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Category Archives: Creative Writing

Those Who Know Me Well

Those who know me well, know that I have a knack for naming inanimate objects and other things you don’t typically give names to. They know I’m an expert in collecting indoor bugs, which I then set free outside. They know I’m a sucker for babies and that no matter how pressed for time I might be, I will assuredly stop and crouch down to pet a dog. 

They know my rock star husband is Macklemore but not because he’s my type – which he’s not – but because of his lyrics, charisma, and smile. They know, too, that it would NEVER work out between us, which is totally true. They know that my vocal stylings are formed heavily by having listened to a lot of Tori Amos and Ani Difranco in my formative years, and that I have a secret calling to be a traveling musician in a band with a tour bus and a new stage to play on every night.

They know I have a special affection for crows and ravens and that my affinity for trees likely influenced my wearing of the same matching color scheme of clothes every day. They know I don’t wear underwear, except for those days when it’s impossible not to, and they know I don’t do anything with my hair other than wash it, brush it, and clip it back with something – no trimming, cutting, styling, primping, or dying.

They know I write a whole lot more than I talk and I don’t tend to give advice unless it’s asked for and they know that if I’m in town and not at meditation on a Monday night it means there’s something wrong.

They know that my high rate of organization and efficiency rubs a lot of people the wrong way and that it’s difficult for me to forge close friendships in part because of how often they’re intimidated by me – and they know that makes me sad.

They know I live with a lotta heart and joy to be alive and an uncommon fortitude of intention.

They know that I know that I’m a marvel; that I do my internal work; and practice to stay grounded, connected, and humble.

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Tell Me How It Is

Speak to me of what makes your eyes spark to life. Speak to me about the heart of your experience. Speak not in fragrant poetic verse, unless there is authenticity in so doing.

Don’t put a spin on things to help soften the blow of your inner strife. I want you to tell me like it is; what it means to be you in your own skin. I am not interested in meeting a version of you – one you gussy up for company: muted, fake, and dull. I don’t want to meet you in passing, sharing only pleasantries and hollow sentiments.

This may sound strange. It may even scare you off, but it’s a risk I’m willing to take. I want to absorb you fully and consume you. I want to dissolve the separation we think exists between us and become one being – all of us, in this together.

 

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Everyone Has A Story

To listen to this post being read on my podcast, click here.

This post is in honor of World Storytelling Day, which by happenstance was yesterday (March 20th), the same day as was arranged our quarterly live storytelling event here in town called Tell Us Something (TUS). A pairing which was entirely coincidental by its orchestrater, Marc Moss.

The TUS guidelines for storytelling are as follows: they have to be about true personal experiences, fit in the span of 10 minutes, centered around the chosen theme, and must be given without the use of notes. Last night’s theme was: Right place, right time. 8 local storytellers got up on stage at the Wilma Theater, in front of a well-packed 850-seat venue of friendly faces, ready to listen.

Here’s my account of the evening, in order of appearance on stage:

1. Alex wore an orange Marty McFly vest and jazzy 80’s decor ball cap to regale us with a story about his last excursion to ComiCon, and encountering not 1, not 2, but 3 Deloreans, one of which he got the lifelong lasting pleasure to take a ride in. With the delightful confidence I’d never seen in a 13-year-old, he kicked off the evening with a breath of hope for our future, which I’m certain translated to every member of the audience.

2. His name was Michael, which meant I liked him right away, as derivatives of that name have followed me around in droves all my life and have always treated me well. He spoke artfully of his 70 years of life in the span of just 10 minutes, somehow managing to weave together having had a heart-attack, both in the literal and metaphorical sense, when his wife left him for another man, self re-invention, and travels over-seas.

3. Sarah opened with a mention of Ani Difranco, calling her a “weapons grade feminist folk singer,” which meant I liked her right away, too. The topic of divorce also made a cameo in her story, having left her husband for a woman whom she now has a child with. I saw fit to pen these two quotes from her in my pocket-sized notebook: “Whatever you do out of love, you can’t do it wrong,” and “I can only be where I am when I’m there.”

4. Heather wore a flower-print dress and continued in comradic fashion the theme of divorce. Like the others, it wasn’t in a sad country-song accord but more of a hard heart moment mentioning that spurred a re-posturing of a life once thought figured out. She spoke about her travels to Malawi, Africa, being a dancer, and ended by saying: “The Africa I went to see was not what I wanted, but it was what I needed.”

During the intermission, I shot up from my seat and went to stand against the wall next to the aisles, to write frantically in my pocket-sized notebook. Here’s what I wrote in mildly illegible form, as the theater sprang to life with a mixture of chatter and rustling about: (NOTE: while I’m tempted to make slight edits to this bit of writing for the sake of clarity and ease of reading, I’m resisting the urge and will include it just as I wrote it, hoping it makes some sort of sense)

These stories cut like butter on the battlefield of what it means to be human – and I pulsate with electricity like a bolt of lightning tossed to a tree top, firing up the atoms of everything in sight. I listen, absorbing inspiration like ears to sound in the wake of stories being told – and it’s words that matter, maybe it’s all that really does – I’m juiced up, ready to steamroll anyone in my way like an avalanche – shoot, I’ve got so much to say that I can’t write fast enough – this freekin theater is packed with story listeners being given permission to live their lives without shame, becoming unburdened by the fact that we stand in our own way when it comes to learning how to love and be loved, unfettered and free – and I want to take up shop situated on the shoulder of every person here and listen to their story, so I can keep on learning how to be myself amid the fray.

 

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Good Quotes

 

(You know you’re a writer when you take a picture of the notes you’re scribbling down while at a writer’s conference because you think your pen looks hella sexy.)       

