Power to Save

As I read more of Count of Monte Cristo, I am tense about what mistake Edmond (the Count) might make in his anger. I love him and want him to be saved from his anger. I wonder if he could see himself as better off for having been in prison? He did lose everything, though. Does that mean he has lost his soul or gained it? Sigh.

There is a situation that arrises where he has the power to help another man or allow the man to be ruined (and commit suicide). I somehow can't stand the moments where you watch and fear the man will kill himself, because the Count is too slow or calculated. It makes me feel like the Count will be responsible for his death and hate himself for it. Why can't the Count just pay the bills at the start? I know faith is much more complicated then quick fixes and what he is giving the man is both his life and dignity, over charity, but what if he swooped in too late or his plan missed the desired outcome by a 5 minute window. I guess that is the tension of good literature, but it leads to this question. . .

How am I sitting with wealth or opportunity right now, knowing someone will be devastated if I do not act. How many coffee's might feed starving kids? It is it's own overwhelming dilemma. The first step for me is to do something. I have never been able to tithe 10%, so I am going to start with 2%. It sounds so pathetic, but I would rather do something then nothing. I get stuck in the bigness of how much or how little it all amounts to, but something is my sum for today. I pray I can begin to open my fists in the places God shows me.

I am not nice

It is strange to have a few weeks go by where everything seems alive. I keep looking over my shoulder like Edmund in The Count of Monte Cristo, because this is a day that is to perfect. I wonder if I should create some disaster or break down, because I don’t trust myself. Am I forgetting the problems in the world? Am I being selfish in joy? Is God in it?

I can’t remember when I was last like this and I can’t help but mine for personal failures. Tell myself things like, “you didn’t respond right away to a baby,” or “you will forget to pay a bill” or “Someone is only being nice because you are wearing make-up.” I can assure myself that there are lurking evils to help adjust me back to the feeling that life is “just okay.”

Why? Why not sit in awe of God; accept that someone else’s struggles are their own, that I can laugh and find my way even in darkness. I am capable and alive and ready for more colors of hair, more improvised songs, and even the rough moments of screaming kids.

Maybe my well is full, or Julia Cameron is getting under my skin or I am ready for something bigger then me to provide me with direction. I am running the Chicago marathon, I am taking depression meds, I am listening to God and I am writing. It all feels overwhelming, as I let go of people’s smirks and give in to saying the wrong thing, so others will no longer think I am nice.

Forging Ahead as a Writer

I love the idea of sitting in another Creative Writing Class, because professors magically work us through reading and writing and a direction that gets at the soul of creating something bigger than me. Now I know the cost, $1700 is too expensive for my head to justify after Christmas. Childcare and coffee are hard to stomach these days, taking me back to my childhood roots of worry about how we would survive.

I would not take back this fall’s Lyric Essay class, however, as I start to uncover a bigger picture of language. I had the chance to be outside of my history or identity and to journey deeper into my story. In it, I received real input, that allowed me to undress and redress into something more fitting. It was also isolating as I tried to remember names and looked to see whose eyes were pinning me to a wall, besides my own.

So I want all that, weekly three hours of talking and hours of reading and writing and feeling the strength of my stride over three months. I want the few hours to release demons, to breathe and not become burdened with every possibility, to dream of brilliance, or just to scribble words. Is it a calling or a joke or an extravagance? Is there anything tangible that can be nailed down, beyond the encouraging interest of strangers when I tell them I write. I keep wishing I could earn $1700 to justify myself.

So I blindly plot a path for my week, Tuesdays, 2 hr, Wednesday 3 hours, Thursday’s 3 hours and Saturday’s 3 hours. That is my time, though if I can squeeze hours in the morning or at night, then I will feel the traction of a daily pursuit. The next challenge is direction. I want to steal the syllabus, the secret codes of the class I would take, Poetics of Prose out of the professor, by going to the first class and pretending I might take it. I want to take it, but know if I go, that I will be too hooked, forgetting about costs until I am finished and looking at more bills.

I need to commit. To say I need to be at class at 5, like I need to get on an airplane when the flight is scheduled to take off. I want the deadline of finishing the book or story, so that I print and turn it in on time. That is an artist task, beyond being a student or dabbler. My son is great at asking over and over or insisting on things, so I need his language to scream, “must write now,” like my husband heading off to the office.

