On Writing Fiction

 photo by ewen and donabel

It occurs to me, as I sit here staring at the blank page, that I have almost an unlimited number of things to write about.

If they are real.

I have pages full of starters and themes.  An arsenal of ideas, if you will.  My possibilities stretch across me like the horizon.  Cute phrases in my pocket, ready to pull out at a moments notice.

If they support non-fiction.

I can write essays about my life, my thoughts, the lives of others.  I can go on and on about issues I am connected to.

Even poetry forms in my brain.

But fiction scares me.  Trying to create something from nothing is almost as terrifying to me as, well, I can't think of a proper comparison.  But trust me.  It's frightening.

But I want to do it.  I want to look at a clean page and craft a character.  Then another.  I want to get to know them.  I want to watch them walk through life, making mistakes, eating and sleeping, visiting friends, resolving conflict.  I want them to pull me into their lives, weaving their story to a perfect climax.

So we have established I can write about writing fiction.  I can in a non-fiction way, form an essay about writing fiction.  I know the fiction "formula".  But I haven't met my first character yet.  I haven't found him/her.  We haven't been introduced yet.

Just know I am searching. 

On Turning 40

The change would come at 30.  That exact day, in fact.  I was sure of it.  I would become a number, and an old one at that.

And I worried about it.  An entire year of days, hours consumed with apprehension.  I thought I would feel different somehow.  Life would be different somehow.

That day dawned as any other, and nothing happened.

But there was a metamorphosis, just not that day.  Or on any other solitary day. But over the course of my 3rd decade, an evolution was occurring.  An awakening of a power I had never experienced.  Confidence.

Now I approach 40.  And I celebrate.  I will love 40 like a love that finds you contentment.  With the silent determination of someone who knows who she is.  Who believes.

The journey has been hard.  And long.  And sometimes I envy those who knew who they were at  20, 25, 30.  But in other ways, I am the lucky one.  My journey has taken me through hills and valleys, job changes and city changes.  I had the chance to grow.  I am so incredibly different from the child I once was.  The culmination of experiences, of choices made, of lessons learned, led me here.

I feel a quiet confidence.  I have friends who don't share my opinions.  I have a husband who is the polar opposite in personality.  But confidence allows me to retain my invidiuality while sharing life space.  And I have the past 39 years to thank for it.

I cant wait to turn 40.  I cant wait to see what other surprises life holds for me. But I'm not worried about where I will end up.  I approach each day, grateful for the journey.

Words

And the words, they began to flow.

I used to write.  When I was a kid, I wrote stories and poems - I loved to write. Back when I had no inhibitions, no worries, no structure - just words to release.

image from http://www.ling.gu.se/~sylvana/images/pen.jpg&imgrefurl

But they went away.

They peaked shyly out of their hiding place briefly when I studied journalism. Nouns, verbs, twirling with ecstasy until they were sick with dizzy.  But then real life crashed down, crushing those lovely words.

Until recently.

You see, the words never really left.  They were there, pecking at my brain, hurting, bruising black and blue.  A caged bird needing to fly through azure and cotton puffs.  The muse was in hibernation.  For a long time.  Because I wasn't ready.

About a year ago, I started journaling again.  Shyly.  Tentatively.  And I hid it.

And so it began like a gentle drizzle lightly coating the grass.  Slowly picking up speed. Then the clouds opened and the grass began to sway and sink into the drenched ground unable to hold the downpour.

Those words that had been in my head for years, rattling around with no place to go, those words were begging to be released.  To the clean paper.  So I let them go.  And then more came.  Begging.  And they were released too.  Until I was writing.  All the time. In notebooks.  On my phone.  In the car.  At a restaurant.  In my head. On vacation.  In my brain.  In my sleep.

The words, they began to flow.

And I felt lighter, not being weighed down by boulders.

Mile Seven

image from random3ss.com

Mile seven was, surprisingly, uneventful.  I have to admit I got restless yesterday (Wednesday), jumped in my car and headed for the gym, even though I had done a weight workout that morning.  What can I say.  I'm a glutton for punishment!

And yes, I said the gym.  *Sigh*  Too hot at 2pm to do it outside.  And for those of you who do - more power to you!  So with a bit of trepidation, I punched 7 miles into the treadmill.  And you know what?  I didn't get (too terribly) bored.  I found a marathon of a show I like and by the end of the 2nd episode, I was finishing up.

Now for the fun part, the physicality.  I am still learning how to nourish myself. Because I hadn't planned this madness, I didn't eat a proper balance of carbs and protein at lunch.  I did, however, take a homemade trail mix that I munched as the slugs hit (around mile 5).  And because I wasn't sweating with the intensity of an outdoor workout, I forgot to hydrate until a tightened thigh muscle reminded me.

