The Power of One Word

In one of our classes in the recent Releasing The Writer Within series, I read a list of 75 words and asked my students to write down the ones that made them feel something, triggered an emotion. Then they had to chose one to write about. Keri N. wrote down the word "divorce". Here is her free write from it. Keep in mind, I ask my students NOT to edit or worry about grammar and punctuation, which is scary for them. So read for content not criticism...as always : ) 

DIVORCE

Divorce is easy, the lawyers are strange they are aliens I walked into his office as something from another planet. We talked finances, another foreign language. I would GPS his location in Cranston because I never remembered it. After a while I realized I had to turn right at the taco bell. It was an old neighborhood I passed through to get there. Houses and families I imagined had been there for years. Unchanged only time wearing down the shingles. And his office was small at the end of the road. We had a house then, a yard. Part of me wanted to blow our family dynamic apart without remorse we had our list of problems. He cheated on me many times. He loved his Facebook way more than he could a family. But sometimes the houses on that old street created longing or sometimes they created a pressure in my body, a ghost hand pressing down. I couldn't go through with marriage or a divorce without thinking something of myself. I had thought our separation through for days and weeks, months. He had gone to work everyday and did his constant share of escaping our disintegration. In our bedroom he said, let's just try harder. And I knew then for sure he was disconnected, on a permanent lunch break. I had tried the hardest. I had overlooked things I maybe shouldn't have. He was incapable of trying. On the rare days he would help me with housework he insisted that I take our son and leave so he could focus on the kitchen grime at hand. "That's not real life," I reminded him. His paycheck was his ticket to not care too much. It was my job to do the housework. He never lifted a finger. Welcome to the new 1957. I couldn't stand it. My rage was more than hot pokers, it was something psychic that could bury itself in brain tissue and cause cancer, an immediate inoperable tumor. Like my mother, I could never be kept down. I claw too much, spit too much.

Release it on paper and let it go...

I just finished teaching a four-week series of Releasing TheWriter Within. The pieces that my students created were responses to very unstructured prompts; my goal was to give them wide, open space to observe their feelings, thoughts, and ideas and then release them onto paper. The only rule in my class is do not judge or evaluate yourself or classmates. This environment allows for total freedom of expression, crucial to the creative process and removing possible obstacles towards creativity. 

Below is a warm-up piece from one of my new students, Brenda. A warm up is a free-write that we do after a brief breathing exercise. The idea is to just write what is in your mind at that moment.

Chaos

Like a Calgon commercial, I see the bits and pieces of the day crashing

around me. Fast moving, spinning me in circles. How to focus. Thoughts so scattered as I try to put the pieces together.

My morning; wake fast, no time to get ready. Rushing…shower, dress…what to wear. Feed the dogs. Take them for their morning walk. What now?

Get the coffee ready so that I can start the day. Four messages on my phone already and I haven’t even left for the office yet. Oh God! Early morning meeting, so many emails.

On the road visiting clients. Such negativity! Is this what 2013 is going to be like. Just let me get through January. Only two weeks in and already…dread. Is this going to be a bad year? I’ve certainly had my share. Just want a life that’s easier.

Gone are the days of irresponsibility. I wish I could get those days back but no luck. The responsibility is thick, so thick that it chokes.

New book and upcoming class

New book is up on my site but not ready to go "live" in bookstores. Check out the summary and cover.
Fear of Falling

Also, the last Releasing The Writer Within "live" class (until 2011) begins on September 8, 2009 @ 7pm in Warren, RI. Go to the website for details.

Letting go

Funny how in one week, for me at least, my moods and feelings about my writing can fluctuate so much. I guess this is the life of a tortured artist…In my case, however, the torturing is all self induced. The thing is, unlike my teenage years, I am pretty happy in my life. I have an awesome family–my husband, kids, family, my work, and friends. I guess I struggle only in my head because there’s no other struggle really to be had! You know what? I think struggle is overrated and unnecessary. I bet can write better without all the self-induced b.s.

I attempted to write a story that dug deeply into a very painful part/time period in my life. My parents divorce.

And the verdict is…

I failed.

Yep.

I wrote about 22 pages of…blips, fits and starts, with maybe one actual scene…I ended this week feeling like complete and utter crap, too. By Thursday I was ready, yet again, to call it quits with school (my MFA program) and just hang up my proverbial pen–call it a day with the whole writing thing. I had trouble sleeping all week–yes, the heat is really bad and yes, I have a 13 month old…but I also have air conditioning and a baby who is a good sleeper. Suffice it to say, I am my own problem.

Speaking of, so what was my problem with writing this story?

