Writing the Wave

THE NEXT LEVEL: Craft Intensives for Dedicated Writers

2011-05-16T10:34:00.000-07:00

THE NEXT LEVEL: Craft Intensives for Dedicated Writers

Award-winning author Joyce Sweeney and Woodstream Writers director, Jamie Morris, know what writers need – time, support, instruction, accurate information, cameraderie, community, and the opportunity to practice the skills that will help them take their work to THE NEXT LEVEL.

Each Next Level Craft Intensive is an engaging, instructive, market-savvy weekend focused onthe writer's craft. Attendees meet individually with workshop leaders; participate in group discussions; attend craft presentations complete with Q+A; revise or develop new work with on-the-spot writing exercises; and have opportunities to present their work to the group--and that's just the beginning!

Join us in Mt. Dora (Lake County, Florida) for . . .

THE NEXT LEVEL: Build Your Novel from the Ground Up, September 16-18, 2011

This workshop is equally perfect for writers with a great idea they're ready to track all the way to a first draft--and writers who have a draft that's somehow gotten off its track!

Have you wondered exactly which tricks of the book-writing trade will take you from the glimmer of a first idea to the strong and shimmering structure of a concrete outline? Whether you're starting from literary scratch or bringing a work-well-in-progress, you will leave this workshop with a viable outline.

Let Joyce and Jamie show you how to . . .

. . . shape your core idea into a powerful, foundational concept,
. . . expand that concept--step-by-step--into a summary, a synopsis, an outline,
. . . use the mysterious, magical "plot clock" as a guide to strengthen your story.

Over the course of three days you will

• achieve a clear(er) vision of your story.
• explore themes that add resonance and meaning to your story.
• add depth to your characters and their world.
• make a map that makes your next steps concrete and specific.
• confer privately with a workshop leader to aim your efforts for best effect.

The cost for THE NEXT LEVEL workshop intensives, $525, includes snacks and supper on Friday evening, full breakfasts and lunches on Saturday and Sunday. Enrollment limited to 14 participants.

Joyce Sweeney is the award-winning author of fourteen novels for young adults. Also a lauded writing teacher and coach, many of her clients have gone on to publish.

Jamie Morris directs Central Florida's Woodstream Writers, leading workshops and intensives regionally--and coaching writers in many genres, towards publication.   Register with Jamie@WoodstreamWriters.com or 407-644-5163 for more information  or Joyce Sweeney at grackle@bellsouth.net

'Nothing Personal', said the Oil Spill to the Dead Seagull

2011-02-25T07:15:00.000-08:00

I haven’t sat, or known the ocean for some time. The endless soft waves that heals the caked up blood and scar tissue of my wounded child. The little pig tailed girl swirls around, her toes holding her life with sand and sun, but then she plops down. Her tuss all filled with muddy clay and all she can feel is the loss of this splendor and innocence she once believed lasted forever.

I am an adult, but all I can feel is the feelings of the child. The abandoned promise that she would be loved, or own love, or have love, or walk on love like a cloud from twilight stars. So much nails and soot to pull out of her arms and legs; the ones life left behind, as life rolls its holy terror through her soul. She can’t get over it, she just can’t. She needs to dig and cry down into the earth’s core, scratch away at her skin and let the blood drip and mix in with the cracks and swigs and dead ocean fish. How can life be so alive and yet so dead with shame? So afraid to show the depth of one’s sorrow because only joy is written as our inheritance...what of the grief? What of the desperate need to hug you until the life is squeezed out of your lungs, and then she can suck it all like a vampire and attach to you like a vine to a tree. She is enmeshed in every feeling and word. Her life depends on how much she can drink your moods and swish them around in her body and then run off into the sun and jump for joy that she finally felt you, felt you, felt you in her...

Stop it! Just stop the damn blazing cold, hard, nothingness of cruelty that says "it’s all in a day’s work, she’s busy so she has no soul, she’s cut and dry, she’s business, she’s off to the races, she’s driving her car, she’s focused on her taxes". Where is everyone? Don’t they see?
What are you here for? Die, pay taxes, eat, sleep, fuck?

I give up. I just give up. Vulnerability is buried in the mouth of God. Deep in Her throat, choked in a scream. It is caught, like a fish hook in my bowels, strangled in Her larynx. Don’t take anything personal-- just don’t, don’t! Cheating, not personal, lying, stabbing, ignoring, coldness, indifference, murder, rape, not personal. Hide it, cover it up, forget it, just get on with it, nothing personal. Sad, core hurt, a tearing of my nerves, a ripping of my soul. A battle between my head and heart. Inside a tangled mess of blood and cartilage. Screams. I am tight and sore and distraught with emotions...death and despair. I can’t keep smiling because it makes you feel good, so you can pretend that I accept the cold, hard world of 'business as usual'. It’s not personal. I feel good now because you’re not my business.

Make it all go away. I will just bury myself among the dead gulls washed up from oil spills. The baby seals clubbed to death and I will bury myself in their death and their shock that man can be so cruel and then forget it ever happened.

I, Woman, Still Stand Among My Tribe

2010-12-29T06:40:00.000-08:00

There I learned: from the edge of the rails, the ocean's roar, the slaps of cutting waves, she sailed across from Poland, a cold place, a hard place where she escaped from the camps. There her mother died, her sister and brothers, disappeared into the dark forests of blood, where bodies lay topside, no graves, no burial rites. I learned how to survive the generations of women, the insane, the insane asylum. How the hand of G-d and the belly of the Goddess births a people, a nation, and spreads them like salt across the world and gives them a life that is challenged by displacement, estrangement and isolation.

A death of a self that emerges from the ashes, of black hearts, dirty minds, and filthy souls that tear out hearts of families, children, mothers and fathers leaving the women empty in her womb, waiting for a seed to birth a new beginning. And then, after the tears, and grief, and swollen stomach of the dying young, after the stench of death and the screams from behind the jails, I see a tunnel of light. I see the entrance into an angelic realm. Gabriel blowing his horn, Miriam playing her tambourine. I am here to witness how life can distort us into suicidal thoughts, to hate ourselves. And then realize that it is the only life that we have and we have a choice. I am here to watch the thousands walk across the continents, at first one in spirit, then split apart like the atom and exploded into separate tribes, separate nations, separate countries. I am here to hear the call of the wild, the women waving from afar, waving to come home, come back.

My grandmother crossed the ocean in a pickle barrel. She left behind everything, every picture, fork, spoon, tear, touch and connection to her roots. My mother swam in her grief. The women of my family fought to stay alive, fought to find love, fought to forget that there was a past to their beginnings. But they couldn’t wipe it all out, couldn’t forget. They tried, with fancy cars, large diamonds plucked from the sky, gambling junkets and big brick houses with mezuzahs attached to the door, where they kissed G-d’s lips every time they entered the house.

This is their remembrance. The witness of a people who survived but didn’t know quite what it meant to be happy, or alive, or satisfied; an insatiable lust for life that never quite got quenched. I learned so much from these women, these people of the desert tribe, this world I live in because of their courage and valor. I witness being human, being afraid, being torn apart and sewn back together. I have no way of knowing anything except to see that I stand on the earth, sun shining, oaks swaying, moon behind the rim of the stars--and down below is me--watching, waiting, delivering the past from my womb to reinvent the secrets that are encoded in my cells.

One day you finally knew what you had to do and began

2010-12-22T10:25:00.000-08:00

Inside the crevices, dug into the skin of my toes, my total being grasping for air. I strip myself of the perfect house, red, greens and blues, gold, dripping across the walls, pillows fluffed. Waiting for something to happen. Someone to show them how to fit into the material that lodges over the edges of the ends. I am lost. Who have I become?

I shut him out. Deleted him from my email and cell phone. I shut him out, his green, dreamy eyes and wide lips and sullen gaze. I cut him out, ripped him out of my subconscious, letting the soul blood fall across my face, tears of my yearning, my deeper self that holds all the paths, all the directions. We drive down the highway in his corvette, Stevie Wonder singing, for once in my life I have someone to love me, and we smiled thinking this true. But soon the car crashed, and the red paint peeled back and what was there was only rage and despair.

We held to the dream as long as we could, but we both became sick with paranoia, defended by abandonment and tortured by unrequited love. We tried to suck from the other, to fill the hole that danced together for so long. The emptiness so deep that only a sick stomach and anorexic heart was left behind to mourn and cry over. We drove down the highway, the ad signs, Marlboro cowboy, Mr. Clean his earring dangling, mops, spoons and dark roads to a nowhere diner, a cup of coffee waiting for me as I dream of the past, of what could have been, should have been.

But I sit in my neat little house with gorgeous blue cobalt walls, lonely, alone, without a destination. Deep down something calls to me, I think it is him, screaming out to me in the night to release his spirit. This makes no sense. I need to be free. But what is freedom? What is the bell that rings for me to turn and see what lies in the horizon without him?

But I am sick. I vomit from the grip I have on the past. I cannot let go. Find my own self in the reflection of the mirror. I can't see, I am blind. I am seeing only a ghost image, something my mother wanted me to be. A married woman. A woman clinging to her past, a woman scratching off the dust of the desert, afraid that the sand will bury me alive.

We drive the highway. I'm wearing a tight mini. Him a sweet white shirt and jeans. It was a perfect evening. Moon, stars, navy sky. The breeze swept us away. It seemed so real. So real. Then he left me. And I left myself, thinking he held the key to me. Where am I? Laying naked on the floor, battered and abused from the lack of self-love. I hate myself without him. Why can't I feel alive without him. This is wrong. Disgusting. I have to leave. I have to go. Shut him out. Turn off the light that holds his face in my hands. I have to leave. I have to...where will I go?

The road I once drove with him is no longer there. No longer smooth, sleek and seductive. It is gone. But deep down I hunger for the obscenity of that night. The way I melted into his eyes, the way he licked my cheeks, held my thigh. This touch that made me feel that I existed. That I was somebody. But I can't do that anymore. I can't think of him as my savior. My way of running away from myself. I hate myself when I am alone. Why? Because the self I thought would travel the world, eat sticky food in foreign places, write great manuscripts and kiss the ass of the David in Florence, the one who once thought the world was in the belly of my womb...really never existed.

I am just the little girl shaking in the back of a closet. Shaking and shivering, terrified that life will gobble me up and I will be left in ash, blown away by the wind from a hollow hole in the wall. I want to crawl into the hole, like a mouse, squeaking, small and insignificant...where am I? Who am I? How do I save myself from myself?

We drove down the highway all googly eyes, hot inside, wet between the legs. This was life. This is the way is supposed to feel, until the vagina dries up and skin scales, and the eyes wrinkle. We drive down the highway. I reach for the night and hold it in my palm. So much promise, so much wonderment, so mystery...

I felt very disturbed after last night. Something deep in me crawled out. Something hot and heavy. A yearning for that mystery. I want to slip away in it. This world is one dimensional. I want to get lost in my subconscious, individuation is the spiritual path. I am not sure what that means anymore.

There is no other. Just myself. Writing this to myself. Talking to myself. Who is that Self? Yet I yearn for another to hear this self that plays hide and seek.

I will make it...

2010-12-13T06:53:00.000-08:00

What do I most need to know now about this situation?

I need to know that I am solid, that I am waiting, that I am balancing. I need to know that Ruby is integrating, coming into her body to receive her story. That I am waiting to come out as the writer to allow for the story to be revealed, to be received, to be allowed to exist. That I am ready to exist, be seen, be different among the same. That I am accepting myself, healing myself. That I am ready to go back into Ruby’s world and ground it to the earth. Whereas before it was in the ethers...she was still in the ethers with Marianne. That she and Marianne are ready to merge and come out from behind the veil of darkness and void and believe in their own story. That I can take the nitty gritty pieces that need to now come together. That I can give the time to complete and sew together the last threads. That I am ready to know that this is the story, this is the time. This is the place. That I wake up and write, what I can write, just like I did before. That I don’t have to rush, that I can give space and time and patience to this new level of completion. Patience, time and love. I can feel the fear in that. I don’t know why I fear it, I just do. Patience, time and love. That I have the time and That I will live to see this happen.

Death, illness and insanity...you’re going to make it...

What You Pay with your Heart and Guts

2010-11-11T06:39:00.000-08:00

I slide the credit card through the slim slot
like I force my body through the tiny hole of lies
every time I spend too much,
give too much,
or overstay a situation too long.
I need to take that credit card and rip it up,
so I have no debt or obligation
like I need to close the door tight
when I am done with a phase
or deal, or relationship..
When it is over...it is over....
I need to know that.
And when a credit card doesn't serve to delight,
but causes fear and stress
my heart needs to close tight,
just like my wallet when the thing I am buying,
or the time I am spending
doesn't work f or me anymore
sucks me dry until there is only a morsel of a tear left
that I can barely feel on my cheek...
I pay the price with every breath
when I don't move on..
when I don't follow my dream
to the back doors of Broadway theaters
concerts, art, Monets and Picassos
I need to dive into the ocean
allow myself to drift to another continent
or I will pay with my afterlife
and have to come back and do this over and over
until I know to stop buying and paying
for things that mean nothing to me
so I need to eat the lava of the volcano
swallow it whole and stop, just stop it
stop doing what I don't want to do
the anxiety and panic of paying for nothing,
satisfaction not guaranteed..
when I was young I wanted to travel the world,
I wanted to be an actress
have one Italian affair after another
with young muscular, self endowed men....
when I don't live up to my imagination,
then I am left under the covers, shivering, empty and cold.

