Confessional

Exposed

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I have been trying this honest confessional thing for a few posts now.  I think it is quite refreshing.  But it is also quite bare.

I think, sometimes, that being vulnerable creates the most beautiful and relatable art. I suppose my world view has been colored by watching many hours of America’s Got Talent and perhaps The Voice.  But I think this view is largely true. Beyond just being relatable, I feel like being open brings me closer to myself.

I don’t know when this happened but I got it in my overthinking head that I needed to be this perfect person — and that I could only be good or worthy if I maintained certain standards of propriety. So on the outside there’s this little Proper Miss of myself that parades herself, seeking everyone’s approval and relishing in receiving it.  Then deep inside me is a more open and free-spirited version of Proper Miss who sits waiting for the day when she’ll be let out to play — because she’s the embodiment of every longing, dream, and being that Proper Miss wishes she had.  Hidden Miss holds the dreams, inner fulfillment, wisdom, innocence, enchantment, and essence that would make life that much lived. Hidden Miss believes in magic and kismet and the importance of softer things. Proper Miss believes too but she’s a realist and her priorities are pragmatic. Proper Miss has little patience for unfolding and letting things that’ll be, be. Hidden Miss holds life in wonderment and enjoys every morsel of life’s simple joys. Hidden Miss wouldn’t think twice about jumping off a cliff to dive into crystal blue waters or taking a walking tour in a foreign country to discover a writers’ cafe — she is all about adventure.

I am not naive. I understand that I can’t walk these streets as Hidden Miss all the time.  I would be chewed up and spat out before I could say, “YOLO” … no matter how important it is to create a life that is true and “authentic”.

Besides, Proper Miss has accumulated experiences and skills that have been equally enriching and useful in navigating through this ride. Proper Miss is a winner but also knows how to wear the scars of defeat with the grace of a warrior.

So in a way, the best version of me is both Hidden Miss and Proper Miss.

I have also found that these two versions of myself couldn’t be farther apart from each other. And what’s more, some of my most miserable life experiences have been because I was trying too hard to be one or the other.

This also affects how I write. Proper is about technical ability and getting it right from a craft perspective. Hidden is about telling the story because it is crying out from within my soul. I think it’s clear that both have a place and a purpose.

This past year has been quite interesting because I have been experimenting with trying as much as possible to be honest with myself and make decisions where truth rings internally. I have found that this exercise of being honest with myself has narrowed the distance between Proper Miss and Hidden Miss.  I have felt rewarded in my soul. I have felt incredible peace about some of the most difficult decisions I’ve had to make this year. My sister insists I am a much nicer person to know. I think my compassion for others has increased.

The exercise of being honest with myself requires more reflection than I thought. I process a lot through writing — and documentation can be jarring. I feel exposed and uncomfortable in the moment when I feel I have hit an especially difficult truth. But I feel rewarded when I think I am one step closer to bringing Proper and Hidden together.

Gawd I hope the lesson is mastered now. I want the next phases of my life to be less miserable and more peaceful. Is this what they call “finding yourself?” — that shit ain’t for kids.

Pull of the past

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So I wrote this whole post about the pull of the past but I lost it somehow.

Anyway, I was musing as usual about how I feel the pull of the past.  I am nearly done with my first book project – the short stories – which I think are coming along nicely.  I don’t think I am this great literary but I love to tell the stories… hopefully some people will agree with me.  But as I near the end, I am feeling a little sad that the mad rush is over… next is the phase of other tedious tasks – editing, graphics and layout, and then at last publishing.  I am proud of myself for getting this far but it’s got me thinking about my next project.

Lately, I have been fantasizing about writing a historical romance.  There is something about being able to place myself in the time of two lovers who wished their story could be told that is quite appealing to me.  And it sounds romantic doesn’t it, to write about 11th century Malindi and maybe two young lovers indulging in a forbidden affair.  But of course, I worry about the authenticity of the writing – will I be true to how love was conducted in the time… how did they love? How did they woo? How did they express their longing for freedom to be who they are and to celebrate who they are?

My fantasy tells me that I would enjoy immersing myself in the time and the culture.  Learning little known facts, revealing them slowly, and savoring the outcome.  I can nearly see it.  Sneaking love notes on a wall – tucked into some nook.  Moving quickly past each other so that no one can fault them for familiarity and knowing.  Solitude and longing.  And maybe I could salvage a little of what’s lost about the Swahili coast and the living that was to be had there.

I wonder if it is bad luck to think this long about a story — but I will write it.  And I am hoping some two lovers, across time, will reach me and tell me how to tell their story.