I don’t know, exactly, but here’s what I learned:

You can’t write the story closest to your heart if every time you sit down to work on it, you want to throw your lap top across Starbucks and then stomp on it while screaming obscenities.

This is what I wrote in my journal on Friday:

The words don’t come. There’s not flow. I am blocked. I can’t write the story that’s in my head. It’s not fun. Maybe I am not cut out for this. I feel like I can’t quit. Not pride. Logistically. Quitting means losing a crap load of money, means I won’t get to study with all the fabulous, amazing courageous people at Solstice. But I am failing, and I don’t feel angry. I feel sad. I am in my own way, no one else. Frankly, this IS too hard and perhaps my years of resistance to getting my MFA was warranted, was instinctively right on. I don’t think I am going to make it through because I don’t have anything inside of me to write anymore. Nothing. All the ideas that come up are met with my own resistance, my own voice shaking a finger and saying, “That’s the same crap you’ve been writing. It sucks. Don’t bother. Can’t you do something better? Different? Deeper?”

I dream up stories about girls and the boys they lust/love/like. I want to write those. But when I go to do it, I feel like it’s meaningless and not beautiful, high literary quality. Vapid, Reality Show.

But the advice I keep getting is, write what you want to write. So, I guess this story about the two sisters who are in different ways deeply affected by their father and their parents impending split, which is torturous to write, I guess I have to stop. I don’t want to waste my time sitting here, day after day like I have been in the last week and a half, trying to write a story that just feels crappy inside, each time I sit down. It reminds me of when I dated this boy for a while in high school, and I absolutely didn’t like him romantically, but I kept telling myself I should. He was a “good” guy. We wound up breaking up. I’m not good at faking it.

So I give up this story that I don’t want to write.

Writing was an escape and love for decades for me, and now it’s torture. It feels like I was placed in a Math class, like Calculus, and I never took the prerequisites. The standard I’m holding myself to right now is impossible. I’m not ready. I’m not ready for the 24k run…


This morning, I had a nice, long, figure-out-my-struggle talk with my best friend (and husband). We took a long walk along the water where we live, our baby sleeping in the stroller and our older daughter with my mother. We just walked and talked–without interruption, without losing our train of discussion, and in so doing, I found the space and peace inside my head that just whispered, “Let go” and so…I did. I am letting go of the struggle with this story. In the case of this artist, struggle is not creating beauty. Therefore, I let go of struggle. But I am not giving up on writing. Never.

***Another version of this blog is featured on 5awesomeyafans.com.

Time, Space, and Commitment

Saturday, May 2, 2009

Two people attended class today.

This current series runs 10 weeks and is designed for any level of writer but specifically for those who are serious about their writing and want to deepen their commitment. Who want to have the “good excuse” and accountability that a class can provide a student for writing.

Eleven people signed up. Eight people have continued beyond the first class.

It’s very hard to make a commitment to a long-term workshop. Life is very busy and demanding for the average person, no matter your age or circumstances. Most of the time, two or three people out of 10 or 11 don’t make it through the series. That’s pretty standard. I don’t take it personally. This is how life is. Sometime it really is too hard to commit to something, even something you really do want to do…

But–

Cut to my point.

I felt a familiar sensation as I looked out at the class and saw only two faces. Don’t get me wrong, these are two beautiful faces and class was still suburb with the small group.

But–

I felt frustrated and even guilty that so many people were out.

These feelings of frustration and guilt are not new. In fact, I have felt these feelings before, many, many times, in my over-10-year career as a teacher.

When students are continually absent, late, or don’t do homework, I feel frustrated as the teacher. You aren’t letting me do my job, my job of teaching you, when you don’t show up/do the work/are late. You miss something and you invalidate the commitment that you want, that you seek, that you signed up for!

Next to this frustration is guilt. What can I do to make you fully committed? What have I not done, or, hell, done wrong to make you not be as committed as I think you can be–even with your life circumstances? Simply put, I tell myself that, somehow, it’s my fault, and I do that because if it’s my fault, then maybe I can change it and change you. Of course as a student of not only writing, but also personal growth and development (a.k.a I have had a LOT of therapy over the years), I know very well that, well, you can lead a horse to water but you can’t make him write– I mean drink. Also, truthfully, everyone has a process, and it is not always linear. Each person, when they are late or absent or don’t do their homework, usually does have a very good reason. But the problem is, if it happens more often than not, that reason is getting in the way of their commitment to themselves. Yes, it’s normal and happens–shit, happens. I know this. But, I also know that is takes tenacity and commitment to make a dream come true and sometimes you have to say, “Enough with my excuses. Enough!”