Scars

2010-11-09T06:36:00.000-08:00

Scars

Thick, pulsating, red, bulging beatings to my heart and soul. You feel too much, you want too much, you need too much. Too much. Deep down the mother scar, the crack of the bone, the tear of skin, the blood that bleeds from the heart. Love me, says the little girl, love me, pick me up and cradle me. But there is no mother to be found. No mother except the one sitting on the edge of the toilet slitting her wrists…she runs through the streets naked screaming, tearing her hair from her head, then she runs after me like an alligator opening her big jaw and sharp teeth and pulls me under the tub water, I can’t breathe, help…I am drowning in the snoot and goo of the darkness of my mother’s mental illness. She wants to destroy her own children, she is Medea, murdering her children.

What do you carry

I carry a hump on my back that looks like a mountain that rises from beyond the horizon. This is the hump that carries self hatred, resentments and jealousies...of loneliness and despair. It comes from the last time I died from the death of my sister. The last time I put the flower on my mother’s dead body…The last time my father held my arm before he died and said, “I love you.” A declaration he never expressed while alive. I carry the black hole of hunger for eating the earth and sun and stars. The black hole where the Shekinah has to fill or I might never be human again.

What do you drive and what drives you

I drive a big red SUV where I clap my hands and it starts to roar and race down the road. It holds me safe and tight and I can slide with ease, a mother to the world…This drive to connect, to be one with the earth, like my car to the road...this need to feel the wheels hitting each rock, each pebble, each stone unturned under my feet, like the wheels of the car to cross across mysterious terrain that can either eat me alive or ignite me to life.

I Had a Dream

2010-11-04T11:04:00.000-07:00

I had a dream…A psychic surgeon stuck his moldy, creamy hand into my chest and pulled out my bleeding heart. She stroked the stream of beating pulses and read the rhythms of my soul, the emotions that broke the core of my being, the heartbreak of losing my life’s love. I dreamt in the corners of the bed sheets, where the perspiration from my aching loss was left on the pillow and on the soles of my feet. I reached out to the softness of the night and saw an eye staring down at me, calling to me to touch his skin and kiss his mouth. The shaman bit my neck and drank my blood and poured it into a wine glass, handed it to my mysterious lover to drink. Lips moved and the walls vibrated with his gulps and orgasmic laughter. Again, the hurt of his vanishing, his abandonment, his lost fingers and tongue that licked me in the middle of the night were gone. I shriveled up, old and longing to be given this elixir, I needed him so much, and dreaded that only his whisper would awaken me to life again. I had a dream...that I was wrapped in ecstasy around legs of steel, I touched his back and felt the burden I was to him, because I needed his love more than I needed my own heart.

Unbearable Loss

2010-11-02T11:03:00.000-07:00

Courage of yearning
Unbearable loss
Life is turned over
All before...child’s play
Word to ear, sounds to mimic
The loss of you leaks out of me
The loss that changed the course of my life
Loss as growing up...loss as an initiation
Jet stream of darkness
Goodbyes are too sad
I detach or cry forever

Sounds of Raw Life

2010-10-28T08:11:00.000-07:00

This morning I woke in the darkness. The sun rose and barely spread its light across my lawn. I sat and stared into the morning night and waited. In the distance a roar of thunder grumbled, angry that it didn’t get out the rain during sleep time. I waited to see if lightening would strike. Slowly, a tweet of sun broke only for a moment, and I noticed sitting on my window pane, high up in the corner of my high ceiling window, a mother and child raccoon. The baby turned and for a brief moment held my gaze with her piercing dark eyes that sucked me in like a black hole, her stare holding me to her 'Good morning, feed me, mama'. I see this mother and child come to my patio and pool every day. I think they believe it is their private country club. They scurry around, pick at the leaves, sit in the sun and splash their tiny feet into the pool, then run away into the forest that borders my property. Sometimes when it rains, the two hide underneath the over-hang and wait, cuddled together. At times when the winds blow with a soft whistling anger, I see their fear and confusion as the two hurry to find a deeper hole to hide, somewhere between the folding chairs and table. At times I see them gaze out, as if searching for the rest of their tribe, waiting….just waiting for the others to come and join them. I feel this small family of raccoons as my own ancestors. We aren’t the only creatures who wander the desert clinging to the unknown, clinging to a loved one, needing company along the way, eating a gourmet meal of leaves and grass like their last supper, taking a dip into the waters of life...nourishing their bellies and souls in the daily routine of living. I love mother and daughter raccoon…I love them…I feel a kinship to their journey of being raccoons. I empathize with the plight to be a creature of the universe living on this earth, looking for a home.

Prayer to Food and Writing

2010-10-12T08:29:00.000-07:00

I pray that my writing will go deep into the waters of my heart, the soul of my truth and continue to flourish in words and images that will connect me to my authentic voice and to other’s hearts in their journey in life. That I will write stories that bring others into being fully human, creative and inspired to live and be loved as only human beings can and were given the gift to do.

The curve of my husband smile

The warmth of my daughter’s heart

My friend’s laughter after she ate a tomato

The smooth, tangled cuddle of my cats

The grief that lives in my belly

My work is loving the world just as it is.

Today was the day I ate a gooey, buttery cheese sandwich and listened to my friend laugh as she ate a tomato that spilled its seeds over her upper lip. After the ravaged years of illness, food being the enemy of my broken stomach, my wounded gaping nerve-endings falling out all over my heart and body, not having the beats in my stomach to push down food, my core being rebelling against anything nurturing, I ate the soft, spongy cheese and bread, knowing I had journeyed far in life to live again. The grief of losing the taste of French fries, bar-b-que ribs, hot tamales, tangy Indian dumplings, Italian sausages, was back again, swimming through my mind as a possibility; a quest to have an affair with, or at least obsess over what will I eat for my next meal. A sojourn I often relished from morning to night. Food was a delicacy, a luxury, a sensation of indulgence that I had taken for granted. But, today I was able to eat a grilled cheese sandwich. This simple ate of trust let me know that inside the gut of my grieving stomach, that I was healing from the death of my sister. That I could walk into a restaurant and smell the aromas of garlic, pepper and oil, and not want to throw up. That my stomach was starting to receive my sister’s suicide and not want to die myself. That I was not hiding the well of tears that filled up my lungs and heart and shut me down to life’s nourishment. I’ve done the work to of clawing my way out of hell, climbing back up to the heavens and arriving to live on earth again.

Writing Into the Mystery

2010-09-24T09:44:00.000-07:00

I fall into a twilight sleep, the edges of darkness flit between my pupils and lids. I want to merge into my next story. My next dream of a story. My mind fights the entrance into a swerving world, where diamond treetops lead me to clouded mountains and turn into streets of cascading water, or oceans splattering between space and time. I am transported into another reality, another consciousness where everything is topsy-turvy like Alice in Wonderland, the world of Oz and Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. I dreamt last night that a great rose spoke to me, whispered its secret metamorphosis in my ear, painted itself a yellow-red and dripped across the sky. Then from behind the stars a road opened that led to a deserted alley. Garbage and heaps of clothes were thrown away and hung over the edges of rooftops. I am in this dream. I wonder, where am I? What does this dream have to tell me about my journey, myself? Do I need to clothe my naked soul with layers to protect myself, or undress until every last ounce of blood covers my organs? I am diving with each dream, deeper and deeper into the vault, the life behind the curtain, where another dimension lives, another way of being human dreams about planet Earth. The place where we humans dream of Nirvana. Does epiphany truly live behind the veil of dreams that adorns my psyche? Each dream shows me the way back home to the endless spirit that eternally creates my life, past lives and future lives. I drive along a dark road, where no lights live. Eyes stare out at me from behind shadowy leaves and darkened light. I see those eyes staring at me, and I stare back at them. We both wonder: Do I know you? Am I you? Can we relate on any level? Can we dance together into a world that you and I create together? Is there such a thing as a destination? Maybe there is no destination, only dreams, upon dreams, upon dreams of reality that aren't real. It is all illusion, the gurus say. Then who am I? Am I only dreaming when I write? Does each person that I meet and stares me straight in the eye truly know who they are staring at? Does the person who looks away, finds distractions to make them feel safe, to not be seen or heard...do they know why they are so frightened to lock into a stare with me? Or maybe we are both afraid to enter into another dream. A projection of the other that creates a false self or reveals the true self filled with demons. Can we truly know the other? Dreams are tunnels, doorways, potholes, black holes that lead us into places in ourselves that we purposely ignore. Dreams tell us stories of ancient tales buried deep in our subconscious. And yet, our dreams will never leave us, never go away. They are attached to us like skin; they are the skin of our psyche. They are death to the body and life to the spirit and imagination. Dreams, dreams, dreams. I walk into layers of melting snow that turn to sleet, that turn to water, then evaporate. I lust after my dreams. They make me run after myself, make me hunger after God and life; neverending, passion, breath, and then I am gone. Once upon a time…I had a dream...

Silence Is All We Dread

2010-09-16T09:07:00.000-07:00

“Silence is all we dread. There’s ransom in a voice.”

Emily Dickinson

I have completed the third draft of my new novel, Falling into Grace. I am lost without Ruby. I miss her depth, her craziness, her compassion, her fierceness, her selfishness, her creativity, her search for her soul, her relationships with her ancestral grandmother Marianne of Magdala, and her need to be whole. Where will Ruby go now? She is still alive to me and I am walking the floors feeling abandoned.

Our imaginations are the lovers, friends, stalkers that wake us in the night and show us the way into a story, character and event that we are inspired to write. We run to the page, all white and ready for our muse to take over, and pow, nothing. We sit and stare, wonder, where did it go?

A famous writer whose name eludes me once said, "writing is not so hard, just slash your wrists and let the blood flow."

Imagination evokes our inspiration, but our emotions are the passion that births the story and character to life. When imagination and passion marry in a story, we have intimacy; sensual, sexual, juicy intimacy with our characters. For me, there is no better spiritual communion than with the characters I write about.

Writing connects us to everything human and divine. We pour out our hearts and souls onto the page so we can be free and unburdened of our silence. We create events and characters that haunt our lives and keep us awake at night. Our characters help us tell the stories that in our ordinary lives we keep secret. Life as a writer is not simple…and if we make it simple then the story is boring.

As writers we can never cut ourselves off from our feelings and experiences. When we write we need to strip ourselves of all of our defenses, our fears, our should’s, have to’s, and what others think. We write in order to tell the truth, have an affair with ourselves and our characters. We are swept away by their every glance, turn of the head, bite of a fruit, stroll down a shadowy street. We eat, smell, touch, hear, feel every sense as if it were our own, and indeed they are our own, because every character is a piece of our own psyche, a sub-personality waiting to emerge, waiting to have their say and tell their story.

In Woody Allen’s movie Deconstructing Harry, he is a writer who functions better in his fiction than in his life. He uses every wife, lover, friend and family member to tell his character's quirky, neurotic, paranoid and eccentric story. He feels their lust, suffers over their wrong-doings and delights in their all their human flaws. He makes them so real that he cannot tell the difference between reality and fiction. In fact, as a writer, he is a multiple-personality, enjoying the pleasures and pains of his characters, saying and doing what is judged, criticized and rejected in real life: from murder to adultery, fetishes, narcissism, paranoia, sexual deviance and all the while making us laugh at ourselves...yet he is hated by his wives and friends for making them look at themselves. He breaks every commandment in his stories. At the same time we have compassion and are drawn to these impure personalities like a moth to a flame.

So how do we come to a place where we can write freely, uncensored, with no shame or critic to shut us up? We have to uncover what we are afraid to say the most. Isn’t that what we all want to really know about? Say what no one else will say. A writer, or any kind of artist, is visionary in the way that they can break apart a person’s hypocrisy and mirror the complexities of the devils and angels we struggle to keep out of our psyches…it can reveal all of our pain, secrets, passions and outrageous beliefs.

Yes, when nothing pours from a mouth. When we stop the rain from hitting the ground. When the birds stop chirping and horns stop beeping and a voice loses its power, robbed by the world, by society who says "Stay silent, don’t speak your truth. Don’t open the valve between your heart and throat."

When we lay on our back, closed to receiving, our legs, our hearts nailed shut. When we are afraid to speak for rape, or even more subtle the 'No', for going braless, our bosoms fat, shaking, wiggling. When we silence the cracks and cries, so we can’t hear the high pitched laughter of a child, the sobs that pump our guts with sorrow. When we steal our expression, censor, repress ourselves from everything alive in us. We stop living and breathing and being human. we kill the We kill the planet. I need to be free and allow my voice to be everything my fear can’t be.

Why Do I Keep Writing?