Damascus experience

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So I talked about changing direction in an earlier post and how this year was a major year for me.  In the post I talk about having a “Damascus” experience — yet another biblical reference — been so full of those lately.  But my use of the expression was really to capture the life changing aspect of the experience I have had this year.

I have been struggling with grief and depression for a while.  It’s been nearly three years of being in this deep dark hole.  You know the kind where you sit in a corner, knees to your chest, and wait it out because there’s just nowhere to go except to sit in the muck of sadness.  I swear I cried so much in the shower, wailed for God to help me, and called upon every ounce of will power in order to make it through the last year.

But earlier in the year I also realized that I needed to get better.  I kept looking for a solution. I wanted to try anti-depression pills but got spooked out the first time I took a dose.  I continued with talk therapy but I wasn’t really getting through.  We tried this technique with my therapist and it was a success.  I was able to get to the root of my immediate issues and I am not sure how it all works… all I know is that I have relief.  It’s been a process of peeling back the layers and dealing with the surprises that I find.  Now, the burden of sadness that plagued me everyday, making it hard to do even the littlest of things, is loosening its grip on me.  I feel like I can breath.

It was tough dealing with depression and for such a long time.  I can do the moods and the depressive episodes — I know that we are not promised all sunny, freaking-hippy-happy days.  I can do the ups and downs like everyone else… I just couldn’t do the every day of it.  It was draining and it was like this secret I kept inside… not because I was keeping things secret but because depression is isolating.

The breakthrough with the treatment has been slow but steady.  I definitely knew something had changed but it wasn’t until a few weeks after the treatment that I realized how badly I had been doing.  I can only describe it as waking up the morning after a whole night of storms and walking through the damage.  I didn’t realize how much my writing had suffered.  I had neglected my physical health too — my quality of sleep was bad, no exercise, wild food binges — and well, I was just not happy.

As I am getting better, I am also realizing how much work has to go into reclaiming the time… the reflection, the focus back on my physical health, writing, and staying healthy. The change in direction for me is about this effort and it extends to about what I write, how I share myself, and experience life in general.

 

Big Love

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I feel like I have written a confessional  with this same title before.

Let me let you in on a secret.  I love to write about love partly because of my journey to finding love.  So let me lay the ground work so that you understand why writing about love is so linked to my own experiences and search.  First, I believe in the big love.  I think there is that quintessential experience of love that we are all entitled to as human beings.  This experience comes as part of your package for going along on this journey called life.  Some people are so fortunate to have this experience multiple times, others have near misses, but you are guaranteed at least one Big Love experience.

The Big Love experience, to me, begins with finding the match.

For some people, the experience of match finding is like a comet flying through space and into the atmosphere — all fire — and it is good for them.  Everything about them is explosive: the way they love each other, defend each other, fight each other, etc.  And while the explosion fools people into thinking that they are wrong for each other, there is a sacred place of balance where they regularly check into and moderate their issues so that they fire does not consume them.  Sometimes, though, the comet lovers forget to check into the sacred space and well, things fall apart. And not in the sophisticated way that Chinua Achebe writes in his book.

Other Big Love experiences are like a warm, gentle fire burning under the skin… just enough to warm the blood and skin, but not enough to cause injury or harm.  Because the fire is delicate and just beneath the surface, things can be a bit sensitive to touch.  The ones who experience this kind of match are like those animals you heard in church choruses that walk two by two into Noah’s Ark.  Or like the picture of lovers pricked by Cupid’s Arrow… a little cliche but so well match.  Their experience of this beneath-the-surface affection is fulfilling even for those watching from outside. It’s like always having a mug of hot chocolate, warm socks, and a beautiful grey sweater, looking outside the window on a cold, damp day.   This under-the-skin Big Love is steady, safe, and always present.  It is comforting, rarely explosive, and easy to approve of — especially where judgey friends are concerned.  There may a bit of passive aggressive behavior in this love but there’s no doubting it.  But often doubt creeps in through insensitive behavior or taking things for granted.  Because it is so steady and present, it is easy to forget to nurture its glowing embers.

Then there is another experience of Big Love that begins deep in the heart. And this one has the absolute ability to shift your insides. Sometimes the love is so consuming, it makes your insides hurt.  And if you sit right, you can feel the tightening of the muscle that is your heart because this deep love physically manifests itself and makes itself known.  Sometimes when I try to describe this type of Big Love, I am reminded of the Kiswahili proverb (methali) — Mapenzi ni kikohozi, hayawezi kufichika — Love is like a cough, it cannot be hidden.  It’s so full of big gestures and events and monumental happenings. It can be quite exhausting especially if unhealthy competition sets in.  And it can end up being belittling and can kill the healthy roots that settle this love in the inner core of the heart.

