. She had not even been past New York, no less to New England, but it was a life she remembered with vivid realism, and she had no idea why.

She had even asked her grandmother, the great Iolanda Del Villan, renown psychic to the rich and famous that resided West of the 405 freeway, why she had these memories. She knew by the far away look that would cloud her grandmother’s grayish brown eyes and the way her lower lip would quiver ever so slightly that she knew the reasons. Yet, her answer was always the same. “They are your visions and eventually their meaning will unravel for you. For me, I am not sure.”
“Have we ever lived in New England?”
Nona would always turn her head, her posture so perfectly straight, giving herself this austere presence. She seemed untouchable somehow.
“Have I ever lived in New England?” Charisse would continue, softer, almost embarrassed to persist.

Charisse did not have to think about where she was going to get there. Her car probably would have made the wide right turn and continued up the curvy route into Pacific Palisades without any help from her at all, since she had grown up there, and classic cars had long memories. She did not have to count the streets she passed to know where to turn, even though one overly landscaped and gated manse could have the tendency to look just like the next. She was accustomed to pulling her car in and parking it under the shade of the Meyer lemon tree that her father had planted for her when she was four years old. She knew that it was exactly 77 steps from her parking spot over the driveway and up the walkway to the front door. She remembered each paving stone that wobbled, and the ones that were cracked by earthquakes or shriveled during El Nino years.

She knew what it was like to walk into the tomb of a home that her family kept even though it’s usefulness at this point as a place to “live” seemed doubtful. She understood why the structure hated light, and kept cool even in the most agitatedly humid days of August when the Santa Ana winds liked to bang into town and perform their haunting song and dance. She had decided long ago that if she was ever left this house in her mother’s will, she would sell it’s cold and foreboding miserableness and never look back.

As she stuck the key in the hole to unlock the overbearing front door, the lump in her throat suddenly returned. Something was wrong, not right at all, and she wished way down to the pit of her stomach that she had the powers that Nona Del Villan possessed, because she didn’t know what it was, and she didn’t want to walk into a disaster blindly.

The foyer was dark and painted with looming shadows, one cast across another, layers of them so deep that Charisse could hardly force herself to cross into the great room. It was dark, too, but in a much more pitiful way. Here was the room that her parents used to throw their big parties in. She could not name the big names of the people that had been in this room, and now, here it waits, sad, forgotten, wondering if anyone will ever come and drink and dance and romance inside of it again. These walls could talk, fill the pages of the Hollywood Reporter, only no one came to listen anymore. The quietness Charisse passed through felt deafening.

She began down the hall, but from somewhere, maybe the place where she was about to go out of her mind, she could feel this beat, these faraway strains of Rosemary Clooney, “Hey, mambo. Mambo Italiano.
She stopped, froze. Nothing. She listened for several seconds. Nothing.
So she stepped. “Hey mambo, don’t wanna tarantella. Hey mambo, no more a mozzarella.”
She stopped. There was laughter and clinking of glasses. There was so much more than she heard at first. It wasn’t even Rosemary Clooney, it was Dean Martin, and beyond that, it was a remix so it started and stopped and scritched and scratched in an infectious way. Maybe it was Marlon playing around. Charisse raced toward the family room. She didn’t know why it was important to her, but not even Edgar had met her at the door this evening, and there was the matter of that lump in her throat.

At the entrance to the family room, Charisse eyed the coffee table, bottles of wine and a spread of fried cheeses and mushrooms and baskets of breads and boxes of pizza. In a bowl in front of Edgar, who appeared to be passed out, was a deep red substance, probably a chianti or marsala.

Marlon Brandon was dressed like a boy for once, although she couldn’t go as far as to say a man. He was cutting a rug with Nona Del Villan who was laughing and smiling, even singing the chorus, her web-like long hair freed from its bun and twirling wildly as Marlon dipped her and pulled her back again. Maybe Charisse had seen her grandmother smile at a wedding or a birthday party occasionally, she thought. She couldn’t give an exact instance. Marlon’s parents, Mauro Silvestri O’Quinn and Stefania Del Villan O’Quinn were enveloped by the overstuffed sofas, their legs wrapped around each other suggestively, as if their attraction was as strong as the first day they met. On the opposite sofa sat – oh, wow. This was the reason for the lump. It had to be. Her mother was awake, now, after all of these years after her dad died, and all of the years before that she blamed on her nervous breakdown. Years upon years when Charisse wanted to ask her what to wear on her first date, or what she should study in college, or what she should do because Mark wouldn’t consummate their relationship and her biological clock kept right on ticking. Now, the woman was awake, and smiling and laughing as everyone was. Even Dean Martin seemed to be having fun singing about having an enchilada and a fish baccala, that was, until she walked in. It was Marlon who noticed her first, and he tapped his Nona on the shoulder and pointed, and then it was like the needle scratched across the record. It was startling, uncomfortable, and everything stopped.