I set out alone this round. Well, there are writing groups and book discussions and such, but my real work as a writer is in reading and writing and going at it despite the other demands. 

There is a guy doing something like me that I follow, because there is not so much out there on the do it yourself MFA, which I am mulling over with my friends and acquaintances. 

David Eric Tomlinson's Blog: http://daviderictomlinson.com/

A Poem

I am reading about writing and feel the overwhelm of possibilities. I could read all the books on anyone’s list, or the long list on my own. I could read poems, because Ray Bradbury says to read a poem a day. I want to write short stories, but don’t read them, so Stephen King might say, what is the point. I don’t read much poetry, but the pieces I have memorized hover over my days with new connections. Hopkins is my favorite! The words jump up with joy in the dead of winter. They are short and full of faith, which makes me feel big.

This is a two-second poem to scratch at my world. Writing motherhood and moments are what I settle with today.

Babble “Me-Me,” or “Mommy” from the top step

“No dropping,” I say as he again strikes fist forward

We look together and then I turn away

Your eyes, Izzy brown

Look bigger than Christmas

As you circle the house falling by purpose

Spots of juice dribble dry from your lips

All crying more and wipe and see and no more NOs

And I pause to feel my shoulders grip my ears

I frozen and Christ spilling open

Pulled in two yet steadied by a Voice and some nails

Witness a memory and how he endures.

You might want to skip this one!

So I feel like ranting all over this page, about how I dislike reading all the "potty mouthed" and gross bodily stuff I get the privilege of commenting on in my Grad Writing Class. I find myself wondering if high art is about base experience? I get a lot of funny "poop" talk with my three year old and it sounds more comical than the twenty-something male versions. The language is the same for all of them, but somehow each thinks he is the first to stink up the page with the details. Why the obsession and push at this topic as if it is new and enlightening? I know that art is rarely comfortable or appropriate and I guess in the end, we spend a lot of time smelling our own "shit," and politely keep it to ourselves. As I write this I realize that though I still hate reading about it, it is fun to write about, o here I go with my own story (stop reading if you too hate reading about human waste).

When I worked for Citigroup, I flew to NYC on a regular basis. One winter night, I arrived at my hotel at 11:30 pm, tired and happy to be in the hotel my husband and I stayed at on our first visit to the big city together. It was perfect on the first go and just being there, I called him to talk and then unpack and then just lay down in the luxury of the space. About an hour in to the night, as I got ready for bed, I opened the bathroom door and then lifted the toilet seat and found a HUGE surprize sitting inside. I was horrified and then moritifed as I called the front desk to ask for some assitance in handling the mess. As I explained that the toilet was clogged, I kept wishing I had checked the bathroom right away, so no one would think I had made the mess.  A guy in a suit showed up with a plunger and almost puked as he stepped into the tiny closet-like space and experienced first hand the colored water. Without saying much, he plunged into with his implement, because I suppose he had to. Somewhere in the middle of his efforts, he paused and wiped sweat off his forehead. As we had not made contact and I was nervous, I started talking. "When I opened the door I could not believe it was there," wanting him to know it was not mine. He got red and apologietic and more energetic in his activity. The next day I found a fancy terrycloth bathrobe on my bed with a hand written apology from the hotel manager. I still wonder who left it there. Someone big I would imagine. Someone angry? House staff in dire straights?  Or maybe just an embarrassed guest who shut the top and left the cleaner to believe it was never used during his stay.

Ah. I loved telling that story. Thanks for reading if you got this far.

Now for all the things I wish I were writing about:
- Dying my hair, except my three year old is angry and keeps saying not to because "That is a joke, mom."
- MFA programs - I am going to apply to EMU
- My NANOWRIMO (the novel I am writing in November) is a remake on Jane Eyre, if I ever get my character to be as good as she was (so hard for me to do!)
- Why all my stories have to be in NYC, even though other cities would be easier and perfectly legitimate. My other city could be Detroit, except I have never experienced it and can't even tell you one road that runs through it
- How I am scared to talk to anyone right now (I am really insecure - except in my words on paper (as you can tell). I just don't know what to say, though I know that I am not just talking for myself, but because I really love and want people to know that I value them.
- The lady who was standing in between the highway and onramp at 8 pm last night talking on her cell phone.
- How I am terrified to have my 20 page essay critiqued on Nov 21 (AHHH)