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When I taught public school, and would see consecutive red marks in my attendance book, I would want to scream at that continually-absent student (but couldn’t because they weren’t there!), “But you get this for free (sort of)! You don’t pay a thing. Why not just show up? I mean, you don’t have to even do much, just take that first step and show up, and I promise you, that I am that good. So good, that soon you will want to do your homework, you will be dying to do it. If you just show up regularly, your life will change. Promise.”

And similarly, I had this moment standing up there looking out at my two-student class. “Why aren’t you here?” I wanted to ask my absent students and not just those that were not there today, but those over the years, who haven’t come back to class or who stopped coming without ever telling me why. I want to say, “You did pay for this. You do want this. Just show up. I don't care if you just sit there. I don't even care if you are late! Just show up. I promise I will make it worth it.”

In the initial moment of standing up there in front of my two-person class, a whole series of emotions and thoughts flooded me. The irony is, writing about it in the beginning warm up, helped me to let it go and teach the class, and in that, I was reaffirmed that writing is about showing up, showing up and doing the work, being honest, no matter how self-conscious and scary it is, and that I have to help my students continue to do that.

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Analogy time.

Okay, you know how you decide you are going to, let’s say, start taking yoga regularly? You know your schedule is nuts with kids or friends or work or whatever it is, and, yet, something bigger than the guilt you feel about those obligations compels you to sign up and make the commitment¬– at least on paper. So, you force yourself, in a way, to be committed by buying a series of classes, so that way you have paid for it already. So, of course, you’ll go.

But, then, each week– I don’t know– something, your niece’s soccer game, your cousin’s birthday party or your husband or wife gets sick, something something gets in the way, and so that by the end of the series you have only taken two classes.

Or, substitute that analogy with a gym membership or, hell, one of my workshop series. Your intention is to keep the commitment, but along the way and the weeks, it becomes easier NOT to. On the surface you tell yourself you have a good excuse and maybe one or two times you do. But then, it becomes too hard to return, to get back to the commitment. Terry, who was in class today, said it’s like what experts say about being in a marathon. “Do not stop. Never stop. You may slow down to a walk, but do not stop, because once you stop, you will never start again. Your muscles will tightened, and it will hurt too much.”

Do not stop.

And then you do. You stop coming.

Yeah.

Now sit with that for a minute.

The thing is that it’s true. The more often you stop attending the class (any class, not just mine), the more likely it is that you will continue to stop, that the thought of going– the effort, the aggravation (or perceived aggravation)– will hurt too much, and you will become so sore and tight, well, forget it, you aren’t running again.

In my workshops, I warn people mid-way through the semester: “Guys you are going to want an excuse (unconsciously) to not come to class. Life is going to get in the way, if you let it.”

“Oh, no way!” everyone says, “This is so great! It’s so much fun…”

Uh, no it’s not. At least not all the time.

Writing is a craft and requires effort and exertion and it’s tough. It forces you to go within and observe. It forces you to be honest about your feelings and your life. And, if you want to get better, write more, not be blocked, you gotta show up¬– a lot. Butt in seat and WRITE.

Now, who the hell thinks that’s always fun or easy? No one. That’s why every workshop series, when life begins to interfere, and you stop attending class regularly, you start to avoid coming back because you stopped, and you got out of practice and your muscles tightened and now it hurts too much.

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I remember when one of my long-time– and truly brilliant might I add– students lost her partner of over 20 years. He actually passed away the night of one of our classes. She continued to come to class in those weeks after he died. She showed up because she knew what she needed was time and space to write. She just showed up, and I believe that even though most of the time she didn’t write and couldn’t write, she was more afraid of what might happen if she stopped. That if she stopped completely, she would tighten and then when she was ready to return, it might hurt way too much.

I thought about her today while I stood up in front of my students. About her commitment, which goes beyond not only that time in her life, but even now, as she is trying to figure out a new career and a new place to live. She still shows up. She still comes to class.

I also think of Shakay, who, today, told me proudly that each week when another obligation comes up on the day of our class (a Saturday), she boldly tells her loved ones, “Nope, I can’t. I gotta go to my class.” Because it matters. It matters more than someone’s BBQ or another person’s favor they need. It matters more than anything to this student.

The truth is this. What will work, what will bring release and contentment to yourself, is making the time and space and commitment to study writing and to do your writing.

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As I write this, during warm up today in class, I stopped at this point because, to the left of me, one of my two students, Terry, dropped his pen and pushed his chair back with a self-satisfied smile. He stopped writing in the middle of the writing portion of the warm up. I didn’t say to stop, but he did. Drank his coffee and then folded his arms.

Oh, hell, no. I mean, Terry is that good of a writer, and later, when he shared his piece– oh, it was brilliant. But the point of class is NOT to stop, but to keep going and going.