2010-08-17T13:59:00.000-07:00

I wake up every day at 6:30, sit by my computer and hunger for my soul, my voice, myself. I find the color, tone, images of words, the story within the story, the characters, the poetry and find myself in a world that I created from my imagination, soul and purpose. Why do I write? Without writing I would be an ant without a hill, a swan without a pond, a bee without its honey, a flower without a root. I write because it is the thread of every cell, muscle and organ, it is my blood, my guts, my life to the sun gods and moon gods and the gods of my ancient being. I write because without it I would die...a slow death, where my lungs would collapse and I’d break away like a frigid piece of ice hanging off the limb of a tree. My writing is the intensity of the prana, air as food I eat. If I don’t indulge in this meal, then life will eat away at me, like vultures over a dead carcass. I’d crawl through the desert, dry-eyed, cottonmouth, searching for an oasis, a place to cool my weary bones, the bones that are connected to my ancestors and their stories, their voices, their generations. I write because if I didn’t write the world would crumble under my feet and I’d fall into an abyss that has no ground and I would forever more float among the stars, gravity taking me away beyond, into eternity without my spirit, empty, alone and lost.

Bluer Than Navy

2010-06-01T06:43:00.000-07:00

Today I am sad, like a washed out rag. I can’t move the scene. I can’t feel the connection to Ruby. I feel alone. Alone. Alone. I am crippled, in a wheelchair, coughing, hacking. Cough, Cough. Why can’t it come to me? I want to give up. Everyone else has written two or three books. I’m still on Ruby. Ruby. Ruby. Ruby. Maybe I won’t let her go? Maybe she is a cozy corner for me to hide in. I hide in my house like bear in hibernation. Maybe I’m not cut out to write? I think too much, criticize too much. I am dark blue, navy, black and blue. I beat myself up. My stomach is tight. I pace the floor, Eat an egg. Sit in angst. Blue clouds, grey clouds, no sun. This hurts. I hurt. A sponge ready to be tossed in the trash. I’m soaked and old. But I will continue. I will keep writing. But there are so many scenes to write. To connect. How many lives does Ruby have to live? It has to make sense. I will write and not make sense...that is what I have to do...Does anyone else feel this pain? I compare myself like the old ladies at the pool. Who has bigger thighs? I have the fattest head. I’m my own worst enemy...AHHHHHHHHHHH...what will free me? What is this pain I feel? Birthing, birthing, coming to terms with myself and how I write. I’m afraid that is will all fall flat. I can only write from crazy and I don’t care. I don’t care what others think. That feels alive to say that. I channel this story. It isn't about me. It is about Ruby's message. If she is willing to risk then I need to surrender. I don’t care what others think. Wow, that really tightens me in a ball. And also excites me I have to discover the mystery of the tight stomach when I write...the sad stomach and heart. This is the edge of a choice...moving, writing, getting it out, write like a tsunami.

The Tango Write

2010-05-19T06:50:00.000-07:00

I am wanting to find the joy in Ruby's pain. How can she find her innocence again? How can she find her faith. This creative process is an exercise in bravery...I am afraid and I have courage. Do I? Ruby and I have forgotten what joy is. We need to find it together...

What is light in the dark?

She watches the man and woman dance the Argentine Tango. Slick, sensual, quick, slow, eye to eye, lip to lip. Silence in their grace and drama in their connection.

Joy. Ruby never knew what that truly meant until she watched the dancers. Inside the primal rhythms, the synchronicity, the exclusion of others, the female dancer's world built on the placement of her leg wrapped around the man's thigh. How intimate and entwined in each other's passion are their souls? They aren't laughing, or smiling or jubilant. Their joy is a blending of each other's raw presence and lust.

They hold hands as they walk off the floor and embrace, all perspired, content. They lift a glass of wine and devour a plate of paella. The succulent shrimp, rice, spices. The mood lifts, they are small and run after each other around the dance floor. Little children, dancing, playing. Nothing can make them sad. The world is a safe place. Free.

Today I am entering into the next phase of my ultimate novel

2010-05-17T08:51:00.000-07:00

I have been mindsculpting and feeling and seeing myself write.
I am entering into the unknown and allowing the flow

I have days when I don’t write...and I am feeling and thinking
But hungering to write.
This novel is turning into something thrilling, frightening and healing
Exploring aspects of myself that are untamed and unknown, edgy death
Allowing for spills, mistakes and being lost
Allowing for imperfection
Not doing it right
I feel the anxiety in my belly
I want to write about this woman’s journey
Into the heart of her soul
Her primal self
Where love is a yearning for the divine
Where her lover is a reflection of the divine
What makes one love a person
What qualities?
The yearning, the surrender, the passion
The ultimate sacrifice to jump off the
Abyss and allow ones’ heart to break
How does a heart break from yearning
When it is comfortable and safe?
Each day I ask the small questions of the character
I ask what is she wanting, where is she going?
Will she live or die?
Will I live or die?
Big questions, small moments of words
Awakened, I fall into despair.
Safety, mediocre, mundane
The usual and ordinary, the invisible
Through the small steps of inquiry
Through the imagining, the guided imagery
The self love, lack of judgment and criticism
Breaking all the rules through small ordinary ways
How can I make Ruby's journey playful? What is playful about fear and insanity.
I guess it's a free for all...anything goes...follow the dark star, the white star, the distant star.
the speed of light...Ruby needs to use her pain to find her way back to her innocence.
The dark night of the soul makes someone braver? I don't know...but I will find out.

Ruby Drags Me Into Her Web

2010-05-14T05:10:00.000-07:00

Cross legged, sitting on my couch I stare out at the swaying palms that flip about in the wind. A sudden fear rips through my body. Will I ever finish my novel? Ruby has gone through three life-times in three different versions of her life. She has traveled to ancient Mesopotamia, ate hot dogs at Ebbets Field and smoked pot, lost her virginity and channeled Mary Magdalena. Will I create the necessary plot points to make the readers glued to their seats? Is Ruby a schizophrenic, a prophet or just an average girl with a wild imagination? I twist and turn her body and mind and she twists and turns mine. She is under the bed, in the closet, jumping off a cliff. I am free falling with her, afraid that she will kill herself and grab my ankle so we both pummel into the abyss. I drop into despair, jump up in glee and wake up at night wondering if she will commit suicide or marry the boy next door…..So who is Ruby writing for? Why does she want to tell her story? Does she want to be on the top best seller list and have everyone know how crazy she is? Is it true if she self publishes her story that she really doesn’t exist. Why doesn’t she leave me alone?

Over and over she hears voices, “You can’t write for yourself. You have to write to get published. You are only an author if you get an agent.” Ruby doesn’t care; she just wants her story told. Unconscious arrows are slung at the her heart of her expression, “Too much dialog, too little dialog, too much narrative, not enough conflict… does the opening sentence have a dynamic hook? Ruby screams, I don’t care. I just want to be seen and heard.

“Do you want others to read your story?” I poke at her face.

Ruby breaks a chair. “I am living my life for me, not for you.” How high are the stakes if Ruby doesn’t follow the rules? She doesn’t care if everyone hates her, or that there is no happy ending. Doesn’t care if she speaks in metaphoric tongue. Doesn’t care if she has a climax. Well maybe she cares about having a climax, but maybe there isn’t any resolution to her climax… maybe the climax hangs in mid-air without a place to go. Eternal climax.

So will Ruby publish, perish or live her own damn life? Will she try to get an agent or be her own agent? Or will she drop to her knees and pray for an answer to all her problems. Ruby is alive and well and she doesn’t want to perish for sure, wants to be published, but it will take many prayers for it all to happen.

I am dragged through the sheets at night hoping that Ruby will tell me everything. I need to know about her… but I have to promise her that I won’t allow others to tell her who she is and how she wants to tell her story. I wonder. I cry, I eat three Hershey’s, a bag of chips, scream, doodle on my pad. Draw the shades and write.

Writing Night Sweats

2010-05-12T13:14:00.000-07:00

Tonight I will write about Ruby entering into the mental institution. This is hard writing...Painful writing. It isn’t fun writing, yet. I still feel worthless before each time I write. But once I lose my critic and drop in, it is sexy, sensual, passionate, crazy, raw writing. It comes from my body, my genitals, my belly. A run on sentence with no ending.. no resolution...Does crazy last forever? Or can crazy be tamed? Does there have to be a right ending? That’s art isn’t it? Some will love it, some won’t. When I was little I wrote from my imagination to escape my feelings. Imagined a world, wrote about my feelings, but I didn’t feel them. Now I write from my body, my emotions, my experience and then the images come. I lead from my psyche, my unknown, feelings first. I don’t know when the plot points will fall into place. But my body will feel them. I have to be brave, courageous… My coach Debora said to me, “It is easy to go with the flow. Harder to swim upstream.” I want to swim upstream. Martha, my plot coach, screams you have a message, forget what others say or think. I don’t like following the herd. I want to find a new path…. So does Ruby. I’ll follow her. She never says the right thing. Ever.

2010-05-10T09:42:00.000-07:00

"Success is how you collect your minutes. You spend millions of minutes to reach one triumph, one moment, then you spend maybe a thousand minutes enjoying it. If you were unhappy through those millions of minutes, what good is the thousand minutes of triumphs? It doesn't equate...Life is made of small pleasures. Good eye contact over the breakfast table with your wife or husband. A moment of touching a friend. Happiness is made of those tiny successes. The big ones come too infrequently. If you don't have all those zillions of tiny successes, the big ones don't mean anything."

-Norman Lear

In This Moment

2010-04-15T13:42:00.000-07:00

A silhouette passed over her face. Shadows stalked the creases of her worried frown. The water dripped. The hard sound punctured a hole in her ears. In the corner of the examination room an odd piece; white lilies, a bouquet for the bones of the soon to be dead. A floral diagnosis, a message to be delivered by the detached, but concerned doctor.

A streak of yellow warms the back of her neck. A stroke of love from the sun that surges through the window arrives.

Last night she watched the streetlights flicker because she couldn’t sleep. Now halos bounce from her eyes to the doctor’s eyes.

“Your condition is chronic.” He says.

She doesn’t listen to him. She only wants to feel the thickness of her aliveness. No reason to listen. He’s wrong. Or she wants him to be because she never quite understood she was given life until she was shown the possibility of death. Everything slowed down to an elongated beat. So much to absorb. The shine from the metal sink, the wheezing sound from the cracks of the walls, the yawning from outside of the waiting room. Yes she even hears that. Everything exaggerated. All the smells of the ammonia, bad breath and dank perspiration. She hears the clumping of soulless shoes and waves of wind and sea. Where has she been all these years? Inside a tunnel, trapped, only to let free she was told, “Your condition is chronic.”

It Never Stops

2010-04-07T11:00:00.000-07:00

She walked up to me, curiosity controlled her eyes. Her face was tight as if rubber bands pulled her skin behind her ears. Her eyes darkened with pencil, circular and vacant. “Do I know you?” she said.

“I’m Caren’s sister.”

Her eyes glazed over me. “Did you do something to yourself? I don’t recognize you.”

I felt my stomach flow with nausea. “No.”

Someone caught her and she discarded me like a piece of saran wrap. I wandered through the crowd of relatives. Not my own relatives, others relatives. I was there to once again, be nice, be the good wife, the good aunt. Another relative flashed a diamond at least 10 karats. Children grew out of the walls, babies popped out of arms and legs of the younger ones. I felt lost like sheep in the forest surrounded by wolves and coyotes.

The woman ignored me. Pretended I didn't exist. I am the wicked one, the one who says and sees things that make others afraid. I am filled with hate and punishment. I feel crazy, wild and I can't fit in. I walk around in a daze. Why am I here? It is a battleground to be seen and heard. Everyone busy showing off, telling stories of weddings and death. I don't know any of these stories. I smile, nod my head. No one asks about my stories. Only their lives are important. They are the universe and the sun revolves around them.

Where do I belong? I ask that question over and over. It never stops. Life never stops. When will I find my way back home?

Cotton and Illusion

2010-04-02T11:59:00.000-07:00

Cotton breasts and legs
Blue eyes gaze in adornment at herself
Mary of Jesus, the light of a woman
Mirror image of darkness within
Scolding matriarch
Warnings of things to come
Open your cotton legs
Open your cotton heart
Open your deluded mind
That creates the apple seed
in your own eyes
Behind stands your darker self
The one whose blackness
Fills your cotton soul
And makes your heart flit
Like the spider caught in
A moth’s flame
Wake up cotton lady
Wake up and feel the truth
Of your silky illusion
You don’t exist
Except in the fantasy of
Your own deception

Glamour and Rage To Come Home

2010-03-31T11:55:00.000-07:00

Down deep was the memory in her tummy, the wild beat of her heart. It roared in a determined whisper for her to come home to her womb, her body, her voice. But, she was lost in the cities of tall buildings, charity functions and networking groups. After all she had to work to make money since. She was the one who had decided to build her own business from scratch.

