11 February 2013

February - Self Love Means Kicking Yourself Out



The Peevish Penman prompt for February (really? I'm so sorry about all that alliteration -- I'm slaying myself over here ... ahhh, someone give me some air) is revolving  around:

Love. 


Come back!

I have chocolate!

I lied.


I ate it. It was good. Sorry. Here's the wrapper. Ghardelli.

Moving on, nothing to see here. Oh go on! What I just wrote above does NOT remind you of "This Is Just To Say" by William Carlos Williams about the plums. That was a love note.  

♥ ♥ ♥


We are writing about Love and how we create and write in the face of it... whether that face be a marriage, a new relationship, or with our loved ones around.

Because I am elegant weird, I am going to write about it today in terms of how we show ourselves and our writing love in one simple step: break up with yourself. Show yourself the door and don't come back until you've had time to think about what this relationship with your book or your writing or your blog or your art means to you! You better learn something about how you've been treating that book, art, blog or writing. And when you're ready, show yourself.

And bring chocolate. 


♥ ♥ ♥


This will all make sense shortly, but in the meantime, indulge me as I provide the backstory: so my household has seen its share of airborne illnesses the last few weeks. I will spare you the amoebic details, but the fact of the matter is that since Christmas, I've not spent one week at home without one of my three sons home sick with me or home sick on his own. What this has done for my social life: you don'twannaknow. I've had the frequent displeasure of canceling a lunch four weeks in a row. With the same person. Yes, we're still friends.

I'm back to feeling 100% now, so please stay the hell away from me.

Don't worry, I'll get back to love. Gimme a minute. 

I had an epiphany whilst in the throes of a bout and while it might seem rather pedestrian, it can't be ignored: life is for living and for me (and maybe you?) to be a successful (whatever that means -- it's all subjective, so play nice) writer requires we get the hell out. Ironically, I say all this at risk of sounding myopic.

Surely observations and insights from disabled or impaired people are extremely valuable, but for the overwhelming majority of the able-bodied, we must kick ourselves out of our relationships and dependencies with the everyday and kick up the dust in our own lives, and not let that door hit us on our way out if we are truly going to see results.

We must unfriend ourselves from Facebook, unfollow ourselves from Twitter and unwhatever ourselves from whatever other social media engine within which we frequently engage if we are to bring value to ourselves, our craft, and our readers.

I once challenged a writer to describe an approach to a barn door in 500 words. She couldn't. She did it in 300, which is good, because this writer has limitations when it comes to descriptions. Me? I love them, I get swept up in them and they are like poetry chocolate to me.

We must get out and step into the sunshine, squinting our eyes from its sobering glare in the dead of winter, bracing ourselves against the biting, life-affirming chill and wind which buffets our bodies and whips through our souls. We must take a walk to the pond near our house and when we arrive, we must take off our leather glove, the one with the cashmere liner and touch the massive alabaster rock; and run our chapped index finger along its veins of black coal and crushed quartz as our eyes follow the lines and then wander to the park bench with the flaking paint and rusty legs, barely making purchase of the nails and screws which fasten it to the concrete platform.

We must walk past the bakery with warm and salty aromas of fresh Italian bread, crusty and golden on the outside and downy soft on the inside, the air bubbles inviting our nubby and chilled hands to grab a chunk and devour it; when it's fresh-from-the-oven warm, it tastes better than with any amount of butter on it and the smell alone is an elixir to our souls.

We must pack up our cameras and make sure the batteries are ready. We must bundle up in our trusty pea coats to get into our old cars with seats of faded leather. Turn the key and wait for the engine to start, but turn off the blowers with their frigid air because the crank case isn't warm yet.

We must drive to the old weatherworn and abandoned barn in the countryside, listen to classic songs from Frank Sinatra or Doris Day on our way; keeping that timeless appeal so we transcend the moment in which we exist: 2013, to imagine the world we seek: 1958, so we can embody that lonely farm girl whose eyes linger a little too long on the moon and whose mind tickles the memories of her moments in that barn, with her beau now at bootcamp in Georgia.

We must go to fondue dinner with loved ones during "Restaurant Week," a local week-long program born from post-9/11 sadness and fearful diners when restaurants were shuttering hourly. We must laugh despite our reluctantly transplanted waiter named Nigel who was charming but inattentive. We must kindly ask his peers for water, use our debit cards to pay the check, and hesitantly walk to the car together, wondering what we will do next and then decide, as we approach the interstate sign, with Donna Summer playing in the background, chant, "Go north or go home!" take the onramp to the city, giggle at our spontaneity and feel like teenagers again for our collective recklessness. We must park the minivan, pretend it's one of our parents' car and venture out into the vibrant, windy and pulsing city, seeking tickets to a hockey game already in progress only to discover that once we pass the security check and the baggage search that that game is sold out. But we must decide together undaunted, to go to a bar around the corner, open a tab, have a beer and watch the game on plasmas strung along the walls. See the bartendress with four-inch hoop sparkly earrings scan her smartphone and watch the bar-back in the black longshoreman's knit cap restock the frosted pint glasses; his muscles stretch and contract beneath his t-shirt's rolled up sleeves. We must turn and have no choice but to watch an older man who confessed he was on painkillers and too much beer, dance with a sweet young thing fifteen years his junior, only to see him slow down a bit, get a little too dizzy and then see him maintain his dignity as he surrenders to his age and to the night as he zips up his hoody, walks up the steps and bids the bar goodnight.

We must do these things. We must get out of our own way, even in the face of love: lovers will understand when we need to do these things, to get away. If they are worth having around, they will be there when we get back.

The fact of the matter is that if I love myself, I need to break-up with myself and kick myself out of social media, and make myself take me out on a date, or for a drive, or for a walk, without the computer but only with my eyes and my memory. Same goes for my writing, my art. The only way to get anything gritty, good and new for my work and for my soul is to turn away from what I already know and look boldly into what I see out there.