THIS IS WHAT YOU SIGNED UP FOR. WHAT YOU PAID FOR. THE EXCUSE TIME, SPACE, AND FREEDOM TO WRITE, AND YOU ARE CHOOSING NOT TO. WHAT THE FLYING FIG IS WRONG WITH YOU?

I didn’t say any of that to Terry. Instead, I whispered, “Keep going.” And he did.

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But I’ll admit. I feel frustrated. I sit in this room, this beloved room where I have been teaching you all for the past three years, and I look around, and I think about all the people who have stopped coming to class over the years and all the excuses and reasons they have given. I think about those things, not to judge the reasons and excuses, just observing. I think about current students who didn’t come today and their reasons and excuses. I think about the people, over the years, who have signed up for an eight-week class and only come to two.

I think about one of my professors at school (MFA program at Pine Manor College), how he told me, “Watch. We are going to lose people in this program. More people will drop out than graduate.” That depressed me, although it’s something I know well.

I think of one of my yoga teachers who often asks, if not now, when?

So I ask you all, if not now, when?

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Even now Terry stops again. Drinks his coffee and folds his arms again. He is wasting this precious time NOT writing. Damn it, Terry! This is your writing time, and you are stopping. You aren’t writing. Why? Why is just a little enough?

“Keep writing, Terry,” I whisper, and he, reluctantly, with a soft chuckle, does.

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Isn’t this what you want when you take class from me? Sometimes I am afraid to say these things because I don’t want to scare or offend you. But, I realize, now, just having pushed Terry, that– so what? My intention is NOT to offend or scare you, but to get you to write. That's my job. My job isn’t to help you with your excuses to not write. My job is to help you overcome those excuses. Overcome those stresses and fears that prevent you from following through on your commitment to write, on your commitment to class, to show up.

So I will tell you all. Start attending every single class that remains in this series (there’s only three more). And try to show up on time. Try to do your homework. Show yourself, me, and the craft, the respect and the commitment you seek. When you continually show up late or miss class, it just reiterates the part of you that says, “I can’t.” That part is wrong. YOU can.

And, tell the people in your life, even if you feel guilty, even if they are more important than writing, that you need this one time and space of the week for you, for your writing. Make them get it. And if they don’t, come to class any way. (Easier said than done. I know.)

Also, I know very well that, as Terry said to me in class, “I can push you. I can pull you. But, I can not carry you.”

But, I can try.

More Observations from Motherhood

Motherhood continued….

I kept my promise to my students in my current class who asked me to journal about motherhood. The journal is ongoing. Below are more entries continuing from my last blog entry. Most of the time I journal it’s just a quick opportune moment while hanging out with the kids–the baby asleep and the big one playing.

Again, I share with you not in the hopes of advice but in the hopes of connecting and urging you to share your mommyhood stories with me.



October 28, 2008

Now we are going to move on to D Ab,cdef…efg…eeeeee…(silence) Doll….Then we are going to go to E e abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxy and z how I know my abcs next time won’t you sing with me….that’s all scribble after tomorrow we are going to do scribble efg…

A POEM AS I WATCH MY 4 YEAR OLD PLAY

We rearranged the playroom
The hum of our new white noise machines
The asthmatic purr of Maisey to the left, on the kitchen floor
The musical tones of my eldest daughter as she plays school and talks to her students they are learning the abcs and “scribble” as she calls cursive
My youngest is quiet…I would say finally but for her taking an hour to settle into bed is good luckily she never blaringly cries just fusses herself to sleep
I finally get that and stop futzing with her every 5 seconds

I a m not a poet and I HATE poetry. Except Emily Dickinson.

“g-g-gi-ff-t “ Now Chels is sounding out words. I can’t see her as we have rearranged the playroom so she can hide in front of the couch and play. But I know she is using her Barbie workbook. The same one she wants to bring to class to teach you all about how to write letters. Yeah, that’s what she thinks teaching “writing” means. : )

I don’t know what to write… Oh, yes, I do. I cried today as I fed Viv her dinner bottle today. It was just before 5, I had finished her bath, and she was howling for her bottle, which I know she probably wanted almost an hour before but had been patient with her mother who wants to try and get a schedule of some kind–

BTW Chels is taking her students to the computer lab now.

Anyway, I was feeding Viv, and she was super focused, not even remotely distracted by my stroking her cheek and kissing her soft, yummy, dumpling forehead–

No cheating! You know what cheating means. You do this…I am not going to do that– Okay?

Anyway¬– sorry, it’s hard not to eavesdrop on Chels.