She did not know why…but she was enamored by the light shows and movie screens of the entertainment world. She didn’t know as an agent she’d lose her soul to the corporate arrogance of playing god to artists and writers. Her naivety caused her to believe she could stamp out the stench of money deals, watered down romantic comedies and bad suspense stories. Revamp the way producers murdered women to diet until their bodies were perfectly perfect to force audiences to gape in jealousy and appeal to mass inferiority. Thinness had no meaning except to make the actor’s vagina or penis bigger, sexier, when plunked into the face of public viewer. This way they’d compare and wonder if they stood up to Hollywood standards of how their own bodies should look. Then on top of it there was the Hollywood happily ever after endings, or unhappily ever after endings. Most often being that the female would die of, typically, breast cancer. And of course, she die telling everyone not to cry for her...she would be the courageous martyr until the end, never fighting for life…accepting death as a friend to her boring existence.

Dark knots of disappointment and frustration kept her up at night with its howls of hurt. Her pain never ceased. How could she hold this fury? She had bargained her life to the Devil. The one who tripped her and drank her blood whenever she’d follow her urge, her vision to get out of jail and pass go, and get out of a system that kept her a slave to her fear. Her plan didn’t work. She failed. She was caught up again in the glamour allowing her cleavage to pop out during business luncheons while she drank a martini and laughed like she was warding off the ferocious winds of an oncoming storm. She was in the beast of the belly and she had become the beast.

When did she lose her way home? Forget how to be ordinary, sit and remember herself as she drank a warm cup of tea, listening to the beat of her own soul saying, “I am here.”

Why was she so afraid to break the golden mold? When had her strength failed to ignite her passion? To push her own will and bust through the hell she had created? The vampire way she sucked her own blood and then threw away the inner world that sprang from the depth of her despair had become despicable. She could not hold her pain. She would never ask anyone to hold her pain in fear of being called a victim. Even though she was a victim, the world ignored her, blamed her for being raped and beaten left for dead. Why was she walking alone at night down unlit streets? A woman alone is a target. How could she ever stop being a victim when the world kept her enslaved in her victimhood? She couldn’t even walk the night streets by herself. This was a dangerous proposition. There wasn’t a war out there, was there?

Rendevous

2010-03-29T11:45:00.000-07:00

A flutter of shock glided across Jeri’s blue eyes. What did Fran say?

“What?” Jeri forced a smile.

“I said. It would be great if you were married. Or had a boyfriend, or something.”

“Well, I sleep with Topper, my Irish Setter. Will he do?” Jeri picked up the wine glass, sipped the Pinot Grigio.

“You know what I mean. A foursome. It would be fun.” Fran brushed a red hair from her fleshy cheek.

Jeri tapped her goblet. “I see. That’s why I never see you on the weekends. That’s why I’ve haven’t met your husband Jack. I’m your during the week night acquaintance.” She stole a sip of wine then slid the glass across the table. “I thought when we met at Yoga you were a real woman, not one of those fake ones afraid I’ll steal your husband.” She laughed, “You want fun? What about a threesome?”

“That’s not what I meant.” Fran touched her hand.

“Don’t patronize me.” Jeri shoved Fran’s hand away. The restaurant was empty. Green linen curtains and blue flowers swirled in circles. She stood up, grabbed the chair so as not to fall.

“What’s your problem? Fran grabbed her wrist. “I’m sorry.”

“No you’re not. You’re guilty.” She snatched her white fur coat and ran.

She knocked over the dessert tray as she raced through the restaurant. The smell of garlic and oil made her heave. Jeri pulled the glass door open and lunged into the cold night. Frozen air slapped her awake. Her eyes began to tear. She wrapped her woolen coat around her slim body. Traffic noise droned in the background. Street lights beamed down on Jeri, protected her like angel eyes as she scurried toward her apartment on Seventy Second and Lexington. A taxi emerged from the void like a ghost. She waved, but the cab drove past her.

“Am I freak’n invisible?” She hunched over fighting the frigid winds. Only ten blocks, ten blocks.

Finally, she made it to the two story town home, fumbled keys into the lock and slammed the door behind. She took a deep breath into the warmth. Jeri heels tapped across the wooded floor and she dropped, flung her coat and bag across the red L-shaped couch.

A head popped up. “You’re home.” His face was sweet, youthful, too youthful for her fifty years. He slithered across to her and kissed her neck. Jeri threw her head back and sighed. “When are you going to show me off to your friends?”

“I have no friends.” She pushed him away, walked over to the mantle and picked up a picture. A man, surrounded by dark-skinned children, waved, smiling.

“He’s dead, Jeri.”

“He’s my husband. And I don’t know if he’s dead.”

“I know his body wasn’t found. But, I was there. Why do you hold to this delusion? It’s eight months.”

Jeri stood frozen gripping the picture; her eyes flinched as the front door slammed. She screamed. “I want my key back.”

Lucy had a Broken Heart and a Superior Attitude

2010-03-22T12:59:00.000-07:00

Lucy had a broken heart. She felt this brokenness from the time she was born. It scattered her senses into the universe and held her captive to a small teary eyed vision of who she was. When she went to feel her heart she slammed up against an invisible wall that separated her from the beauty that lived within her. No matter how hard she tried, how deep she’d dig, she could not find where she was hiding inside of her heart. She was truly lost.

Each and every morning Lucy would squint at her reflection in the large bathroom mirror and examine her deep set blue eyes, small round face, strong Jewish nose, wide lips and shiny black hair. Some saw her as an exotic beauty; others saw her as an unpredictable woman with an eccentric demeanor. Still others saw her as she was, a woman with an empty gaze detached from anything human. There wasn’t a day that went by that Lucy didn't know exactly what she was supposed to do; get up, glance at the rising sun, pop her daily vitamins with a protein drink, go to work, listen to her very rich clients who bought foreign art objects from strange lands, complain about everyone they hated in their lives, eat a lunch of salmon, rice and salad, AND go home at six. At night she would talk to a few so-called friends about whatever irked them that day, eat a plate of chocolate ice cream covered in a cool mound before bed and then sleep, a dead sleepless sleep, always and forever squelching the ache in her heart.

Lucy knew, if ever she dared to talk to anyone about her brokenness it would scare people so wildly that they would kill her on the spot. You see Lucy knew and was raised to know that humans were born to be afraid of brokeneness and could not look straight into its deep blue eyes. E Lucy herself hid herself from all types of monstrous fears, whether they were short, fat, skinny, long and so on…so nothing and no one could touch her. But that didn't stop her from stating her mind about her fears. As a result she became the object of everyone’s fear and invisible to herself.

One day, as all days, the sun rose. But on this particular morning there was a majestic redness encircling the edges of the round brightness. The shock of color made Lucy stop dead in her tracks. It paralyzed her to such an extent that she could not walk to the bathroom to brush her teeth. And nothing, I tell you nothing came before her teeth brushing, face staring and body showering or she’d feel out of kilter for the rest of the day and for all she knew the rest of her life. Involuntarily, like an ant to crumb in the grass, she was trapped by the sun’s glare. The miraculous splendor pulled her into a deep spell. A shiver went up her spine and caused her to sneeze, and sneeze, three times, four times, five, six and on and on, until she was unable to catch her breath. She threw herself on top of her carefully cornered sea green sheets and huffed and puffed until the rippling tickle in her nose calmed down. Being she had never really sneezed hard in her whole life she considered this to be a bizarre and strange occurrence.

Lucy touched her forehead to see if she had a temperature, but her skin was cool and smooth. “Oh well. Never mind. Just a trick of fate.” With that thought she jumped to her feet. A trick of fate! She did not believe in fate. What would put such an awkward idea into her head? There was no fate, just destiny. Destiny! Ridiculous thing. Who was saying these absurd things in her head. She shook her head, held her breath, and released a winded sigh. Lucy was not naïve. Life was not for the living, it was for the defiant ones. The ones who thought life was inconsequential to living. How else could our society continue? No one could continue functioning on the planet if people decided to live--virtually everything would fall apart. There wasn’t any destiny, fate, determination or will. All anyone had to do was put one foot in front of the other. This was automatic anyway. It allowed everyone to fit into the corners of one’s own mind far away from anything living and breathing. Oh yes, there were some that actually believed that they were the masters of their own fate. These poor misguided souls would make Lucy laugh herself to sleep at night. “If that was true,” she would sarcastically retort to one of those many "masters of their own fate" party poopers, you know, the ones who wore silly party hats at cocktail parties and drank till their faces looked like their skin was fitted onto a hanger, “If that was true, then we all wouldn’t be living on this non-living of a planet and be living the so-called life of Riley, whoever that moron was.” She would laugh hysterically right in their faces and up their noses, which would make all those do-gooders frown and call her a miserable bitch. But, Lucy didn’t care what anyone thought of her since she knew the average I.Q on her planet was lower than the ground she walked On. Her I.Q fell between the superior and super superior level. Anyway, call it fate or destiny it all came out the same. When you’re dead you’re dead and when you’re alive, well you certainly weren’t walking on water or drowning for that matter, you just weren’t living on this shriveled up planet with its shriveled up brains for matter. Lucy, being the superior being she was, knew that.

Having all this knowledge and insight always left Lucy in a dilemma, which was, what the FUCK was she doing on this planet? As of this time she had not figured that out, so she just kept doing what she was doing and ignoring that she was even here, wherever here was.

Lucy wiped her strong nose, which of course, defied all the laws of Jewishness being that it was short and not long, and ridded herself of the memory of all those horrendous sneezes. She dressed in her typical black suit, with her typical red shoes and her typical hair done up to keep the strands out of her eyes and left for work. She arrived at her destination, after elbowing herself on out whack trains and buses to her own special shop of art objects. The sign above the door read, “Rare and lively works of art for the hard hearted, hard headed, and for those who hardly know anything about art at all.” That drew in clients from every corner of the planet with hardly any debits, just credits. As she pushed the key into the lock she noticed that there was a slight change in the way the door stood on its hinges. A big hurrumph escaped from her larynx. This was a word she had not said since childhood. She ignored her own ignorance and struggled to put the door back to its usual way of hanging on the hinges. The door would have none of that and kept popping out of its screwed up door joints. Well! Hurrumph again! Lucy slapped her hand over her mouth. What ever was happening to her! Hurrumph twice in one minute of time. “Well, damn you to earth.” She screamed at the swaying door. She knew of course that this curse she damned the door with, no one would say to a real person since no one ever wanted to be damned to earth. That was an eternal damnation. So you knew Lucy was really angry.

Lucy straightened her lily white collar and marched through the doorways porthole into her dark and shady store that carried hardly any art objects but many hard objects of art. White dust particles spun through space falling here and there, on this frame, that stone hand, those porcelain table tops, over there in the corner on top of those rare marble heads. Lucy walked to the back of the shop and turned on the lights. Before she could reach the back wall where all the Neanderthal fish heads hung, a voice sprang out from nowhere.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Lucy turned and sneezed. “Who’s there? I’m not ready for business.”

“Business? Is that what you think you do?”

Lucy peered through the dusty light, “Who are you? What do you want?”

A strange silence made Lucy cringe. “Are you going to speak up or do I call the police?”
From between the slips of space a man walked forward. He was tall, but not too tall, slim, but not too slim. His eyes were dark with a tinge of green light, and he seemed to blend into the surroundings. The only distinct thing about him was his smell.

Lucy drew closer to get a good look at him. “Is that rose petal dew that emanates from you?”

He grinned. “No it is dew petal rose a distant cousin of the extinct and hidden flower.”

She grinned back. “You draw a curiosity from inside my head. Why did you tell me not to turn on the light.”

The man coughed. “Is that what I said? Don’t turn on the light?”

Lucy saw, now that she was up close to his chin that he was an older man. He had a soft curve to his cheeks and a slender twist in his smile.

“Isn’t that what you said.” Lucy tilted her head.

He laughed a dolphin type of screeching laugh. “I said I wouldn’t do that if I was you. You presumed I meant turn on the lights.”

She rustled her skirt in irritation. “Well it makes no difference what you said because I can see now you don’t belong here. Please leave, you’re disturbing the paintings on the walls. They are beginning to shake. Besides which you could never afford what I have for sale.”

His eyes widened. “You think your superior I.Q. makes you superior? It’s merely a number on a piece of paper. You don’t know everything my dear backwards lady.”

Lucy leaned closer. “You are a rude older moron aren’t you?”

The stranger leaned even closer. “Not as rude as the smidgen on your face.”

Lucy stomped her foot and threw her hands in the air like she was about to conduct a symphony or throw the man for a loop. “I cannot stand this anymore. You are upsetting my ethers and are throwing me off my sharpened pinhole of insight. Now get out! NOW!

The older put out his hand on her shoulder, “You shouldn’t talk to me in such a fiercely determined way. I could show you the stars and destroy your sense of reality.”

Lucy pushed him away, knelt over and slapped her bony knee. “That is priceless. You are trying to scare me. You couldn’t scare a walnut out of its shell let alone wake me out of a stupor".

The older man stood right up to her and stared. He waved his arms around like a loose wire. “Nothing up this sleeve. Nothing up my other sleeve. Now watch closely.” He held out his hand and snapped his fingers in slow and deliberate circles, then quickly, without a minute to waste, touched Lucy on the forehead in the most gentle way imaginable, then he was gone.