I’ve had so much great input as of late, from a variety of sources, and have collected a smattering of quotes I’ve penned on whatever papered surface was in my midst. I wasn’t sure what I would do with these quotes, I was simply inspired to pen them down. In the interest of not containing these quotes on paper where only my eyes will glance upon them, I’ve decided to fashion this post and release them into the wild, where they belong.

Quotes from panelists during the Writing at Work conference, which took place at the University of Montana campus on Friday:

“You need to be ready to be rejected over and over and over. If one rejection email is going to crush you, you shouldn’t be a writer.”

“I can’t get too close to my hometown of Cut Bank, Montana – it’s population, elevation, and wind velocity are all the same number: 3,800.”

“Stick with your voice, we’re more capable than we think” and “Put in the time, even when you don’t want to.” – Pete Fromm

“Create occasions you have to rise to.”

“Find the joy in the work” and “I only learn things when I suck at it.” – Sarah Aswell (local comedian and comic writer)

“There’s often a crisis that precipitates inspiration.” – Editor of Beargrass Publications

“No woman writer thinks they have permission to write.”

Random quotes from random sources of inspiration (from songs to films; from books to videos on youtube; from articles to twitter posts):

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Upon Waking

A little something I wrote early this morning, upon waking:

Within five minutes of waking, I had come up with a handful of things to be grateful for.

Within fifteen minutes, I was reminded of how sometimes – lots of times – my husband does not smell good, even when he’s sound asleep.

Within twenty minutes, I had scooped a teaspoon of loose gunpowder green tea peals into my tea strainer and delighted in the noise it made whilst tumbling in, akin to graupel on a windowpane. And I’d been bowled over for a brief moment by the realization that having running water is a great luxury not everyone has (the sound of which reminded me that in my exuberance to put pen to paper, I’d forgotten to pee).

Within thirty minutes, I deflated a bit when remembering that today, my Saturday would include an unscheduled trip to Grimebusters Laundromat, due to the fact that one of our cats peed in our bed last night, all the way through the comforter and both sheets. And I invested brain power in once again trying to come up with a less churlish-sounding substitute word for ‘pee.’

Within an hour, I was surrounded by a collection of papered items, which would relay to someone who didn’t know me that I’m both a writer and a Buddhist.

Within an hour and five minutes, I’d been given goosebumps upon reading a new bit of writing that I myself had crafted – and I didn’t feel silly or shameful about it (which is a newer development).

And within one hour and 48 minutes, I had run the gamut of thought, vacillating from birth to old age to death; from ideas for spoken word pieces to all the people I love and adore (including a whopping 4 friends who all have their birthday today!); and from that which stirs me up to that which serves to knock me down.

 

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Awake at Midnight Thirty

Sooo, this is me awake at midnight thirty, listening to my new favorite musician Ben Howard, the night before my big spoken word show & CD release party. A time when normally I’d have around three hours of slumber under my belt.

It seems I forgot to heed the doc’s warning not to take the steroids prescribed to me for the acute treatment of laryngitis past the hour of 2:00pm.

Welp. I may be running on little to no sleep tomorrow but I should have a voice with which to use for the show, which is kinda important. So there’s that :)

In attempts to combat the pulsing energy of the meds, I’m drinking a cup of herbal tea. The teabag message – tossed overboard like a climbing rope from my mug and currently resting beside my keyboard – reads: You will always live happy if you live with heart. I used to regard teabag messages as rather trite and hokey – but not anymore. We need more positive messages strewn about from teacups the world over. We need em wherever and however we can get em.

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Along the thread of messaging, I’ve been making an effort lately to share about my inner workings of fear, centered around the unfolding process of my upcoming show. I think it’s helpful to share this element with others who would otherwise be quick to judge a book by its cover, deeming me as someone who has no qualms whatsoever about getting up on a stage, performing, recording herself in album form, and so on – which is most assuredly not the case.

Earlier today – or, I guess yesterday now technically – I posted this on my personal Facebook page:

With nerves in rising swell preparing for tomorrow night’s big show, the following exchange took place between my husband and I before he went off to work this morning:

Me: Sooo, I’m probably going to be rather a pill until the show tomorrow night. Just sayin. So, I pre-apologize.

Him: What kind of pill?

Me: Like one of those horse pills. The kind that’s unpleasant and hard to swallow.

Him: Mmm mmm.

Me: But if it’s any consolation, I will ALSO practice to infuse some comic relief into the mix, too – so there’s that.

Him: Like a spoonful of sugar to help the medicine go down?

Me: Sure. Okay. Yeah. Like that.

 

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Early Morning Verses Of A Writer

 

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To listen in audio form of this post on my podcast: https://soundcloud.com/inmindfulmotion/early-morning-verses-of-a-writer

 

1.

Silence is enjoying a cup of tea as your sole responsibility.

Silence is what situates itself in the grooves clicking between the movie reel of thought.

Silence is where every end of day settles; and then stretches like a bridge into morning.

Silence is a disposition of character, a grace carried both firm and soft onto the battlefield, turning it to fertile ground.

Silence is anything which serves as a vehicle to transport us back to ourselves in such a way that it’s as though we never left.

Silence reveals truths the likes of which we already know but have forgotten.

Silence is not the absence of sound; it’s the full embodied inclusion of the total acoustic landscape shifting and shaping itself like the Grand Canyon,

shining in holy accord on a bluebird day.

 

2.

Hello new day.

I see you.

Though, I’m not sure many others do.

Not clearly anyhow.

It’s easy to lose sight,

to go blind.

It’s easy to regard today as being just the same as yesterday;

which will be the same as tomorrow, too.

But I know better.

Today IS a new day!

Ripe with possibilities and opportunities for
goodness & kindness & beauty to manifest.

With our thoughts we make the world.

With our thoughts we make the world.

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