My absolute favorite of the Big Love is the one that is not obvious and is hard to figure out.  For an overthinking lover, it can be a nightmare because it is not quite rational.  It is mismatched.  And because it just is, it can’t be explained.  This particular love almost always never fits the typical ideas of love … this experience is filled with mystery and surprises and not knowing.  It’s hard to predict which way this Big Love will go.  It is as fulfilling as it is nerve wracking.  It is a pure exercise in faith.  There are no guarantees but the ride is worth it all.

So where was I going with this again? … aaah yes… we are all guaranteed at least one Big Love experience and I think I already experience it once before.  But the Big Love experience did not materialize into a Forever Love.  So I keep looking…. because surely my story is not over yet, right?

About dimensions

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It’s quite human — and somewhat convenient — to paint people simply.  It’s much easier to label someone as all good or another as all bad.  I am learning that people are far more than just one “thing.”

I am also conscious that this is the same thing for me… it is possible for me to exist in these seemingly contradictory spaces. I have had a hard time understanding for instance that being angry and expressing my anger does not make me an inherently evil person.  I have a lot of guilt when I express anger — and I don’t know where I got this false belief that being angry equals being a mean person.  Especially when I know that anger is a healthy emotion and that it is basically a way of signaling that I feel an injustice has been done or that I object to how a story is unfolding.

But I think what I have learnt that is truly humbling is that because I was previously opposed to letting myself comfortably occupy these contradictory spaces without losing my identity, I was unable to lend this grace to others.  And it is really sad.  I think I used to see the world as black and white — and in some ways, I still do (but hopefully less so). Living that kind of life can be quite difficult…

I suppose with age I am softening and learning to live in the grey areas and getting more comfortable with not having this purist view of life… It is both refreshing and terrifying… but it fills me with great compassion.

Fringe benefit – this realization of dimensions makes it easier to really enjoy the Meredith Brooks “Bitch” song as popularized by Alanis Morrisette:

I’m a bitch, I’m a lover
I’m a child, I’m a mother
I’m a sinner, I’m a saint
I do not feel ashamed
I’m your hell, I’m your dream
I’m nothing in between
You know you wouldn’t want it any other way
So take me as I am…

Adventure

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Creating adventure.  I want to be one of those people that embrace adventures – right to the point of pursuing them relentlessly.  I think having adventure can help my writing process even as it helps me to live a little.

Sometimes I am extremely disappointed with myself.  I am a typical hermit.  I love being home.  I love sitting on the couch and watching a good show.  I love reading a good book and just chilling.  Writing and the hermit are a match made in heaven.  But I also feel like the hermit is missing out on things — not sure what but I just feel like there is a whole world out there and the hermit is not there.

I wasn’t always the hermit, you know and there’s a part of me that used to enjoy finding new things to do. I believe adventure fuels imagination — and imagination crafts good stories.  Writing and adventure could be a match made in heaven as well.

So I think as I craft a new collectible hobby, I will also write the new adventures I want to take on.  I want to scuba dive.  Maybe do a zip line.  I want to take Pooch to the beach.  I want to see if skydiving is compatible with the hermit.  I want to do a hot air balloon ride. I want to go abroad with Pooch to a dog friendly country. I want to paint on canvas in an artists’ commune.  Maybe learn how to ride a motorcycle.  I want to ride at ATV across some sand dunes.  Camp in the wild. I want to bathe in a river.  Ohhh skinny dip in some warm, natural swimming pool. I want to get lost in a corn maze at Halloween. Prayerfully walk a labyrinth. Maybe read some badly written poetry on an open mic night.  I want to join some random music band’s jam session.  And bring along my dog to make people both uncomfortable and happy.  I would love to be a storyteller — finally do the performance I have crafted. Buy an old gramophone, play some records in the night, listen to this music, and drink champagne while seated on a blanket.  I want to write for four, five, six days at a time… really give myself over to this process of writing and writing and writing.

And… I could go on and on… I want to create adventure and then write about it.  I want to live.

Ventilating issues

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I love confessions.  I often feel like writing things out makes me feel better.

I am working on another project (day job) and one of my colleagues likes to use the phrase “ventilate issues” when we need to have difficult discussions.  I just love that phrase.  So now I want to ventiliate one of my writing issues.