Lucy’s eyes skipped about from angle to angle but could not find the man hidden anywhere in between the cracks. This day is much much too odd, she thought. Much too odd! Everything was just fine a second ago and now nothing is fine. Nothing at all! Before she knew it, Lucy picked up a rare piece of art that sold for whatever price she wanted it to and threw it across the room. Its smashing sound quaked her body in a screaming rumbling way making her crave more smashing to erupt her senses. The crackling sound of broken pieces of art seemed to be music to her ears and sent a thrill into the big toe on her right foot. Suddenly the big toe began to pulsate, reverberate in such a way that it pained and ached her soul. It hurt so much she wanted to cut it off or better yet inject it with some of the pink serum the junkies in the alley shot up. She hobbled toward the back door and kicked it open. Darkness and gloom blocked out the sun’s rays and filled the narrow passage with a bleakness only mourners and liars experienced. Without much hesitancy she stalked the alley, watching, waiting, looking for a druggie to come out from the shadows. But none did. Her toe pounded in pain. Pounded so hard it made her mouth drool and her eyes squint in agony.

She hobbled to and fro screaming. “Help me. Someone help. I’m in pain!”

A tall dark figure appeared and grabbed her by the arm. “Pain? What sort of pain are you in?”

Lucy hopped on one foot, pointed at her toe. "My toe. Oh my god. The pain is crawling up into my head. I feel it will devour me. Strangle me.”

The tall dark stranger stared down. “Your toe is fine. It is not your toe. It is in your head. Somewhere in your head.”

Lucy screamed. “No. No. My toe is killing me. Can’t you see it throbbing? Beating its way into my soul. I will not be able to breathe soon. Not breathe. Help me soon. Shoot me up.”

“Shoot you up? With what? Shoot you up? Calm down. You’re near lunacy. Just breathe and think, think what happened a minute ago. Nothing really happened.”

It was too much for Lucy to bear. This man. This crazy man was telling her that nothing happened. Like a wild boar, an animal with fangs she bit at his face and pulled his pockets, tore them to shreds.
A long pink needle dropped to the floor as he ran away back into the foggy mists of the dank alley ranting as he disappeared, “You don’t know. You don’t know. You don’t know.”

She scooped the needle up, directed it toward the nearest vein in her arm and was about to dig its sharp tongue into her skin, when suddenly, a swarm of translucent pink bubbles sprouted from the eye of the needle and blurred her vision.

A voice from the afar shouted in her head, “Pain or death. Pain or death. Are you ready to die? Really die?”

A gust of wind smelling of wet sweat and dingy shoes swished her around. Words and images swirled in her mind. This shot, this one shot could kill me. Or the pain could kill me. Or not? Or not! Or not! What if? What if, Lucy thought, what if I just...?

Lucy tossed her superiority into the nearest trash can, threw the needle against the dark red bricks and ran.

(To be continued)

Grandma Sarah's Legacy

2010-03-17T12:54:00.000-07:00

My grandmother came to America in a pickle barrel, my mother acted like she lived in one and I'm still trying to wash off the smell. Slosh, Slosh, Slosh, goes the smelly water. It’s dark and dirty in the pickle lagoon of marshy waters. Green, damp, sticky, smelly liquid swooshes around my ankles, into my belly button, up my nostrils.

Someone save me from drowning. Save me from myself. For, I have become the monster in the green lagoon. I will jump out and grab you by the soul, wash you away into a sewer of dark green garbage. We will go down together.

A hand is gripping the edges of my heart, tearing my muscles to shreds, ripping my skin off my body. This feeling, this emptiness, this pain is my legacy. It is grandma Sarah’s gift. Her legacy to me. My dowry from her Russian—Polish clan. Will the ache ever go away?

To hide within is my only way out. Quick, I will run into the forest, melt into the greenness, wallow in the cool darkness where no one will find me. Deeper and deeper I will run, deep into the blackness where there is no sound, no wind, no voices, no visions. Just dark, black, nothingness.

“Is anybody there? Is anybody there?”

"I'm here."

"Who are you?"

"Nothingness."

"What do you look like?"

"I am whatever you want me to be. Enter me."

“I'm afraid. I need someone to hold me."

"I will hold you. My darkness is soothing."

"Will I die?"

"You will shed your masks and be born again."

"Is this true?"

"At the end of every dark nothingness is light."

"Is it the only way out?"

Do any of us dare to enter into the shadow, the place where we have buried our bones?

Come with me.

Rambling Deli Love

2010-03-08T12:47:00.000-08:00

Each time the ashy smell of smoked meats filled my lungs
with piled high sandwiches
spilled over with fat, grease and garlic soaked into rye bread
One bite of the corned beef and pastrami sends me whirling into my tongue
thick with the juicy chew that soaks my mouth and tumbles
down into my stomach
the warm sumptuous morsels take me to heaven
Behind the counter my father winks, he sees me
but only biting down into his prized possession
I see him, and eat to make him happy
connect to him without words
or truly knowing each other
Beneath and beyond
the rows of salami, turkey and roast beef
that separate us.
Then the song begins
The counter men wearing their sticky, stinky white aprons,
a choir sing, Marta, Rambling Rose of the Wildwood
Their serenade from my childhood deli ecstasy
My father blows me a kiss
without even knowing I exist

Come Swing on a Star

2010-03-03T12:43:00.000-08:00

The telling of a story

Is an awakening of the soul

The mystery of the holy grail

The dive into the abyss

When I was twelve, every Saturday afternoon I walked ten blocks to Flatbush Avenue to the Brooke Theatre where I bought a box of bon-bons, shimmied into one the theatres read cushioned seats and watched my favorite stars flit across the screen. Natalie’s Wood’s dark sumptuous eyes, Marilyn Monroe’s curvy hips, Bette Davis’s, “darling,” and Veronica Lake’s sultry voice saying, “how ya doing mister?” mystified me. They were my heroines, my wild women dreams and my escape.

I dreamt of becoming a Hollywood dream girl not only for the glamour and beauty, but for the expression of their story. Walter Mitty’s adventures were my adventures, Dorothy’s trail was my trail, and Peter Pan’s flight was my flight.

Dark and deep

Cold and lacey

Hot and foamy

Juicy and alive

Hollywood dream girls strutted in front of the camera and stared detached, longing and lost into an unknown part of me that yearned to know myself. Hollywood dream girls evoked my deepest hunger for love, my ache for salvation and my lust for power and revenge. They played the roles that loomed inside of my unconscious waiting to be discovered.

Images of dandelions

Rosebud

Cary Grant’s dimpled chin

Ginger Rodgers slinky gowns

Memories of song and dance

Cinema, the footage of life and wonder, possibility and failure, glory and destruction sparked my unresolved need to be seen, to be heard, to be freed from my own mediocrity and pain. Stories of fallen angels, villainous traitors, and imaginary mermaids floated across my mind’s eye as I watched the movies.

My mother, a fallen songstress, who resembled Lana Turner in her younger years, buried her dream of being the next Judy Garland underneath her depression and rage. My father, a controlling and demanding man with Marlon Brando looks and charisma, disapproved of my desire to become an actress. He said, “Only tramps become actresses. If you want that kind of life than I will disown you.” My father’s words broke my heart and I froze in terror never venturing out from Brooklyn to Hollywood to swing on my star. Instead, at sixteen I went into therapy to cure me of my acting dream and the internalized father that screamed mercilessly in my head “stupid!”

Bogie’s Casablanca, “here’s look’n at ya.”

Garbo’s, “I want to be alone.”

Follow the Yellow Brick Road

And click your red glittery slippers

As I matured the movies took on a different meaning. No longer being the star struck little girl the stories became a journey into my soul.

Ordinary People; the fear of death and survival

Space Odyssey; the adventure into the core of creation

West Side Story; prejudice, love, murder

Annie Hall; Woody Allen; my Jewish roots

Encounters of the Third Kind; Lost in the Bermuda triangle

Lost horizons; Utopia dreams of a better world

Shawshank Redemption: the fight and survival of freedom and innocence

Time Machine: the possible future of mankind

Phi – suspense and the mathematical equation proving the existence of God

Requiem for a Dream – the horrors of addiction

These visionary stories confirmed, validated, stirred my spirit and enlivened my joy and pain of life.

Destinies unknown

Traveling through time

Next stop infinity

Players of my soul

Show me the way

Tell me the story

Of life…

Movies were and still are my burgeoning unconscious, my race after the illusive butterfly seeking meaning in a sometimes meaningless existence. To play tag with imagination, write tales that make hearts flutter, a child scream with laughter, a couple cuddle in a kiss…to provoke anger, joy, sorrow boils my blood with excitement. Stories are what we are made of, what I live for. God created the greatest story ever told…Adam, Eve and, maybe a new twist…Adam, Eve and Lilith. Anything is possible in the movies. A new myth yet to be unraveled and painted across the big screen….coming attractions….coming to your screen…posing new questions…new images…new horizons… a filmmakers dance.

I love the movies! Just give me a bag of popcorn, a bag of twizzlers, a diet Coke, lights out, cameras roll…and I dive into myself where darkness meets the light.

Sister Pearls

2010-03-01T12:34:00.000-08:00

Sheila twisted the top of the Dove moisturizer until her fingers were red. Her mouth squeezed into a tight lock of frustration, and then she threw the jar. It exploded and the cream splattered across the tropical, Florida hotel wallpaper like clumps of white mud. Pieces of shattered glass cracked into a small pile in the corner between the tub and the toilet. She shook her head, left the mess for the housekeeper to sweep up. She examined her face in the flat mirror. Her chopped-up auburn hair waved in different directions. Sheila rubbed her neck where a huge rash slithered across her neck. “Calm down, Sheila.” Her cleavage popped out of the black satin gown. “You’re tits look like a baby’s ass.” Sadness blended into her light brown eyes as she gazed down and strangled the dress around her belly.

A wet towel snaked around her ankles. Sheila picked it up with her toes like a contortionist, grabbed the corner and flipped it into the tub. “Ouch, damn.” She stepped on a tiny splinter of glass. She slapped down the toilet seat, plopped on the edge, crossed her foot and tugged the small piece out from her big toe. A minute droplet of blood seeped through her stocking. She spat on her hand and wiped it. A dot of a tear started to pull at the hosiery. “For god’s sake.” Sheila grabbed the pink nail polish and dabbed it on the rip. “Damn.” She placed the polish back, slumped over and cried. Soft whimpers turned into short grunts. She glanced over at the magnifying mirror on the counter and patted her eyes dry and stroked another coat of mascara on. Sheila blinked as if lost in a fog. She pinched her cheek, laughed. “Always a lady.” She leaned forward, slid her dress up and fumbled with her pantyhose.

The door suddenly swung open, “What’s wrong with you? Why’d you leave like a maniac?” It was Nancy.

Sheila let her dress drop then kept applying make-up. She couldn’t look at Nancy’s natural blonde hair, her flat stomach, her high cheek bones, the pretty sister, the one who resembled mom. “Oh you look just like your mother. So, pretty.” How many times did Sheila hear that comment from her mother’s card-playing cronies As an afterthought one of the gin ladies would say, “Oh, Sheila, such a sweetie.” Sheila straightened up. She wasn’t going to demean herself with that memory. With a quick sigh she forced a cold smile. “What’s up?”

Nancy’s Chanel 5 five swept through the bathroom. “Are you crazy? There are two hundred people waiting for me on the beach to get married.”

Sheila breathed, braved a long glance at her sister. Nancy’s wedding dress shaped her body into perfection of silk, pearls and rhinestones. Sheila picked up a brush and highlighted her cheeks with a dash of blush. “You look out of a fairytale.”

Nancy lifted the hem of her dress and snatched Shelia by the wrist. “The photographer is waiting.”

“Oh, I should smile pretty for the camera?”

Nancy bent down, stroked Sheila’s face, “What’s wrong with you?”

“Are those mom’s pearls?” Sheila grabbed Nancy’s hands.

Nancy broke free and wiped a smudge of black from under Sheila’s eye. “What are you talking about? Snap out of it. You’re my Matron of Honor. Get off your ass.”

“Come here.” Sheila waved to Nancy to sit on her lap.

“What’s this now? Nancy climbed into Sheila’s fold and placed her head on her shoulder.

“Remember when mom and dad went out we’d dress up and put on mom’s jewelry and long gowns and pretend to be grown up? Sheila tapped each pearl as if she was playing a piano. “Remember I’d always say, ‘I want mommy’s pearls when I get married?’”

Nancy played with Sheila’s bangs, pushed them to the side. “Those were fun days. Weren’t they?”

Sheila closed her eyes, “Sometimes. Sometimes.” Then opened her eyes watched her sister smile, remembering. She softened her touch against her sister’s hand. “Why’d you take the pearls?”

“The pearls, the damn pearls. You were the big sister. So I got the pearls.”

Sheila slapped her sister’s hand away. “Crazy liar. I fought mom for those pearls. Mom kept arguing the gold bracelet suited me better. And that was that.”

Nancy stood up, smoothed the crinkle in her dress, and leaned against the door. “I made mom promise them to me for my wedding day.”

Sheila quivered a half smile, “What do you mean, when? Where was I?”