So, Viv was feeding and I had on the classical station because we discovered over the weekend that Viv loves it, calms right down. The melodies were rushing around me, violin sounds and Viv was half asleep, but sucking steadily. I held her, warm, to me, and I was able to look out the front window and see the peeking blue from the gray clouds and the leaves wiping around from the wind–

There she goes again. It’s been exactly and hour and she is not totally asleep.

–the wind wiping and the musical swirling and Viv sucking, and I started to cry, just thinking…About my friend who’s son has been in the hospital for 2 weeks, with some kind of infection they can’t pin down, swollen eye and rash and morphine drips and no diagnosis. He’s almost 4. Last November a few days before Thanksgiving, she lost her third child, 16 weeks. She’s pregnant now, due in December, and this is what she is facing this year….I thought about it and I can’t say it– the loss of a child–God it is the worst thing in the world, I think. I looked at my healthy baby, and I cried and I thanked God.

Am I capturing motherhood?

October 29, 2008

Last night at 2 am. Chelsea came in. “I had a bad dream!” and not in the matter of fact voice that means she thought she might have a bad dream and preventatively she wants to come in and sleep with us–just in case. No. She was genuinely crying and scared. I brought her back, shushed her, didn’t even ask what the dream was. An hour later she came in and Mike brought her back. A few minutes later, she came back in, and I went back with her and slept in her room.

At some point in this whole thing, I think Mike said to me, “You need to be nicer to her.”

I feel something when Chels is needy…It used to be I would feel an urgency to meet her need. “Mama…I need to do last snuggles…Mama I need you to read me that book…Mama I need you to kiss my boo boo…Mama I need you to read me two bedtime stories…Mama….” I jumped and jumped because I really wanted to. It was healing to soothe her.

The needyness she has now is fickle and evolving. Sometimes it’s “Mama I need you!“ Then, two minutes later it’s “Mama, I can do it myself!” But in the middle of the night she needs me…

At one point, while I was in bed with her, I felt her stir a bit, and I said, “You can hold on to me, honey. That’s why I am here…Later, when I stirred and tried to find my spot, she said, “Mommy you can hold on to me if you want.” And I did.

I tried to explain it to my mother today but she just turned it into a statement about her mothering of me:

Me: I just don’t want to start some kind of thing where I am always sleeping with her-
Her: You know you didn’t sleep with us every night!

I mean come on! Did I even mention my shit? Of course, she was right to be defensive because why am I so crazy about making sure my daughter stays in her bed and I in mine? Because my mother never tried to get me to sleep in my own bed and let the boundary just burst wide. So much so, that I didn’t sleep by myself until I was 9.

I worry that Chels, who has the same anxiety I had as a child,anticipatory. As in, fear of the "What will happen? What could happen?" I don’t want to cater to it. I guess, I want her to be tougher than I was…I am projecting my own shit. I guess I have to get out of the way and watch her and deal with her needs in context to her and her life– not my childhood…

Isn't that the definition of good parenting?

October 30, 2008

Mommy I ate a little bit of it.
Keep eating.
And then you will give it to me?
Do I have to eat all of it? The two carrots? That’s boring. Sitting here and eating carrots– BORING! BORING! BORING!
SHHHH! Do you want to go to your room?
I can eat and still do stuff, Mommy! Mommy? I am not kidding, MOMMY! I AM NOT KIDDING. Crunch. That’s just mean, not letting anyone do something! You can’t just be MEAN! That’s just being mean, Mommy. You’re being mean!!!
Eyebrows raised [mine].
She turns her back to me and then glances over her shoulder.
Ahhh, but she is silent.
She turns again.
I type.
She scratches her neck. CRRRRUUNNCCCHHHHH
She leans her elbow on the table and puts her head in her hand. CRUNCH CRUNCH Shakes her head like, my mother is soo cruel how can she do this.
Silence
No crunching.
I burst out laughing.
What are you laughing about? What are you laughing about? Now she whispers: What are you laughing about? Then, louder: What are you LAUGHING ABOUT MOMMY?”
Us.
Me and you? Oh, my God!
I think we are funny.
She laughs and crunches. I don’t think we are funny.
She pretends to swim on the floor.

Nov 3
Last night before bed I was moaning about period cramps and I turned to Chels and said, “When you are a big girl and you get your period, I want you to know you can talk to me about it.” She cocked her head and said matter-of-factly, “That’s inappropriate to talk about with your child.” Mind you, this is the same child who bends over and looks at her "va jay-jay" as she calls it and says, “Mama, I think I got fuzz in my va jay-jay. Can you get it out?” Talk about inappropriate. She also is the same child who wants to watch me go to the bathroom at all times and I have to politely refuse her, citing “privacy” as a need. So, anyway, I found this all to be very amusing. So I said, “Oh, why is it inappropriate?” She said, “That’s not for a long time. We can talk about it when I am bigger.” I said, "How come you are so smart?" And she said, “Cuz my head is thinking.”