I am doing a re-draft of my short stories.  I am committed to putting something out there soon.  But I am having a hard time silencing my inner critic.  There are some stories that I can’t even bring myself to open up on Scrivener. I am trying all sorts of jedi mind tricks to get myself into it and it’s just hard.

I have always said that I am a better editor than I am a drafter but it looks like my mind wants to show me that it’s not so. I understand that if I re-draft I will feel better about the project.  I know that getting closer to publishing gets me closer to my dream.

I think I am afraid.  Afraid that I cannot produce more than what was in the first draft.  I am afraid that I will piss off my muse and we can’t work.

And then I am struggling with the idea of going pro.  I read somewhere that good writers are born when they decide to go pro.  The whole idea being that when you decide to be professional about your writing, when you cultivate the discipline, then you begin to make big strides.  It seems to me that deciding is not enough.  There’s still a lot more to be done beyond the affirmation. There’s the doing thing… man, I have twisted myself up in knots.

Anyway. I thought if I confess then I will be able to write more.

Ok. There. Issues ventilated.

Channeling the happy thoughts

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Today was a rough day for me.  I was basically okay but had a case of melancholia.  I was very happy when my nap on the couch went by slowly and time didn’t zip through as it usually does. I woke up from my nap without a panic or anxiety so that was great! But I couldn’t explain this sunken feeling.

When I have the blues, if I can explain the source, I am more likely to ride the wave faster.  But I couldn’t pin this one down.

Usually, it is part longing for someone to be with me on lazy Sunday afternoon.  Part of it is loneliness and the tension of walking a space where I desire the alone time too.  Part of it is despair because I can’t figure our fast enough what I want.  Part of it is wondering if this is all that life has to offer.  Part of it is playing victim, part of it is fatigue, part of it is the neurotic brain, and part of it is… just exhausting.

And even after all that, I couldn’t understand why I had this feeling of emotional distress. I couldn’t journal it away. I couldn’t screen it away – you know, watch enough Netflix episodes of a show and put myself in a catatonic state. I tried a couple of empowering thoughts.  A half-ass attempt at meditation.  I tried to get into a quick HIIT workout.  But then there not enough that I could do.

And so I gave in to the sadness and waited for it to seep out of my pores.

It was a long day.

 

Changing direction

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So there are many life defining moments that a writer like me would bookmark.  The first time I read a book and was so moved by the emotions that little butterflies roamed my tummy and I had to catch my breathe.  The first time I felt emotions of love and adoration. The first time I was told that I was loved.  You get my drift…

But there are other firsts which are so significant that they change how you experience life and therefore how you express yourself.  I think I had one of those “Damascus” moments this year.  I want to write differently after this experience (no doubt will be a confessional post one of these days) and the only regret I have is that I hadn’t been writing consistently so that I could see the change.  I’m guessing it would have been awesome to see.

Nevertheless, I think because I have changed how I see life and a lot of my core beliefs have been challenged, my writing will change and indeed has changed.  I feel bolder and find it easier to access my voice.  And I had been searching for an authentic expression of myself for a while – so that’s a relief.

Anyway, I am happy that I am evolving.  Let’s see how it changes my stories.

New habits and hobbies

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I wrote in one of my other confessionals about the need to go beyond my own experiences in order to write about compelling and interesting characters.  Along with understanding my own limitations as a writer, this process of trying to expand my world view has actually prompted me to seek out new experiences.

I want to have new hobbies.  Of course music and reading and indie movies are at the top of my lovely things to do… but I am feeling like I need to get a hobby that promotes physical well being.  I am lazy dog owner which means that I outsource majority of my dog walking responsibilities.  But I would really love to do more with my dog.  So my big goal is to start walking with Pooch.  (You can meet my imaginary version of Pooch on this page – check out Today’s Special). I also feel like it will help me with health goals.

Then I want to explore a new take on music and create a collection of sorts.  And so I am thinking of getting a vinyl habit. I am still stewing on this because I need to have a plan for storage, care, and use.  I love my books and they have a system… I will need a system for the vinyls… but I am so excited to get started.

Then.  I have a secret wish to do roller skating.  Now I am a bit scared with this one but oh! how happy it would make me.  Just thinking about it makes my insides soar! I can see myself moving around and around – such graceful movements. If I was super aggressive, which I assure you I am not at all, I would be especially thrilled to seek out and join a roller derby team.

Maybe this exploration into new bits of me will give me new ways of seeing people and how they view the world.  Certainly how they see it all. By expanding my view of me, I could possibly discover others who I can draw into my world of writing.