“This is my day, not yours.” Nancy stomped away. “It was mom’s choice.” Nancy raced through the bedroom, past the living area and the modern edged black couch. “Sheila. I’m warning you, don’t start.”

“What do you think I’m going to do? “ Sheila caught her by the arm and led her to the couch. “Sit down.”

“For a second.” Nancy slid her hand into Sheila’s.

They sat down, their dresses expanded like a garden of satin and lace. Both stared at each other. Sheila wondered if she’d ever totally trust her sister again. Oh, not because of the pearls, but for the fact that their mother favored her. As soon as Nancy was born all bright eye and busy tailed, Sheila became the child that played in the shadows. Sheila never had the spunk and energy that Nancy was born with. She was more silent, more engaged in trees that talked to her and clouds that shaped into flowers and angels.

Sheila sighed, “Why do you do these things to me?”

“I don’t do anything to you.” Nancy held down the puff of her gown.

A knock on the door diverted their attention. “Housecleaning.”

Sheila raised her voice. “We’re fine. Come back later.”

“Okay. Our little talk over? I want to get married.”

“I want the pearls.” A cloud shaded the sun and shadows spread across the room. The crystal vase that sat on the white desk held a lone rose that curved into the silky light. Sheila tilted her head. “It might rain.”

“Why are you wishing that on me? You want my wedding to be ruined?” Nancy sprang up, walked over to the window. Her gown swished against her ankles. She pulled the gold curtains aside and stared out and up. “I better get down there, talk to George, make sure the in case it might rain back up plan is in effect. I should have known better than to plan a wedding in the summertime in Florida.

“Yes, but you demanded a beach side ceremony. You demanded Naples at the Ritz. You demanded everyone wear their hair up, when you know I have short hair.” Sheila placed her hands by her side. “Even this dress, black. What Matron of Honor wears black?”

“And for that matter. It’s look tight on you. Did you gain weight?”

“Sheila you’ve been a pain in my ass from the day you were born.” Sheila’s eyes widened, she slapped a hand over her mouth.”

“You mean that, don’t you?” Nancy barely turned her head toward Sheila.

“No. No. I didn’t. I just wanted those pearls. Just that one thing Nancy.”

“You do mean it. I’ve felt it my whole life.”

“And how do you think I’ve felt my whole life trying so hard all the time to not fall between the cracks of invisibility?” Sheila fingers dug into the couch.

“You know. You’re doing it. You’re doing it. This isn’t the time or place. I came here to get you downstairs. I left my own wedding party. Family photos. Happy family photos. That’s what I want. Now.” Nancy started to cry.

“Oh no. Don’t pull the tear trick. I know you don’t give a shit.”

Nancy turned full face toward Sheila, knocked over the vase with the rose. It crashed and water trickled across the beige carpet. “You’re right. I don’t give a shit. Why should I?” Nancy spun around and marched toward the door. The trail of her gown obediently followed her. “Why should I? Do you know what it feels like to have your older sister jealous of you? Do you?”

Sheila leapt off the couch, ran after her sister and reached for the pearls. For a moment, time stood still, both locked eyes, as they crashed into each other. Nancy struggled against, attempted to stop Sheila from snatching the pearls. “No. Nancy. No. It wasn’t like that. I just wanted you to be my sister. Stop that cutesy act with mom and dad and give me some respect, a morsel of consideration. ”

The two lost balance. They fell to the floor holding tight to the other, and then both landed side by side, trying to protect the other from hitting their heads against the table. Sheila opened her palm, the pearls lay broken in her hand.

Nancy smacked Sheila’s hand and the pearls flew across the room.

Suddenly, Sheila screamed in pain. “Something is wrong. Oh my god.” She sat up, grabbed her stomach, crunched over in agony.

Nancy bent over and grabbed Sheila, “What’s happening. What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know. I don’t…Oh god, Nancy, the pain is excruciating.” Sheila put her hand under her dress. “I’m bleeding. I’m bleeding!” She ripped her stockings off. “Sheila, damn, Sheila, help me get this dress of.” Again, she yelped, started to sob.

Nancy rolled over and pushed herself up. She ran over to the phone. “Help. Send a doctor, medics, anyone, hurry.” She slammed the phone down. She hugged herself and trembled. “Sheila, I don’t know what to do.” She plopped down, her gown exploded around her body. She started to cry. “Ouch.” She groped under her dress. The pearls were stuck to her back of her legs. She picked two out from her skin, held them in her hand and stared at them, and crawled over to her sister, zipped the dress down, helped her undress. Blood circled around Sheila’s hips and between her legs.

“Are you…are you… pregnant? Holy, shit, are you pregnant? Why didn’t you say anything?” Nancy tossed the dress aside. “Hold these.” Cupped the pearls into Sheila’s hand. She gripped the edge of the table and dragged herself upright. “I’ll get towels. I’ll get towels.” She sloshed away. “They’re coming. Hold on.” She disappeared into the bathroom.

Sheila opened her hand. The two pearls were smooth and creamy. For a moment her pain stood still. Froze in time. She was a little girl laughing, playing with her sister, dress up. But, only for a moment, the deep gorging ache caused her to shrill out like a lost kitten hungry for milk.

Nancy rushed to her sister snuggled the towel tight between her thighs. She held Sheila, wrapped her arms and legs around her. “You’ve ruined my wedding.

Sheila gave her a pearl, and kept the other. “You ruined mine.”

They held each other, rocked, and cried in each other’s embrace.

Restless and Unknown

2010-02-18T09:00:00.000-08:00

Waves of despair washed over her turning her head to the left where she watched the sun break into particles. She witnessed debris of leaves shoot up like dots of dust. She pulled the threads of the bleak tangled mess of light rays through her fingers like invisible pick-up sticks that lay about on top of each other intertwined, enmeshed and holding tight.

Reviving Ruby

2010-02-12T09:00:00.000-08:00

Ruby is innocent. Touching Mary’s hem, crawling to catch up to her footsteps.
"Talk to me."
Ruby grabs the edge of Mary’s garment.
Mary says, “No.” and wrestles the fabric out of Ruby’s hand.
Ruby: Tell me about my life, Mary.
Mary: You have to live your life first in order for me to tell you and teach you.
Ruby: Then why did you come to me as a child?
Mary: To plant a seed of your remembrance. .
Ruby: But my whole life has been so flawed.
Mary: Better to teach a flawed person than one who believes they have all the answers.
Ruby: How do I tell the story?
Mary: From the beginning
Ruby: There are two beginnings. My birth on Earth and my first encounter with you.
Mary: Let them unravel side by side. This is not a formula. This is a birth. Have the courage to break the rules

OASIS

2010-01-25T09:30:00.000-08:00

Jack felt a wet film trickling across his muscular chest. A stabbing sensation against the back of his calves traveled through his legs. He pushed his body up with his arms only to tumble back to the ground. His dark brown eyes moved from side to side. All he could see was a dull murky fog. Drizzle consumed the airspace around him, causing beads of cold sweat to form on his brow.
Where the hell am I? he murmured to himself. Did we crash into Bimini after that awful storm shook the boat to smithereens? Damn, Charlie warned me this trip was too far from Palm Beach...and dangerous ... something about a Devil's Triangle?

A streak of lightning flashed across the dark sky and he shot up like the spring on a trigger. Thank the Lord I'm not paralyzed, he thought as he rubbed the back of his leg.

He hobbled a few paces, surveying the area. Straight ahead he found that the rough ground disappeared and plunged about ten thousand feet down to jagged rocks and angry waves. He massaged the vein bulging from his temple and shook his head, eliminating that route as a possible means of escape. Turning away from the steep decline, all he could see was an endless fusion of thick green trees. The rest of the island was desolate.

Emptiness, he whispered. Oh no ... my family, damn ... where??

Suddenly a strong wind draped his body, swirling him to the ground. As he fell his eyes rested upon the slim figure of his wife. Her body was sprawled motionless on the ground several feet from him. Next to her lay their two small children, Alison, six and Danny, two. The wind innocently blew her long blonde hair aimlessly across her breasts.

"Naked! They're naked," he yelled.

He looked down at his own body. For the love of…I'm naked too! How the hell did?? In the storm .. ? How? No boat, no people, no nothing ... It's like a bad dream. He flew toward his family, his arms reaching out to them.

“Sue, it's me, Jack. Kids, it's daddy. Answer me, talk,” he cried.

Flinging himself to the ground next to them, he began shaking them gently. Their eyes opened and focused on Jack. Tearfully, they leaped into each other's arms, seeking strength and protection from one another.

“Whaa, What happened?” Sue asked, shivering. “It's so wet and cold. Where is this place? I remember a white light exploding in front of me, then floating through a tunnel ... and then nothing ... here ... gee it's cold.” She held her children closer to her.

Jack thought it strange that neither his wife nor children were disturbed by their nakedness. Too confused to care? or notice? He guessed it didn't really matter much.

“I haven't the vaguest idea where we are. All I know is that we've got to try and get out of here. The only way out seems to be through that jungle. The other way leads to a cliff. Let's move before we all catch pneumonia.” Grasping his wife's hand, he pulled her up. “Stay close together. Let's go. I hope there are people living in there,” he mumbled.

They raced toward the protruding forest and entered it. Vines and branches slapped their vulnerable bodies. As they penetrated the massive greenery, the rain stopped. The wind ceased and a vacuum of silence and darkness enveloped them. Only a ray of light coming from among the trees guided the way to a hazy path.

Cautiously he led the way, using the light as his compass. The beams of light began pulsating. Breathlessly they ran towards the brilliance. Closer and closer they came until they were being drawn out of the ominous void into the dawn. Their bodies slipped through an oval exit shaped by the trees and were thrust through the air, landing gently on a mound of silky golden grass. After a few moments of startled silence they began twisting their joints, checking for broken bones or sprains. Jack's attention drifted away from his body and he began looking around to see where he was.

“I don't believe it,” he said, his mouth hanging open. “We're in heaven! If I was having a nightmare before, I'm sure having one hell of a dream now.”

“Look, look, Sue, Alison, Danny.”

Wondering smiles lit up his family's faces. Overcome with the vision before them, they burst into tears of joy. The children shouted hurrah, hurrah, and clapped their hands. For as far as their eyes could see lay meadows gleaming like bullion. Fruit trees of every variety and shade surrounded them. Berries and flowers vibrated with moisture. A prism of colors framed the sun's rays. Jack stretched his arms and took a deep breath. Everything is so peaceful...so perfect.

“I feel like I'm floating on a cloud,” Sue exclaimed.

This is incredible, Jack thought as he leaned back on his elbows. Absolutely a paradise...or an oasis. As he lazily inspected the area, a tree filled with ripe, voluptuous apples caught his eye. Apples were a weakness of his, but he had inconveniently developed an allergy to them when he was twelve. Wiggling his toes in the grass, he debated with himself what to do. What harm could one apple do? he thought. I feel positive one of those succulent beauties won't give me the hives. Seeing that his wife and children were busy devouring wild berries, he quietly got up and tiptoed away. He approached the tree and reached out for one of the juicy red fruits that was swaying from the end of a branch, when a loud shrill stopped him.

“Jack, stop!” yelled his wife.

“Damn!” he said in a low voice.

“You know what happens when you eat apples.”

“Oh Sue, I don't think these apples will give me hives. And what would be the worst that could happen if they did? I'll have a bad case of the bumps and no calamine lotion.”

Sue frowned. “And who knows better than I how you'll bitch about it. Come on Jack, please don't. I don't feel you should. Why don't you have some berries?”

He waved his hand towards her, ending the conversation, and snapped the apple from its branch. He brought it up to his mouth and was about to take a bite when a chill went through his body, giving him the shivers. Holding the shiny round object out in front of him, he examined it and then shook his shoulders. Silly, he thought. Lines creased across Sue's forehead as she watched, twirling a strand of hair. Once again he lifted the apple and this time he gripped his stomach and fell to his knees.

“What's wrong,” Sue screamed, running toward him.

“Hunger pains!” he yelled. With one hand holding his belly and the other grasping the apple he bit down hard. Instantly a bolt of lightning hit the tree, blowing it into thousands of particles. Sue covered her head and dropped to the ground. The impact of the explosion sent Jack flying through the air. Everything blurred before him and Sue dissolved into a vague whirling glow. Slowly his sight began to clear. The muzzy brightness turned into four white walls. A bleary figure of a woman in a white uniform was sitting beside him. He began to feel the weight of his swollen body against a hard mattress.

A hospital? How did I get here? he thought. He gasped, trying to speak, but his throat was dry and tight.

“Wataa, wataa,” he fought to say. The sounds alerted the nurse and she jumped up.

“Be still, Mr. Beechum. I'll bring the doctor and some water.”

As she left the room he caught a glimpse of a folded newspaper she had left on the chair. Struggling to get a grip on it without falling from the bed, he managed to grab hold of its corner and pull it up to him. He fingered through it, hoping to find anything that would tell him something. Finally he found what he was looking for. The article read: After a 24-hour search by the Coast Guard, Mr. Jack Beechum was found drifting 75 miles off the coast of the Keys. Authorities are still searching for his wife and two children. An uncontrollable shrill burst out from his throat. His massive body jerked up and down. The nurse swiftly entered the room and tried holding him down by his shoulders.