Nov 4
Whole day with both girls. Took both to vote and both to Stop & Shop. Finagled Mom to come over. Outside now typing and watching Chels sulk because she has no one to play with. We did go to the park, and she did play with a little girl she knows from the pool. The neighbors aren’t around so she ‘s bummed. I found out this morning that one of the neighbor’s kids, a 7-year-old boy, was talking about his “ding dong”, a word I never heard Chels use before today, and that he ordered her and his sister, who is Chels’s age, to take off their panties during some kind of game–

So I just went over to the neighbors and said something to the dad, and he was clearly embarrassed, but I think we both agreed that we didn’t want to make a big deal.

Nov 5
God, I think about the stuff that went down when I was a kid. Not really at Chels’ age but a little later. I seem to remember vividly, and not fondly, that a neighbor, when we lived in VA, invited me to come over to his house and then bought me passed his mother who was baking cookies, down to his basement where he stopped, turned the light on, and then in a flash, wiped out his penis. I screamed and turned around and ran up the stairs and out the door. I believe when the little boy wiped it out he beseeched me to “touch it, go ahead and touch it!” Good Lord!
Just thinking about my daughter….AHHHHHHHHH! I don’t want her touching “it” until she’s at least 25!!!!!

Stay tuned for more from my mommy diary!

Conflict

The following is my warm up from my class today.

The power of this piece, for me, is that I allowed my warm up for class to truly come from a deep part of me that I don’t want to share, talk about, or bring to full fruition yet know that in order for me to let go and not struggle, I must express this, openly and outwardly, without shame or hiding. It scares me to put this on my blog, and, yet, I think it’s healing to do so. I must put it on paper and let it go, fully, completely, and honestly. That’s the power of a class warm up. You let it go, so now you have space and energy to write about other things, to work on novels or projects that have been sitting on your desk. I find that writing, for me, forces me to be honest with myself, which ultimately frees me from any kind of shame or guilt that binds.

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I feel a nagging about him, every day. Every day that passes that we still don’t talk. Not that our not talking is intentional, like we have had a fight. We didn’t. The last time we saw each other was about a month ago at a very uncomfortable dinner with his wife and my husband and daughter.

He hasn’t called me or emailed since.

That’s nothing new.

That is, in the last 5 years, that’s nothing new. Before I had my daughter, he and I were pretty close and he called me and we saw each other.

Anyway, that’s the nagging thing, you know. That we were once close and I am so sick of saying and thinking that, as if that, the way we used to be, can somehow erase how we are today.
I blame him more than myself. He is the parent. I feel a nagging thing about that, too. About my blaming him. Then I hear his voice in my head. His voice says, you are an adult now. If you want to have a relationship with me, if you want to see me, you can pick up the phone and you can make the effort.

What I want to say back is, I have and I have gotten sick of being the one doing all the work.
His voice back would say I call you...

That’s bullshit. He doesn’t call. He calls me back. There’s a difference. He doesn’t invite us over or out to dinner. I initiate all that and have for the past several years.
His voice back is probably silent now. Or protesting. But to me, the protesting, at this point is equivalent white noise.

Why doesn’t my father WANT to see me? If he WANTED to see me, as when anyone really WANTS to see someone, particularly parent to child, you just do it. Call. Make it happen. He doesn’t pursue me, and I want that because if he did that, I would believe he really loved me and wanted me in his life.

I am tired, exhausted with doing all the work in the relationship. The arrangement of plans around his work and travel. Around his errands. Around his life.

It hurts that he hasn’t called to ask me if I need anything with the baby coming. Or to see how I feel. It hurts that he doesn’t act like the parent, the parent he was once.

There it is again, what he once was. You know what? I probably always did most of the work, the calling and planning and asking, and now that I am older and have my own family, I don’t feel right about that. I haven’t felt right about that for the last 5 years. In fact, over each of these last five years, my energy into the relationship has waned significantly. I want more from ANYONE in my life. I wouldn’t tolerate a friendship that was one way. Why should I tolerate a parent being that way? It hurts, though, and I just want my dad…well, not who he is today. Not the person he is. So, in a way, I am relieved to not have him in my life regularly. But if he showed me that he wanted to be in my life, I would make the space, the room. I think.

The only reason why I continue to think about him is that I worry that if I stop wanting something from him, then he will cut me off and go away forever and that thought scares me. And, yet, what we have isn’t really a connection or anything, anymore. It’s not like we have anything between us anymore, so it’s kind of an illusion, really¬–that there’s something still there because there really isn’t, and if there’s anything, it’s small. But I am afraid to really stop completely trying because if I don’t try there will be nothing.

