All the Ladies in the House

Character dolls are done, except for waiting on a shirt for Lore. Still no Stellar Repo that I can envision well. I like Avian, the leader of the bird planet where Stellar was raised. Got good use of a piece of white fake fur! And mangling the cloak worked out to be the best garment solution - just turned it inside/out and tattered it some more. I won't make Stellar's BFF, the gas giant because, well how do you make a jellyfish that will stand up by itself? Can't make it yet, but I have some ideas. Sold a load of old Barbie stuff to clear my mind. At the end of every flurry of activity related to writing the stories is just that: writing. There is no substitute for sitting down and doing the work. I've run out of excellent creative excuses. Give me another day, and I'll have another list. Writing a list is writing, right?

The Gift of Self Esteem

I don't know how it got here, but I know the day it did. I tweeted its arrival. An early and unexpected Christmas gift from the universe on December 22, 2012. For the last half of 2012, I was fascinated by a call for entries from an Eastern Michigan University senior fine arts major named Felicity Baker. She is double minoring in psychology with women and gender studies. The exhibition, during March (Women's History Month) will be head and shoulders renderings of what contributors understand about the looking-glass self. Presented by Charles Cooley in 1902, this theory purports, as Baker quotes, "I am not what I think I am and I am not what you think I am; I am what I think you think I am." Twisty, huh? It took a handful of weeks to even understand the concept. I've had several ideas of art to submit, but I am thinking in three-dimensional art, rather than flat art asked for submission. And I am thinking about whether this theory is true. For me. In the long years of the past. Today. The art I imagined is a discarded frame hanging in my workroom. Around the edges I would paint "I have a framework. It is constant and divine."  True. All the wiggly bits and electricity and chemical compositions that make a human are there at the beginning. Centered in the frame on fishing line is a light. Small, bright. This is my essence. Powerful, as significant in every way as anything else in the cosmos. As mighty, as miniscule. True. In front of this incredible light would be transparent panels representing what has, and is, obscuring that light. 1st layer: painted with the parent brush. 2nd layer: painted with the peer brush. 3rd layer: drawn with the teacher pencils. And so on. Bosses, coworkers, lovers, enemies, circumstances. True. And understanding emerged. We have no way of knowing what others think of us. But we make it up. We absorb what our culture feels about us. We suffer for it. We do it to ourselves. For the last several months, I've been removing the painted layers from my mental work of art. When these obscuring layers are abandoned by me - because I am the person who keeps them installed and effective - when I remove the layers, what remains is my light. Small, powerful, steady, calm and bright. So bright. And on December 22, 2012, when I subconsciously reached for the veil, it wasn't there. None of them were. Self esteem. "I am what I know I am."

Voice

Voice is larynx vibration. The etymology of the noun voice could be from the Old French voiz, Sanskrit vakti, Greek eipon, Prussian wackis, Olde English stefn. Utterance, cry, speech, say, call, word. Voice is speaking an opinion out loud. Voice is an author's style, a writer's unique storytelling, a storyteller's gift to the world. I have an issue with voice. On many levels, during what may be many lifetimes. And I'm being shoved into solving this, beginning in intense therapy over years, and now by the universe. This morning, as I composed myself to write, I looked at npr's site and found a First Listen from Sean Rowe's The Salesman and the Shark. He was self-conscious about voice and would erase tapes with his voice on them, leaving only the music. He has a new album with his gorgeous voice all through. Researching background for the novella I'm writing, this morning I googled at-risk children. Link to link traveling, I found a reference to adult children of narcissistic parents (I am one) and read that a daughter who hasn't sorted this stuff out will go from bad relationship to bad relationship looking for a powerful person to grant her voice. I have to grant myself voice. I have to be the powerful person who gives me what I need. That's what I'm mulling, battling and stumbling through. It is a compelling journey. An old soul can be just a slow learner. A woman once read a brooch I have. She said she saw an old woman on the ice, a tribal leader, but she could not tell her whole truth. She said this while holding her own throat tightly. I had written a story about a shaman on the ice, a tribal leader. I thought it was a made-up story. The woman who saw the elder on the ice said it was me. What strikes me now is not the idea of past lives, but a tribal leader not being able to tell her whole truth. If it was a past life, then I've been stifling my truth for lifetimes. I guided a Share Circle in June about using voice. It was scary, but I did it. Since June, I receive at least one message about using voice per day. I don't think I've got the lesson learned yet. And I don't know what the Source wants me to do. But I'm observing, and trying, and that's the best I can offer just now. The change from then to now is that I am excited about what I'll find, what depth of me I'll discover, what I have to say that may be needed in the world. That is awesome. Perhaps that is the lesson. We have choice. We have free will. We can grant ourselves voice, and then use our voices to make our world more loving, more truthful.