“Doctor!” she screamed. “A sedative, fast!”

A bearded doctor rushed into the room and instantly stuck a needle into Jack's arm. It took immediate effect and his eyes fluttered until he fell into a semiconscious state. Thoughts slurred through his head. How Lord will...get there...got to real, so dark, light. Alive? Soon his mind was still and he drifted into a deep sleep. Poor man, the nurse clucked. Poor, poor man.

A Day at the Beach - Ruby’s Family Picture

2010-01-21T09:00:00.000-08:00

Ruby stood on the oversized beach blanket and breathed in the salt air. The sparkle and curves of the big ocean rolled into the sky and made her skin tingle. She rubbed her arm. Ruby, all perky, her bouncy ponytail tangled in the wind wore her favorite yellow and pink-stripped bathing suit. She counted every blue and white-striped beach umbrella plugged randomly across the sand. A squawking seagull distracted her counting mission.

This was her last Sunday at Coney Island fun in the sun before beginning fourth grade. A wave of sweet relish and cherry ices brushed past her, she sniffed. A big hairy bowl legged man ate a hot dog and a red curly topped girl merrily ate away as they strolled by the rustling shore.

“This is so great, mommy and daddy. I don’t have to do any homework.” Ruby plunged her hand into the ice cooler and pulled out a coke. he gulped down a big slurp as the bottle dripped its dew along the slippery edges, devoured the liquid like it was her last drink ever on earth. She stepped off the blanket and buried her toes into the moist underbelly of the sand, listened to the soft splash of the ocean waves.

Her mommy and daddy laughed over an oily tuna sandwich and chocolate donuts. Her grandma greased up with baby oil prepared for her wade in the ocean. Her sister, Leah twirled in the sand. This was the part of her existence that showed her that life had goodness. Forget the night before when her mother hit with a hanger because she didn’t make her bed. The sun and salt air washed away all that was bad and made it good.

My Father’s Turquoise Socks

2010-01-18T08:22:00.000-08:00

My father died of a heart attack when I was twenty-three. The night before he died I sat beside the hospital bed and watched him breathe. Half asleep, the stiff hospital sheets slid up under his neck, he opened his sad green eyes, pulled me close to him and said, “I love you.” My heart ached and I shook off the empty feeling in my stomach that told me he might die. But, at the same time, I couldn’t find the voice to reply back to my father, “I love you too.”

He then asked me to bring him his turquoise socks to keep his feet warm. Those socks were his prized possession. He wore them around the house and called them his blue feet warmers. Tired and late at night, he’d snuggled his toes into the cotton corners and devour a gallon of whatever ice cream was in the refrigerator. The turquoise socks brightened his day. On the days he’d come home early from a wedding or bat mitzvah he’d slip on his socks and my sister and I would sit at the kitchen table nibbling finger foods still warm in their platters. He’d tell us about the crazy bride who threw a dish at her husband to be, or the wild aunt who stripped down because of too much champagne. The blue socks and my father’s stories went together like the moon and the stars.

So when he asked me to get him his socks I felt the warmth of a story to come. His request made me feel safe that he was going to live. I drove home grabbed his socks out of the drawer when the phone rang. Hesitantly, I picked it up. At first I didn’t hear what the female voice on the other end was saying. Confused I just kept asking. “What? What?” Until my ears, woke out of the muffled fog of denial and shock, and I heard, “Your father died.” I sobbed until my eyes were sucked dried, grieved by the thought that I had never responded with an, “I love you too daddy,” before I left to retrieve his comfort socks.

A year after he died I took those socks to a medium. I wanted to contact my father from the beyond. Hear his voice one last time and give him the warmth of my love that I felt cheated of. The medium had dark black hair and was bejeweled with crystal necklaces. She reached out to the socks and said, “I’ll take those.” I held tight to them like a baby to her mother’s breast. The psychic stood with her hand out, staring through me. I placed them in her hand. As she cradled them, rolling them around her palms, she said, “Your father died of a heart attack. He knows he wasn’t the best father, but he loved you.” Then she glared straight at me. I felt her energy enter my psyche, “He says, he knows you loved him. You didn’t have to say it. It was enough you went to get his socks. You can forgive yourself. And he’ll know that you have forgiven yourself when you accomplish all the things he was against you pursuing. He says, Go for it.”

My breath stopped, and a well of grief and tears tumbled out of me. She gave me back his socks and I left. To this day I wear those socks on cold nights and feel the comfort of the love my father and I hold eternally.

2010-01-14T18:11:00.000-08:00

Debora Seidman
http://www.writingtheprayer.com/

Trust yourself. Have I said this before? Let me say it again.

Trust yourself. It's one of the most important factors in your
own relationship with your ability to write.

And here's the good news, and the paradox: if it's hard for you
to trust yourself, writing will help you to learn how to do it.

The reasons why it's hard for us to trust ourselves are many:
perhaps you have a history of abuse, or betrayal, or
neglect....any form of trauma will shake your ability to trust
yourself. That's one of the most damaging results of trauma,
the loss of self trust.

Without self trust, it's hard to
relax and enjoy anything, let alone a creative activity, but you
can restore this ability if it's been lost. It's not a life sentence.

If you feel that you are someone who has a hard time trusting
your own self: whether it shows up like you can't trust your
own inner knowing, or you can't even hear your own inner knowing,
give yourself a great gift and dedicate yourself to your writing
practice. Let it be a bridge for you in your journey to
reclaiming your ability to trust yourself.

Write your own truth, once a day, and pay attention to how you
feel. You know when you're telling the truth to yourself and when you're
not. If you start to notice how you respond when you write the
truth, you can gradually learn to extend your self trust to
other areas of your life.

Staying Connected To Your Writing

2010-01-12T18:03:00.000-08:00

Debora Seidman, my Writing mentor, spiritual sister and inspiration goddess... always keeps me in touch with my reason to write and keep writing:

Staying connected to your writing is a fabulous way to stay
connected to your self. I've said it before, but it's worth
repeating.

Like me, you probably write for different reasons at different
times. You may be working on a novel, or a collection of poems,
or perhaps your first play. Or maybe writing is your personal
spiritual practice and it's just between you and the Divine.
Whatever the reason you write, it's good to remember that writing
is a resource for you and can serve you.

If you're struggling with something in your life, sit down and
write it out. If you do this on a regular basis, you'll find
that you learn to trust yourself more and more, and the more you
learn to trust yourself, the easier it is to stay connected to
yourself, and to return to your self when you lose that connection.

Staying connected with yourself is the clearest way I know to
live a peaceful life. It's been said, "To thine own self be
true." And you can only be true to your own self, if you have a
connection to yourself. So....write write write, from you to
you, whenever you feel the thread between you and your true self
is running thin.

Blessings on all the songs and stories of your soul,

Debora
www.writingtheprayer.com

Quote from F. Scott Fitzgerald

2010-01-07T17:00:00.001-08:00

"Never confuse a single defeat with a final defeat."

Write for Yourself or Write to Get Published?

2009-12-14T17:37:00.000-08:00

In most writing circles there are only two ways to go, or so “they say”. Write for Yourself, or Write to Get Published. There is also the battle between self-publishing and traditional publishing. But even the self-publishers hope that one day they’ll be picked up by a New York agent. Today, the dream to be famous as a writer has stolen the art of writing. What makes a great writer? What is the art of writing? Is it great plot, character, imagination, imagery and metaphor, or perfect grammar, spelling and a dynamite opening line? Is it all subjective? Is the bottom line of publishing what will sell to the general public? Is it all hit or miss? Does anyone really know what the general public wants? Or has the general public been told so long what it is supposed to want that it has lost its way? No offense to the general public whoever you are.

What writer doesn't want to get published? I haven't a clue...and what writer doesn't write for themselves? I don't know why this myth has circulated, but it is part of the Mad Hatters journey in the writing world. Jump into Alice's Writing Universe and Write the Wave; fall into the maze of dos, don'ts, have-to's and your opening line just doesn't grab me. "They say," even Hemmingway wouldn't get published today. "They say," If you master a genre, know the formula then you’ve secured both your guns in the holster and can shoot your way into an agent's heart. Maybe. But don't stray from the path of the known guys. Don’t write anything that is channeled or crazy, like dancing violins that have no plot, or characters that stumble around on a LSD trip with no beginning, middle and end. If you do anything outside of the lines or make anyone too uncomfortable you might get a pie in your face. In order to get published you BETTER know the craft of writing, which can take the rest of your life to learn, and then some. Everyone has an opinion about what makes you a crafted and talented writer. One editor loved a prologue I wrote and another advised me to ditch it. Another editor told me my writing is too dark, and wouldn't edit it (even though I was willing to pay her $1,400 for her services) because the story was about abuse. Most of the agents who requested a submission rejected me and said, I am a good writer, but they are not compelled by the story, or they wouldn't know how to sell the story because it was unusual. What is so unusual about a Jewish girl from Brooklyn, abused by her mother who talks to Mary Magdalene throughout her life and rejects her higher guidance? I don't know? And aren't main characters in novels supposed to be unusual?

There are literally hundreds of "experts" who want to sell you on how to be get published, craft a breakthrough novel and follow a step by step approach to building the plot and character. “They say,” pay your dues, be tough, and don’t take it personally. In writer’s groups the theory is write something new, move on, just keep going and don’t look back. It is true that persistence, patience and deep belief is all part of the being a writer, but do I have to become a writing machine, hard as nails? How does this nourish ones’ heart and soul as an artist? Regardless, Ruby, keeps calling to me. She is main protagonist in every novel. Only her name changes; Her name was Sasha in my first draft living in Russian/Poland; Samara was her name in my second draft living during ancient Mesopotamia times. She has traveled many lives teaching me many things. Presently, she is Ruby a Jewish rebel, born in Brooklyn during the 1950's, scarred by a borderline mother and influenced by the onset of sex-drugs and lies. She never leaves me alone. Maybe I am writing sequels, a saga, or maybe I am just nuts. Didn’t J.K Rowling write seven novels about one boy called Harry Potter?

I taught six years in the educational system when it suddenly became fixated on standardized scores. How much information could a student memorize or spit back. Education wasn't about love of learning or even teaching a student to think for themselves. It was about achieving the right number to prove that you learned the necessary work, and then get into a good college, get a good job and make tons of money. The writing business has taken a similar approach to writing a good novel, get the right scores (craft or formula) and you too can win the heart of an agent/ publisher and wind up a best seller. Maybe. I am not saying there aren't great novels out there. I am reading one right now, Pat Conroy's Beach Music. I am just trying to figure this whole game out.

When my daughter was in the third grade she came home with a ditto of different pictures. The assignment was to recognize the beginning consonant of each picture. She would have had a perfect score if it wasn't for the picture of the rabbit. My daughter thought it was a bunny and wrote B for the beginning consonant. There was a big red X stamped across the letter. I made an appointment to conference with the teacher and she said that the right answer was R because it is a rabbit. I complained back pointing out, “There isn't always one right answer, aren't you teaching children how to think?" She replied. "No I'm teaching them to get high scores on the standardized tests." Moral? You figure it out. What does this have to do with writing? I agree that it is mandatory to learn the craft of writing, but that is only the beginning. Do I learn the craft for publishing reasons and write the R for rabbit. Or do I write a B for bunny and break rules because of my love of writing? Will that somehow lead me to an audience or an agent that loves my writing as well? I am not sure which comes first anymore, the chicken or the egg. Like they say, "too much information" I am leaving to go to my right brain now, where there are no lines to color in, only a blank slate.

Today I am going to write about Ruby's hair, so I won't tear out my own. Will I ever get published? Or will any of you out there respond to me and want to get to know Ruby as much as I do? By the way, I’ve decided to get closer to Ruby. I have been writing her story in third person personal. I felt detached from Ruby in this POV. I wanted more intimacy with her. So now, I am writing from first person point of view. Am I co-dependent with Ruby? Could be. Oh, that was another rule I was told, as a first time novelist don't write in first person or multiple points of view. However, my need to feel and breathe through Ruby far surpasses that warning. I am going to dive even deeper into her thoughts and feelings and I can only do that in first person. At some point I'll give you a sample of both POV's and you can tell me what you think. Thanks to anyone who is listening. I will also be continuing my writer's prayer journey and you will dive deeper into my subconscious...I'm past all shame.

Ruby’s hair
Where do I start to tell her story?

The process of writing is intimate and sensual. It is a marriage between the heart, soul and imagination.

Mounds of curls, circle around her neck and shoulders like vines twisting around an Oak.

The sun hits the tips and it absorbs the heat so the smell of sun sprays through it.

She wants to tame this wild tigress of hair, and when she does it is thick, shiny and full like a tulip bulb. It hugs her cheeks and shoulders and she barely sees through the wall of bangs that touch her eyelids

She pulls it up, tightens it in a knot, ties it in a pony when she runs, but it always falls out of the band, its sleek thickness fights the conservative way it constricts movement, and her hair wants to fly free in the wind.