After the last time, the dinner, which I planned and initiated, after that, I haven’t called or emailed him. Normally, I would. But no matter what goes on in my head, this time, I haven’t done it. Maybe I am really ready to stop and ready to risk the possibility of him completely letting me go….Or, maybe it’s me letting go of him.

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In the next post I will share with you the other warm up pieces from this class. I had my students use their warm ups to discuss internal conflict as it relates to character development. (They didn't know that they would be using their warm ups in this way until after they wrote them.) As with all of my techniques and assignments, I have my students use their journals and own life to play and explore and then after they do that, they can take the concepts and use them in their fiction. So, I wanted them to journal freely and then go back and see where their own internal conflicts are. Then, they will deeply understand what internal conflict is and be able to create authentic characters that have REAL struggle.

When I shared this piece with the class, everyone saw the internal conflict clearly– guilt and fear. While the external conflict is with my father, the real conflict that drives the piece is the internal conflict I have with myself. If I were to inject this same type of authentic struggle into a piece of fiction, that would be a very powerful piece.

Releasing The Writer Within Class 8

Releasing The Writer Within
Class 8

This week we began with a mediation warm up as usual, but this time I focused on having students peer inside their quieted minds and souls and look for their “truth”. Truth, to me, is somewhat subjective and personal– unlike fact, which is straightforward and objective. What is true for one person is not necessarily true for another. If you have a sibling, you know that you have a different interpretation of the childhood you shared, and each of you believe that your view is “true”. Isn’t it possible that both of your views are true? I wanted my students to ponder their own truths in this warm up. The idea was to have them open up a part of themselves that maybe they don't always have access to. This might bring in some interesting things to write about.

Releasing The Writer Within writing techniques are about a mind/body/soul connection. The names of the techniques are metaphorical, intended to force the writer to think about not only ideas and interesting words to put on paper but also about the invisible part of writing, the subtext, the hidden meaning of words. So, a technique like "write from the head" is about writing from the logical part of your body, the less emotional part. While "writing from the heart" is the opposite. Writing "from the gut" or "from the groin" are also more metaphorical in meaning, writing from more vulnerable, sensitive areas of the body. If the writer works from these places, it forces him or her to use different language, words, senses. It forces the writer to focus not only on the literal but the symbolic or hidden.

This week, in class, we also shared some pieces that follow a technique called “writing from the groin”. This sounds quite titillating, doesn’t it? Well, actually, it’s not what it seems to be. This is a voice that is sensual but not necessarily sexual (although it can be). This is a voice of the senses–amplified. Other homework this week was “write from the heart” which is the voice of figurative language, metaphor, simile, hyperbole, and/or personification.

One of my long-time, very dedicated students Joanne, also shared a piece that was “write from the throat” but instead of writing from the first-person of herself in the piece, she wrote from the first person perspective of a beloved literary character, Holden Caulfield. This is a truly unique piece that really demonstrates how the techniques and voices that we explore in class can also help in the art of story-crafting and character development.

Again, as I tell my students, these techniques and assignments are about stretching your range and tone and voice as a writer. These are your musical scales to practice, with the idea that as you practice them over and over, you will improve your writing.

Warm-up
Linda Fiorenzano

Relax.
No worries. No chores. No other place to be. No other tasks to be done.
Relax.
With no planning for the future – not even looking into the next hour. Never mind tomorrow. Not thinking about the week or the month or the season.
Relax.
Be in the moment. Observe. Like a camera that has the job of taking and recording pictures.
Observe. Do not judge. Do not compare. Just Observe. Just experience. Just listen. Just smell. Just touch. Observe the shape. Listen to the sound. Feel the texture. Experience. Touch. Observe.
Relax
Just be. Just be you. Just be me.
That is my truth. To be me. To not wish to be like someone else. To not have someone else’s things, feeling or tastes.
Relax
Be me.
Always.
Be true.

Warm Up
Shakay, Passionate Writer

Jackhammer. I imagine myself standing on a corner wearing yellow slicker pants, red suspenders and a yellow hard hat and I am holding a jackhammer. It takes all my strength to hold on to the jackhammer as it pounds away at the cement. It dances back and forth as I try to contain it in one place. It is breaking up the old cement. Big chunks are breaking up and flying in all directions. Underneath the cement is gravel, some old dirt and tuffs of green grass. Even underneath the heavy old outdated cement there is life, growth, stirrings of newness. There is movement.


I needed a jackhammer to get to my truth. My being was in cement for so long, but even though at times I felt I could not breath, I was alive, growing and reaching for air.