“What are you doing here?” Silvana asked, surprised to see her daughter.

The looks on everyone’s faces, mouths gaping, unsure of what to say or do made Charisse want to cry. She reached down and hoisted her drunken bulldog into her arms, and wiped her nose, which had started to run like a two-year-old childs, and felt her cheeks burning from the inside out.

“I really don’t know,” Charisse replied, and she meant it. She wouldn’t stay to crash their celebration. Her feet wouldn’t let her. She couldn’t wait to get out of there and down the hall and lock her door and call Mark and ask if she could come back home. How could she talk to a mother who abandoned her without even really leaving? How could she mend a rift as wide as the Mediterranean Sea?

Re: DAY TEN - 2009

http://gospelwriter.gaia.com — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 20:37:49 GMT

Now I know about the last line thing I will have to make sure I never again allow myself one of those lame and lazy last lines I have collected along the way. ;)

You voiced my unspoken thoughts exactly, Gabriele, I have to admit it now. :)

Good that things are flowing better for you, and from the look of it, for more and more of the rest of us. It's always nice to get past the heaviness of feeling we're not producing, or not producing as we 'should'.

And I'm grateful to Leigh-Anne for introducing a little lightness into our “Day” world.

Okay, so in the interests of allowing that lightness to guide me (and also of not being thought of as a party-pooper), I will share my line after all: She picked up my suitcase and led me to the nearest automatic door, then to the parking lot and to where she had parked her car. Truly inspired expired writing. :)

Re: DAY TEN - 2009

http://GabrieleStehle.gaia.com — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 20:14:44 GMT

Had to go and look for my last line right away. Not exactly a wowzer, but here it comes.

"Well fancy that," she said with her sideways smile, "coincidentally I've brought a folder full of lyriks with me."

Great last lines, y'all. Good we're not doing a competition, that would be a lot of first prizes to hand out!

Ruth, you have my sympathy. Now I know about the last line thing I will have to make sure I never again allow myself one of those lame and lazy last lines I have collected along the way. ;) I couldn't agree with you more, btw. on this: As long as I keep writing, facing the page. That's all that matters.

Re: DAY TEN - 2009

http://gospelwriter.gaia.com — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 20:14:14 GMT

Hi Deb, that is a huge project you're working on, and a worthwhile one too, your exploration of the emotional body and its impact on quality of life issues. That kind of writing is a journey in itself, and requires a great willingness to slog through the embarrassment and often pain of reliving the experiences that have brought us to the (relative) state of grace from which we can begin to write it.

The Receptivity (Osho) card is one of the most beautiful as far as I'm concerned in that deck (and that's saying something). I pulled it myself a couple of days ago. Today's was Comparison (5 of Clouds), reminding me that it's when I compare myself to others (eg, about relative word count or quality of story) that I get into feeling inferior or superior. If not for that I'd just be who I am, where I am, and content with that. (Why do I keep forgetting that?)

Re: DAY TEN - 2009

http://yhd52754.gaia.com — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 19:54:05 GMT

Just eking by, in keeping up with the daily cumulative goal, nibbling into the excess of the weekend. Total word count is now 16,683. The work today was interrupted a lot but I got through it. My time was more limited (what amount of time might be available and when I might be able to do it at all).

My Osho card today was Receptivity (listening).

I was in the mood to be reflective upon the larger currents that affect human life; rather than my recent effort to mostly write out the illustrative life vignettes or that part of how the story "progresses".

My work is a combination of insights into non-physical aspects with many bits and pieces of my own life's experience. This is how I hope to illustrate, on a more personal level, my own exploration of the emotional body and its impact on quality of life issues.

It isn't simply telling my life's story, which has been colorful enough to be darn embarrassing, at this age (55). But it does require "remembering" those episodes of my life that "stand out"; while using a lens that is more mature in perspective. I find that effort to be the "hardest" part for me as it requires a kind of re-living.

I hope to get into GGs thread today, for my "reading" assignment. This way, little by little, I hope to get a sense of what each of you who are posting such, are writing about and your personal styles. A kind of "get to know you better" effort.

Wording along happily -
Deb

Re: Capricorn's Moon (NaNo excerpts)

http://drechanteuse.gaia.com — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 19:48:51 GMT

Ruth, what is mentioned here is what I feel is such a challenge when writing a novel, the showing versus telling. I think if this were not Nanowrimo, it could be easier to show more, but it is something, for me at least, about the word count that creates a pressure that comes out in my writing as telling when I want to be showing. Yet, with both excerpts of yours, I was drawn in completely, willingly, wanting to go through the highs and the lows with your character.