Its flaming dark night hues explodes with wisps of auburn and draws you. you want touch it ever so gently in fear that it will bite off your fingers….it has a life of its own….its own direction, its own thought, a multi-dimensional maze layered with ringlets and bounce.

At times it is too much trouble to wash and the smell of dried apricots with a tint of grease emanates from her scalp. She doesn’t care if it looks like a ball of waxy frizz and allows it to create a jungle of broken bumps of hair that only a strong steel brush can wack its way through.

I love Ruby's hair... but she thinks it is the hair from hell.

Two unnamed pieces by Marta Luzim

2009-12-10T06:22:00.000-08:00

Prompt: First line of Evan Boland’s poem Pomegranate
"The only legend I have ever loved is the story of a daughter lost in hell”

Hell of Blood Kin
Hell greater than the fire and brimstone of Satan's hell
The real hell. I want to vomit
I won't find the tenderness in the thorn of self-hatred
that is hell
I feel my stomach cringe, shutting out all the sick, dark, shit.
I'm not supposed to feel ever again.
bury it under the stench sweat and pretty smiles and laughter
Who will Save me?
What is it like to be saved from hell?
Do I just travel on tip toe around the grime
I swim in the sea of the devil
No one cares about a person's hell
No one wants to know that there is a hell
After all isn't God only love?
I had to fight my way out of hell
a fallen angel, Lucifer's handmaiden
Even when love came knocking at my at my door
I spit at it.
Hell was so much more juicy, honest and silky
What makes hell seem so intoxicating, inviting
than the love of kindness?
and yet, kindness is exactly what hell needs
To knife and slit my wrists
and for the blood to be caught
on butterflies wings
It makes no sense the attraction of love and hate
immoral and moral
too many paradoxes

Prompt: First line of Rainer Marie Rilke's poem The First Elegy
“Who if I cried out would hear me among the angelic order”

It's a lie
all a lie
This world of lost nirvana
Where are the angels?
Their wings flapping against the wind
I hate this ethereal poetic upliftment of music, dance
A frenzy that shakes and screams.
I kick it, Shut UP!
I don't want to hear this
My stomach is sick from listening to angels talk of Love
Love like a Norman Rockwell fairytale
two children, two car garage, dogs playing on the lawn, peeing
What is that kind of love?
It is a lie
a picture, a snapshot
and yet, to love the guts of another
the real belly love that melts the heart
and wobbles the knees
not this dysfunctional, caretaking, knotted up love that
fills the void of nothingness
a nothingness that has to be broken
into tiny pieces to find the one spark of true love
what are the angels anyway?
sitting high on their self-righteous thrones
watching this stupid human race run after their tails
trying to find this elusive love in Malls and supermarkets
this Love can only be found in the dehydrated body of a lost soul
in the middle of a desert
screaming to be saved from herself.

Heaven and Hell

2009-12-10T06:20:00.000-08:00

My journey to find my voice, my Source of my writing has reached a place where my resistance is a wall of abyss. I want to run from this dark place that reminds me of all the pain in the world. I wander inside of my heart and beg on all fours, praying to know what to do with my novel. The challenge of struggling through the unknown, the place where we know nothing…where we question everything is like diving into the waterfall. Splash! Down below the void. Why do I want to go there?

Journey Into The Jungle Part 4: What is my Source?

2009-11-08T17:34:00.000-08:00

The writing journey continues…..

N in class termed our writing “community of the vulnerable.” This trek through the mountains to find the true voice of my writer needs this tender village of souls who write from a place that births souls. I am struggling with my first book, Feet Above Her Head. Ruby, the young psychic child, her mother the mad woman who tries to kill herself and her children, her father a loving chauvinist who Ruby hates and adores, and then there are her visions of Mary Magdalena, disguised through her mind’s eye as various apparitions that tries to teach her to love. Ruby has fallen between the cracks. She is screaming to be resurrected. I can’t find her voice. She has been rejected by so many and yet, she is vigilante to live; to be heard and seen. But, she has to have a hook that will make agents like her, no love her. Her whole life, she was to told to fit in, be perfect, follow the rules. But Ruby doesn’t know how to follow the rules…she only knows how to be Ruby; a Jewish girl from Brooklyn, who talks inside her own head to Mary. She walks crooked lines, searches for lost roads and untraveled terrain. There is no end to it all; this love thing and the need to be recognized. One editor wouldn’t edit Ruby’s story because she did not edit any novels that talked about abuse. Another editor thought she needed a BIG epiphany because she was visionary, a dreamer. Ruby is never good enough, and that is what she has always believed. But she can feel and see YOUR soul, and can see beyond the physical, and she is not crazy, although she thinks she is. Ruby is a survivor of hell and back. Is that not a story to tell? People are searching for peace every day. Peace and Love. “What is peace and love?” Ruby asks every day. For Ruby it is in the moment of despair and acknowledgement of that angst when love seeps through her veins. Ruby is so sad. Help Ruby. Someone help! Will anyone save Ruby from extinction? I must save her. But how? I want to feel her heart beating in me again. I feel her crawling around in my belly, scratching at my uterus lining. Why aren’t I good enough? What do I have to do? From above she shouts down at me, “LET ME LIVE.”

Journey Into The Jungle Part 3: Blue, River, Woman

2009-11-05T10:23:00.000-08:00

Continued search on my writer prayer journey, finding my blue heart, woman… what is her voice saying. Who is she?

Blue heart
The river of woman flows
So big, alive with the sky, the heaven
That floats above us as we raise our hands
Reaching toward the Goddess of All things
Blue and serene, passionate, river flow, blue waters stream
Through me as a woman connected to everyone’s inner silence
Raging tides of ecstasy that we repress, afraid of the Blue River Woman
Who swims upstream against the tide surrounded by myths that
No longer serve the Soul of Woman
Flow river, river flow the life-force, the energy
Of all that shines and pulses
No longer afraid to breathe air that is polluted
With grief and toxic waste.
The river blue flows like a woman’s blood
Down from her uterus, flowing down thighs
Into the earth cleansing all the mountains, hills, oceans and villages
Of ancient sacrifices that chased love away and force terror to reign supreme
The Blue Woman
The Blue River
The Woman
Blue
River
River, storms, wash up and floods us with your tender words and primal
Roar, I hear singing for me to awaken and cry no more, birth anew and whole.

The Muse Who Stands Over my Shoulder

2009-10-30T06:37:00.000-07:00

Sarah, the Hebrew Priestess
A headdress of purple cloth
Gold earrings jingle
A blast of dust stamps the arid place where she stands
She is alone, calling, reaching to be seen and heard
Her voice buried under sand dunes of time
She’s been hung from crosses and burnt at the stake
She is resurrected with a prayer
The mourner’s prayer, candles eternally lit
Her soul rises and walks clouds toward the Moon
She breathes life into her breasts
Her milk spills across the galaxy
And pours secrets that were buried alive
Sarah haunts me, my lineage cries out to me and she floats
Like a Chagall angel that sings the song of ancestry
My muse Sarah rocks me, wakes me and stands solid

Character Study – Marta Luzim

2009-10-19T17:11:00.000-07:00

When the artist's mind and soul is at work, where does it go? Follow the uncharted road on this journey of the one year writing prayer. It is a drop-dead dive into Alice's wonderland. You never know who you will meet. Help, I'm falling down the hole. Where am I?

Rena - Fascination with a Borderline Personality Home Grown by G-D

Rena, the devil in disguise. Her hair, light red, streaked with gold, blue eyes, tiny yet curvy body. Her stunning beauty hid the sickness inside. A gorgeous face that whitewashed her insanity, air-brushed her darkness, hypnotized whoever laid eyes upon her. But once she spoke, once her words hit your ears, and it only took once, she would crash and destroy every healthy brain cell in a person’s mind. Rena hated everyone, which spoke volumes on how she felt about herself. She hated people who didn’t wear the right color socks, who played canasta too slow, who ate their food too loud. How this hatred began, how it grew, how it maintained itself…was a mystery. Oh, one could psychoanalyze her as a border-line personality, as narcissistic, paranoid, manic-depressive, in other words insane. But, why? Really! Why?

Money was god to Rena. Green, slick and seductive. It gave her a reason to live.

Money and hid her insanity. Where is G-d in Rena? Were her ancestors just as crazy? Let's investigate to find the thread of her genetic lineage. We'll pick up on Rena later. She is busy on a shopping spree, the piranha is on the lose. Other characters to be introduced who know Rena. Testimonials to come.

Plot Whisperer Martha Alderson

2009-10-15T19:09:00.001-07:00

Martha Alderson, www.blockbusterplots.com is coach extraordinarre, writer, friend and spiritual warrior. Her love, devotion and guidance has been a source of unending food for me as a writer, woman and human being. I will be posting her teachings on my blog from time to time along with my own writing. Enjoy!

Plot Whisperer for Writers and Readers

The Importance of Character

A dear, dear friend asked me what I thought of an editor's comments regarding her latest book. Having been told that the book did not have a wide enough appeal to a general audience but rather more valued by family and friends who could fill in the gaps, my friend turned to me.

First let me say that my friend has had / is having an amazing life and that she is a terrific writer -- she has a wonderful way with words and, though this latest book comes closer to a true story than her first book -- a collection of non-fiction vignettes-- I agree with the editor.

Without having dropped the veil on her own personal story and the deeper story of her relationships, the reader never has a chance to see how she is changed by the journey she undertakes in the story. Instead of more closely concentrating on her inner evolution, she focused on the outside. And, by keeping herself at a distance, the reader in the end is robbed of the true joy of reading -- identification.

Universal appeal comes through the character -- the inner plot, not though the dramatic action -- the outer plot. The protagonist (in a memoir, that means you, the author) drives the story and the allows for an emotional involvement on the part of the reader.

Yes, my friend wrote herself in such a way that she comes across strong and both empathetic and sympathetic. However, without a clear goal and an clearly identified inner problem that gets solved, the reader is left to fill in the gaps.

Key elements in the character inner plot:

1) The protagonist must grow throughout the story in a believable and meaningful way.

2) Protagonist goal = must be specific. The goal is what motivates the character and is what allows the reader to gauge when the character comes closer to goal and when she is thrust further away. What does the character want and why?

2) The character must reveal themselves to the reader. This can be accomplished through dialogue and descriptions, and through the actions she takes. In whichever way the writer finds to "show" the character, the character's emotion must be included = Character Emotional Development.

3) The secondary and minor characters act as real people who offer comparisons and contrasts to the main character, thus expanding the readers' understanding of the protagonist and of the overall theme itself.

4) Is the character struggling against herself and an external antagonist? Whether an inner demon or flaw and / or an external antagonist, we must understand the obstacles in the way of the protagonist achieving her goal to more fully appreciate the growth she ultimately makes.

For a simple questionnaire to help develop your protagonist's inner and outer plot, fill out the Character Emotional Development Profile.

Journey Into The Jungle Part 2: Prayer to my writing

2009-10-10T14:09:00.000-07:00

This is an invocation to raise myself from the dead into the living word.

Deeper into the darkness of the jungle.

I pray I can hear the messages of my story

The flow of words and voices

I pray that the sad emptiness can pour onto the page and find it's way into my characters

like a possession without an exorcism

I will learn to understand their lives so that they will teach me my own

I pray to share myself fully, and not just a pinch of myself to my writing

I pray that I can see beyond the page into the entire universe that revolves throughout the story

I pray that I will be good enough to channel the craft, the plots and subplots that roam around in my mind

I pray for time

I pray for space

I pray that I even understand why I want to write

Although I know it is my soulmate, my heart, my mind, my best friend

I pray that the loneliness of the search will give me a clue

and my stories will birth something in me that has meaning

and will make me want to live

Journey Into The Jungle Part 1: My writing sustains me.

2009-10-10T14:05:00.000-07:00

This is my first trip into the jungle of my writer's mind.

It is the source of my very essence

The core of my truth

My victory over ambivalence

My healing of anger, hurt and grief

It is the inner eye that sees into every person's eye

It is the way into G-d

The way to answering questions and having conversations that I would never have with anyone except myself

It soothes my longing

It fills my cup

The curve of the words, the seduction of the images, the arousal of my libido

It's my sixth sense, my outrage, my judgment and my compassion

It frees me from my own captivity

Write, Pray, Live

2009-10-10T13:47:00.000-07:00

Debora Seidman, www.writingtheprayer.com, writer, playwright, poet and guide to the soul of the creative voice, along with two other adventurous writers, plus ME, are embarking on a year long safari into the depth of our artist's soul. We will commune with our writing as our "Beloved." as Deborah terms it.

From time to time we'll jump into the jeep and take in the scenery of my psyche and the unraveling of my writing expedition. I don't know where it will go, or what I will find, but I am thrilled to be diving into the underworld to explode this birth process. It is a behind the scenes look, the planting of seeds to future books, poems, plays and whatever else comes from the belly of the whale. My first entries follow.

A commitment to share my art

2009-10-10T13:35:00.000-07:00

Artist (n.) - Someone who chooses to express their creative spirit, revealing the call of their soul, through artistic passions and authentic approaches to living life. Someone who is not afraid to share his or her true self with others.

-Jill Badonsky, author of The Nine Modern Day Muses