So I did it.  I did 7 miles in just under 1 hour and 45 minutes, right on target to meet my race day goal.  I had a terrible headache until I finally had some protein with dinner, but let that be a lesson!

Next week is one of my beautiful "low" weeks so the next monster will be Mile Nine.  See you then!

Marathon Training - the begnning

I couldn't believe it.  A flyer for a women's half marathon in September.  And I saw it in May.  Plenty of time to prepare for this goal.  Which occurs two weeks before I am 40.  Kismet!

I have been wanting to walk a half marathon for quite awhile, never quite being available for the April marathon in Nashville.  But now it was fated.

So I began my journey to walk a half marathon with a click.

My first step - find a training program that would fit into my schedule of two short and one long walk each week.  Easy enough I was surprised to discover.  Now to log the miles on my kitchen calendar for the world to see.  Make sure it doesn't conflict with any large weekend.  Adjust for obvious conflicts.  Again, easy.

Set a goal - a 15 minute mile average seems do-able.  Ok.

Ready.  Set.  Begin.  Now,  I've been walking since, well, since I could walk.  I have been walking for fitness since I can remember.  Sometimes seriously, sometimes sporadically, but always able to pick back up at 3-4 miles quite easily.  Training at those distances was going to be a snap.

And they were.  The first few weeks flew by.  Three miles, then two miles.  Four miles, then three miles.  Even five, not so hard.  Did I mention this has been one of the hottest Junes on record?

I wont lie.  Six was hard.  I was hot. Sweat dripped from my eyes. The banana I ate for breakfast sprouted wings and flew from my system around mile 5.  I used all the water.  Lesson:  Take a snack.  Need more water.  Need a bigger sop rag.   Need to train in November.  Well I can control most of these.

And for the rest of the day - I WAS EXHAUSTED!  Spent!  Drained.  Needed a maid to cook my dinner.  Honestly, it was more the heat exposure than the mileage. 

The beauty of my program is most weeks, after a long Saturday, you drop back down to a shorter Saturday. So after a 5, I had a 3 before the 6.

As I play with the mileage to fit my schedule, I will be reaching 7 miles this week (probably Thursday).  I am promising myself a bagel after.

And I will come back to talk about it!

Choosing to believe

As I sat in a cafe the other day, I over heard a conversation that left me deep in thought.  A man and woman discussed the documentary Food Inc.  They touched on grass fed beef and the extent to which corn is a now a commodity...

Then a curious shift happened.   A school aged daughter was being tested for ADHD.  The man explained that she was an artistic type.  A dreamer.  That she had trouble learning in the methodical style of the public school.  Basically stating he knew what his child's school issues were.  However they were testing her for attention problems.  And they wonder if her attention problems are linked to additives, pesticides etc. in food.

This intrigued me in many ways.  First as  former teacher and then as a passionate student of what is happening to our food supply.

As a teacher, I was the intrigued by the parents wanting to put a name on why their child wasn't a traditional learner.  Wanting it to be diagnosed and fixed.  Even though in the same breath he admitted he knew she was a non-traditional learner, that this was the root of her troubles at school, and that her teacher had agreed with his assessment.  But he still needs it to be an organic problem.  And needs to to have a reason why she learns this way.

As a student of the growing concern over our food, I found myself silently wanting to believe what he believes - that in part, the food we eat may be causing learning/attention/behavior issues in our children.

It made me stop and think.  For most arguments, you can find expert facts and expert opinions to back up each side, leaving you with a concrete reason for the opinion you form. Because it is what you want to believe.  How easy it is to mold what is said to match what you need to hear  And to block out the differing facts (and there are ALWAYS differing facts).  It shows how powerful our mind really is.  

Me, I like the idea that the artificial additives of our foods are causing all sorts of problems.  And I can find an expert to back me up!

Inspiration

What inspires me?  

I had the chance to ponder this as we spent the weekend in Asheville NC.  It became obvious to me as we passed Knoxville and the topography changed that my thoughts were also changing.  As the mountains rose higher, words poured out of me.  When I drank coffee in the quiet of the morning, the roaring of quotes was not to be ignored.  Prose came to me as I drove, as I hiked, while I drank beer and while I just sat.  Quietly. 

Nature.  Nature moves me to words.  Trees.  Birds singing.  Flowers on a cliff side.  And the mountains.  Especially the mountains.  I soar, my soul taking off in flight to the highest cloud when I am in the mountains.  And I can not hold it inside.  So the words come, and I write.