Take a late-night romantic ride in a crowded car with some coeds here:
http://mollyfielddotcom.wordpress.com/2013/02/08/friday-fiction-6-the-car-ride-dream/




25 comments:

  1. In complete agreement. We must reconnect with the world outside to find inspiration. Or at least, I must.

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  2. With that settled, I propose a party, a chocolate eating party for writers... yum. That's kind of external connections I need.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. did you add those chocolates? i forgot to add an image. thank you.

      Delete
  3. I've tried to fool myself into thinking I can just go about my normal routine and still be an idea machine, but I can tell when the gears grind down to an infuriating halt. However, when I break out, even just a little, I will inevitably find something to write about. It's amazing how it works, but it absolutely does. Go to the mall. Go grab some lunch. Heck, go to the zoo! You will see something or someone that sparks that wacky little brain into action.

    And yes, I'll take some chocolate too. Caramel-filled, please and thank you.

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    Replies
    1. yes; we can recall or imagine all we want, but eventually even we don't like being around ourselves. people watching always inspires. thanks, rob! :)

      Delete
    2. Caramel-filled. Yes. Thank you and please. Okay, I was going to think of a really insightful response, but I've just realized how much I want caramel and... oh wait.

      I am 24/7 idea machine. It's not all it's cracked up to be, because most of my ideas are bad. I'm about a 1 in 5 sort of person and I know this. This is why I need feedback constantly, I have faith in myself, but I need people to tell me which of my 5 ideas is the one good one.

      Now, I'm going to go open a can of dulce de leche and eat it by spoon.

      Delete
  4. It would be cool to have a real life writers group to go to where you could discuss ideas in person and actually eat chocolate covered strawberries instead of just imagining them! I hope you can get out of your own way and get some serious writing done. Enjoy those dates with yourself too!

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    Replies
    1. Yes, it would be and I think that is going to HAVE to be my next step: finding flesh and blood writers, to chat at brick-and-mortar meeting places. Regardless of the advent of technology and chat rooms and Skype and all that, people need people and their energy and the smell of a coffee shop or the wail of a baby nearby in that coffee shop to bring real texture to our craft, whatever that might be. Eudora Welty said this, "A sheltered life can be a daring life as well. For all serious daring starts from within," and she couldn't be more correct, but I've been within a long time. It's time to go without. :)

      Thanks for your comments, Lillian.

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    2. I did find a couple sets of writers with real flesh and blood and a set of academic poets, also fleshy, but they were not serious about making a living as an author. They droned on about their worth as artists. I do like to meet writers, but I want to connect with like-minded writers, too, entertainers who are willing make a business of it.

      If you find some serious writers, do tell me how. And I also need dating tips, because I'm not so good at that either.

      Delete
    3. Indeed, if I find serious writers instead of disappointed intellectuals, I will let you know. The thing is... yes: they all talk about how they aren't valued, and how e'i v'oaijf;eidjf' def'oeiue; 'peurw;ih 'oie 'peuf ;jefioj.

      y'know?

      it's sooooooooo boring.

      Delete
  5. agree totally with Lillian. I think getting out sounds great (though I don't love chocolate so I'll just supply them). BUT - let us writists get out for awhile and discuss our ideas. Let us enjoy the company of others like us who have ideas! Let us revel in the fact that we know and love the ideas and their makers.

    I could be projecting. But I don't want to go out to go out to spy or watch. I've seen enough to write about. ;)

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. D A, I'm with you on this one. It's just occurred to me that I don't do half the things I used to do, because I'm embarrassed about gaining some weight. I'm going to go to a writer's group here in Raleigh, because I need to talk to people face to face about writing. I don't need more life experience. I've got enough of that already, too. But, I need to learn about selling my work successfully and meet more people who do and learn from them.

      There's something about seeing people's expressions that changes a lot of the process of acquiring information. I've been missing that by staying in.

      Delete
    2. Carrie,

      I hear ya. I've missed out quite a bit over the past few years -- finding there are not enough writers in my circle. A few readers, but who needs them?? ;)

      We've all gained some weight. It happens. I've met a few skeletons and I want to throw strips of bacon at them.

      Brains and hearts are all roughly the same shape and size. Busting out my "my brains are sexy too" teeshirt. HAHA (no really)

      Delete
    3. Thanks. Hugs Dustin, that made me feel better.

      Delete
  6. PS - Molly I did find this incredibly entertaining. Good job!

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    Replies
    1. thank you so much! really. thanks.

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    2. Molly, this is a great article and for me, the timing was perfect.

      Delete
  7. I was thinking about this today. The trouble is, well, twofold. The only interesting and serious writers I know are A) not local and/or B) cyberhumans. If in fact these cyberhumans are real humans, refer back to A. Geography: destructor of fleshy writer groups.

    I wish there were groups of "sellers of writing" who roam around promoting writists and generating sales for them. Writists are often not the best salespeople. One would think these used to be agents, but when agents began requiring agents, well thats just an impenetrable bureaucracy. I feel labotomized just thinking about it.

    ReplyDelete
  8. I was thinking about this today. The trouble is, well, twofold. The only interesting and serious writers I know are A) not local and/or B) cyberhumans. If in fact these cyberhumans are real humans, refer back to A. Geography: destructor of fleshy writer groups.

    I wish there were groups of "sellers of writing" who roam around promoting writists and generating sales for them. Writists are often not the best salespeople. One would think these used to be agents, but when agents began requiring agents, well thats just an impenetrable bureaucracy. I feel labotomized just thinking about it.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Chin up there DA. That's why we started a secret society. Servo in Stilus!

      Delete
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