Sunyata and Potatoes

I woke from an active dream yesterday in which my lucid brain was trying to write my dreaming brain a message. Literally, on a piece of paper with black ink. It was one word. Ademuth, asemuth, absemuth, something I could not recapture. Frustrated, I wrote what I just wrote here on a 3x5 card, and got on with the day. This morning, finding this card on my desk, and another that read "do Barb's honey label," I first made Barb's raw honey label, and then ruminated on the word. Azimuth came forward out of the dark. Looked that up. I know I knew that word, but I have no idea what my brain was sending me about that word. Planetary alignment? Words with z? How High the Moon? Noodling on the internet, I bumped into Saturn/Venus, Jupiter viewing early mornings this month. Trine, conjunct, quincunx and all that. Then I chose an Osho Zen Tarot card and got the Major Arcana No-thingness (sunyata). Then I read Pisces at Free Will Astrology, in which I was reminded that while the Spanish were looking for El Dorado gold in the New World, what they brought home was the potato. Then I stopped to feel the energy zooming around my body. I looked up sunyata (soon-yuh-tah), and decided I will not have time in this incarnation to learn everything I think I want to know. And that is the message from this morning. The energy zooming around my body is universal energy. Life is the journey from nothingness to nothingness. And in between, there are fun, interesting, joyous, awesome, quixotic, maddening, delightful, gorgeous, crazy, wonderful sidetrips. And potatoes. Why worry?

Unblocking Mature Woman Writer's Block

I had writer's block for about 35 years. When I was 9 I wrote constantly, entered writing contests and won sometimes; wrote, directed a school play in 5th grade. Went to college in English education so I could write more, better. Then I stopped writing. Work, goofing off and life kept me busy. Easily explained and understood. In 2006, I started writing again. In 2008 I published my first novel. I've been writing on scraps of paper, in composition books, gift journals, with screenwriting software, and on the refrigerator since then, but cannot move past snippets. From July to October last year, I could not write at all. So what do we do when we can't write, when it is what we need to do passionately? We talk about not writing. We read other people's craft. We meet. We fidget, play the tape loop about failure over and over in our heads. We judge, criticize, rewire neurons, and report failure to our creative synapses. This week friend Susan and I talked about this. We are aware of the usual suspect excuses: time, subject, interruptions, discipline. Same old, same old. We came up with a couple of insightful ideas. We're smart, educated, were not born yesterday, and know what good writing is and does. We know that good writing is putting the truth and heart on the page, connecting with empathy and understanding to the reader. It's the writing we like to read, and the writing we like to do. But. What if our children read it? What pain will we cause those we love? What in our past that we believe readers might appreciate do we not want to talk about? How do we move past not wanting to tell bad stories on ourselves, even if we think it might be funny to a reader? Can we be completely honest? If I cannot refer to myself as aging, or older, or an elder, what does that say about how truthfully I write? If I avoid pain in the present, can I write despondence with honesty? Can I bleed on the page? Does my therapist know I'm stymied like this? Is there a creative writing shoehorn? What's the 10k volt creative jolt I need? Can I pay for one more writing workshop? What Susan and I decided is the same methodology that worked when we were 9 years old. Practice, practice, practice.

Black Hat Tea

Nancy hosted our writers' group for a Black Hat Tea at her house in Holly, Michigan yesterday. She has a gorgeous home, and she has dozens of Halloween decorations. Everywhere we looked was another magical treasure to admire. The copper bird cage hanging next to her sink had two top-hatted crows carrying trick or treat bags. The kitchen stove towel read "Eat, Drink & Be Scary." The witch on the powder room sink read "The hat is just to keep the halo straight." Teddy bears in costumes. Beautiful pointy hats, purple and black spiders, a proper witch's cauldron, a spider web tablecloth and runner to complement flickering candles on the mantel, and a black feather wreath above. Nancy served Leelanau "Witches' Brew" wine, with "Don't Drink & Fly" cocktail napkins. Carrots were served in a black dish. A jalapeno sauce dripped green and gooey (and delicious) on a serving plate. The wine corks were witch legs upside down, and one of the serving dishes as well. Beautiful blown glass pumpkins decorated the serving buffet. We each got our own stocking/shoe to fill with goodies, like a broom that reads "Black Hat Society." The windows were open, and the wind swirling the leaves crisply about was delightful background music. We had a wonderful time, laughing and sharing stories; good friends playing happily. I don't yet have permission to post all the beautiful women with their beautiful hats, but when I do, I'll feel back in better company.

E. M. Spairow Screenplay Wins Waterfront Film Festival

Congratulations to E. M. Spairow, screenwriter, for selection as the 2011 Waterfront Film Festival XIII screenplay contest winner for Manifest. Spairow, a Michigan native, graduate of American Film Institute, former Eastern Michigan University teacher, and MI journalist, will be back to Michigan from California for the indie film festival June 9-12 in Saugatuck, Michigan. Named by the Chicago Sun Times as one of the top 10 really cool things to do, this year promises to have even more homegrown excitement! Passes are on sale NOW. You'll want to find accommodations right now, too. Celebrate Michigan, celebrate film and celebrate fantastic writers!