Truth...trust, faith, hope, peace, hate, power. Interesting to use the word hate with truth. I do not mind being truthful...it is my favorite choice, but I think I hate the truth sometimes because it hurts and at times I have hated the work I have needed to do to get to my truth.


Truth equals freedom. Truth is my jackhammer. I am so happy that I have broken new ground. The difficulty is in discarding the old chunks of cement or deciding which ones are worth holding onto and refining. I do need a truck to haul it all away. Let the new growth flourish!

Write From The Groin
Linda Fiorenzano

I crave something sweet to eat, but know I must eat healthy. Something sweet, thick, cold, creamy. Creamy and moist. It smells fresh and clean. Its container is chilled. I know it will be just the right temperature. I dip my fingers in it and scoop a sample on the tips of my fingers. I lick my fingers and savor the taste. The taste of strawberries – thick, creamy, and cold. I lick my lips to get all the leftovers onto my tongue. I grab the nearest spoon and quickly devour the entire container of sweetness. I sit back, place my palms on my belly, roll my eyes and feel satisfied that my craving has been released.

Write From The Groin
Shakay, Passionate Writer

I open the door to my closet. My nostrils are filled with the sweet aroma of cedar. My eyes caress the several balls of yarn. Each ball is unique in it's size, texture and hue. My hands quiver as I reach out and touch and squeeze each ball of yarn one at a time. I pick up the balls of yarn and breath in the aroma. I rub the balls up against my cheek. I pick up all the yarn in my arms and hug the balls to my chest.


Write From The Heart
Joanne Carnevale

I have no life. Think no reflection when I pass a mirror – like a vampire or the undead. The other day it looked like my shadow had faded when I walked outside. Pretty soon oncoming pedestrians will be able to walk right through me like in the ghost movies. I’m on my way to becoming a hologram. And after that, just some molecules and atoms floating in the air where I once stood. I need to get a life.


Writing from Holden’s throat
Joanne Carnevale

I am Holden Caulfield.
I am sixteen years old.
I am the younger brother of D. B.
I am the older brother of Phoebe.
I am the son of two living parents.
I am the son of a lawyer and a homemaker.
I am the older brother of the late Allie.
I am grieving for my lost brother Allie.
I am easily bored.
I am of the opinion that almost everyone is a phony.
I am a member of a well-to-do family.
I am a resident of Manhattan.
I am a student of several private boarding schools.
I am getting kicked out of Pencey Prep, in Pennsylvania, my most recent school.
I am flunking four out of five subjects.
I am passing English.
I am a reader.
I am a good composition writer.
I am yellow.
I am a heavy smoker.
I am a heavy drinker when I can get served.
I am tall, over six feet, so I often get served.
I am a virgin.
I am interested in changing my virginity status but then I just get bored with the girl or tired of her phoniness.
I am often in the vicinity when an adult guy, like a teacher, decides to act like a pervert.
I am probably in love with Jane Gallagher although I am never in the mood to call her or go downstairs and say hello when I know she’s there.
I am moody.
I am depressed.
“I’m the most terrific liar you ever saw in your life. It’s awful.”

March Writing Class Info.

I am finally putting all of the Releasing The Writer Within classes into one GIANT, 14-week class. I cover everything from journaling to writing fiction to getting published. Below is the information about the class. I hope to see some of you sign up. Feel free to email me about the class. An online version is available as well.


Releasing The Writer Within
The Master Class
Become a master writer in 14 weeks.
Taught by award-winning author, Hannah R. Goodman, M.Ed

Isn’t it time to make your writing dreams come true?

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Learn how to:

• Combat writer’s block
• Journal freely
• Compose fiction and creative non-fiction
• Edit and revise your work
• Break into the world of publishing

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Date: March 1st, 2008. For 14 Weeks. No class on March 23rd, April 19th, and May 26th.
Time: 2-4:15 pm.
Place: East Bay Chamber Of Commerce. 16 Cutler Street. Warren, RI.
Cost: Members of Releasing The Writer Within Learning & Writing Community and pay $425! Non-members pay $455.
Contact: Hannah R. Goodman @ 401-935-6466.
To register: Please download the registration form online at hannahrgoodman.com/Registrationformmaster.pdf OR call Hannah at 401-935-6466 and a registration form will be mailed to you. OR, email Hannah at hrgoodman@cox.net.


*East Bay Chamber of Commerce Members get $10 off tuition amount.
**Class is broken down into 4 mini semesters, with “breaks” for the major holidays.
***Classes held in Warren at The Chamber, in the conference room.
****Beginners and advanced students welcome.
*****Meet like-minded creative people in a caring and supportive environment.


Please visit us at: www.releasingthewriterwithin.com

Check out Plucky Althea's review of my writing classes. Plus, it's an interesting blog to read.