I agree with Sandra that things will come out onto the page as they do, and you will decide what to do with them once they are all there. I think this is a very fascinating look at a woman in all of her facets, some of which reveal so much more by what is not exactly said. I feel that need to be thin that would take her to such lengths, and then the emotions that come up after the purge, but there is so much more to it, I suspect, than mere calories in and calories out. That's what has my brain spinning, wanting more, wanting to know the pain that has caused this. It feels very riveting to me.

Love,
Andrea

Re: DAY TEN - 2009

http://gospelwriter.gaia.com — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 19:48:22 GMT

I like the last line idea---you guys have some great ones---but I don't think I'll share mine here, not today. I went back to my story to see what I finished with last night and I thought, nope, no can do, too too boring, don't want to send everybody to snoozies time (although from the sound of it, Sandra could use some). Wait, I thought, and looked at an email I'd sent to my sister after finishing my meager bit of writing, looked at it and said... something. No last lines from me today, sorry. (It's supposed to be the last line of NaNo writing though, right?)

On the up side, I finally got a good bit of writing in today, close to 3000 words and not even noon yet, and almost caught up now to where I'm supposed encouraged to be in the timeline. Ah, that feels better. Last night I started thinking that it just might not happen this year. And it still may not and I'd be okay with that. The main thing is that I keep writing, facing the page.

Re: Sandra's NaNo thread - excerpts

http://nestingwave.gaia.com — Tue, 10 Nov 2009 19:43:40 GMT

Hi Sandra,

I still haven't read all your excerpts but what I have read astounds me as it does all your sisters of appreciation along with a few of us he-men ego thumpers. Your writing makes jelly out of all of us.

I tried putting up an excerpt here but it disappeared. That's perfectly okay just mysterious-- the story of my life anyway. It was probably too long or something. Anyhow, it didn't take and is not even listed in my recent activity so it is floating somewhere in cyberspace. Or maybe I forgot to hit the button? Not a chance. A.. senior moment perhaps?

But I usually find that when that phenomena occurs, it is because what I have written is not timely. At first, when this started happening years ago, something would go pooof and it really upset me, I once lost several fine chapters that way several years ago. Now I remember to save save and save.   I would complain about that back then but no more. Some kinda angel maybe?   A quasi-divine censor? Anyhow I have learned to give thanks whenever it happens because it always turns out to be for a very good reason.

Remote Viewing is a major part of my 50,000 word novel which I am happy to report is now "finished." (you know how that goes) It needs some fine tuning. Yep. Its about 50,550 or so. I have been writing hours and hours per day (and night too) and here it is finished quantity-wise quite early. No, I'm not recommending such fanaticism--- unless someone is so motivated inwardly. (It's okay to be a fanatic but not a dogmatic or evangelistic one) Now I have been going back and tightening it up. I will have the enjoyment of doing that before punching that( hopefully functioning) button on the last day of November. Yeah, I want my name on a list (other than the FBI) too.

All writing is channeling but not in any kind of "new ageiosis" kind of way. What are we channeling?   Apparently, the information field or "information cumulus" as it is called. We are simply tuning in as biotuners and extracting pertinent information that we can relate to according to our own personal life experiences--which is unique for every individual. Yep, everyone's writing is their own. No copycats only wildcats.

You said something in your last post that I want to respond to:

"I'll think up… three hours of describing in full sensuous detail a pot plant??" Uh huh. Exactly. Sandra, you are a Remote Viewer and may not even know it. It is a natural ability of every homo sapiens sapiens on planet earth and only needs... some usage and practice. The arts hone it. When you gnose those pot plants (uh... potted plants) they speak to you and you have a "conversation" with them. You get information and it just flows right through your fingertips and out into cyberspace right into someone's heart. Who? Anyone who opens and tunes into the frequency can become a participant.

Of course with your obvious inferface with the archetypes through the Tarot you are tuning into the basic subconscious information field. Yep. That's how it works. All great artists do this whether they know anything about the Tarot or not.

That's why the street cello player of Sarajevo closes his eyes and dances. Loreena McKinnitt and millions of others also. Anyhow that is what my 50,550 word novel is about and what all my writing is about regardless of the metaphores.   The possible metaphores to explore the subject of our undeniable interconnectivity are endless.

I really learned something from this "deadline" exercise which wasn't a "deadline" but an incredible enjoyment with absolutely nothing "dead" about it, even the "line." Someone said that without a "deadline" nothing ever gets done?   But, we must asks ourselves. What is the "thing" in "nothing?" Exactly what is it that we are trying to do? It really helps us to be clear about that and it will be different for each and every individual.

It is so great to experience the writing of so many souls expressing themselves.   Whether anyone gets 50,000 words or not and their name on a list really means almost nothing. We are in reality each and every one of us sovereign beings. Each one entirely unique but no one able to express their uniqueness without the others because we crave to love and be loved and that is not a dysfunction as many assume but what we are.

Peace be unto all.

Namaste,

Rob