Full Moon Dream Board: I Am Not A Fraud.

This week my free-will horoscope said:

Are you slipping into one of those moods in which you feel like a fraud? Are you starting to worry that maybe you're not who you say you are? If so, I want to remind you of what happened the last time these feelings got stirred up: You became super motivated to prove that you are indeed who you say you are. And that had a most wonderful effect, didn't it? It led you to locate and call on resources you hadn't known you could have access to; it spurred you to purge some self-deception from your system; and it roused you to intensify your commitment to rigorous authenticity. How about an encore?

I don’t care if you believe in the authenticity or even the holiness of horoscopes—wisdom is wisdom and this is exactly where I find myself this month.  I feel a little like a fraud.

I had an interesting encounter with my writing this quarter.  Kerouac, Burroughs, Ginsberg—they all made me want to put down my pen.  They did to me whatever the opposite of inspire is. But my Government and Politics of the Middle East class has had me enthralled all quarter writing papers on topics I found so interesting I wish I could have wrote a whole book on them. 

Needless to say, I feel very unbalanced artistically. 

I wrote an article a few months ago for Ocsplora about my contradicting desires.  These desires match exactly to my feeling of being a fraud.  How can I, one little person, want everything at the same time?  But I’m not a fraud and I do want them, so this month’s Full Moon Dream Board represents that. 

First, the puzzle and chain link fence.  Both of these images pertain to art.  The puzzle is whimsical, natural, round edges around every piece.  The fence is a metal, rigid, mathematical pattern.  Both are art.  I want to find the balance between the two.

The girls.  In the bottom left corner is the image of person made out of pins.  I often feel like I’m on pins and needles, a ghost of person and stagnant.  The girl walking down the country path is a whole person with flowing hair and is warm in a surrounding that is cool.  She is moving forward down her path to what is next.

Home.  Ah, there it is—my cabin by the lake.  (Ok, this is not really what I picture, but it’s close.)  There she is nestled into the trees and the field and I know the lake is nearby because that part of the picture was torn out and has been hanging on my bedroom wall for years. The upside down picture is Istanbul, my other home.  These represent my desire to be in one place and travel the world.  

Full Moon Dream Board: Peace

So ends my four-day writing marathon. (It was more like four and half really).  I have a word count, but I feel like it is really no way to measure what happened inside me this weekend.

I lived. 

I’ve started my first real piece of fiction (I say “real” because I’ve written fiction before I’m sure, but never seriously.)  Currently my characters are still only giving me the beginning of their stories—their tragic stories.  I am begging them to give me a glimpse of their futures so that I can trust that their story redeems. 

Being the narrator has always frightened me because for so long I was convinced that God had an “ultimate will” for me.  I have come to believe, to much relief, that in fact, the joy of writing my own story is before me.  As the author, I have created these characters with names and faces and fathers and fears.  I’m hovering above somewhere, hiding behind a tree maybe, and I can see the torment they feel.  But I don’t know yet what they will choose tomorrow.  I want to interfere, to control the story.  But I will not.  It is their story, not mine to tell.  I can only plea with them…

                                             Thoughts on Fiction

                                             29 Mar 10

I want to write a redemptive ending,

But I don’t know if my characters will let me.

They’re stuck

Somewhere between the ninth hole, the Baring Sea and delivery day.

And they are running from,

If not paralyzed by,

The fear

Of an ever growing roundness protruding from her belly.

My dear characters, may your joy grow with each day.  We are hoping for you. 

And while I am hoping for my characters, I can only pray that someone is hoping for me.  I was amazed, ashamed and confused by some of the things that crept out of me over the last few days.  Solitude and expression can do that.  Anxiety has been overwhelming me. I’ve spent moments sitting silently; asking the screaming little girl inside what she needs to say. 

She wants to be accepted.  I guess that means           

I want to be accepted. 

Yael Naim - Far, Far

As these and other beautiful and hideous thoughts rage through my being (I swear I can feel them in every joint), I know that there must be somewhere they can be placed where some other power can quiet them and I continue on in peace. 

Because peace is beautiful. 

How convenient that the moon is full and birthing creativity and excitement.  I shall use her offering of energy and offer her back my creativity.  I made a box.  Not just any box—a beautiful box.  The tag on the front reads “everything will be okay in the end…it’s not the end.”  Inside this box I will place my fears, crazies and gremlins.  (I suggest taking a listen to this and embracing the restful breaths it offers to the creative soul.)  I’m sure it will fill fast but that guarantees that I can fill with peace and light. 

And so I end my evening with a cupa, a warm meal and The Science of Sleep.  The rain will sing me to sleep tonight, like she has the past few nights and tomorrow I will wake and write again. 

Live at peace,

Jenn

2010 Book List-This Year With Reviews

Book reviews terrify me.  I'm not sure why.  Probably because I just spent hours taking it all in and now you want me to spit out a few sentences summarizing the book.  But, last year I sped through fifty books without giving a single review.

Here's my list so far this year.  I'd say it's pretty impressive considering the quarter I had.  I'm working on quiet a few books over my break and have a good list for the spring including the ones for school.  

Please add your suggestions.  I have more than enough books on my shelf to read, I'll probably buy plenty more, but I want to know you are reading and get some suggestions.  

1.  Stones Into School, Greg Mortenson  

Written in what feels like a rush and using a bazillion pages to tell the Central Asia Institute’s story in Afghanistan (a story that was hinted at in Three Cups of Tea), this book floored me; the Afghani men who represent the antithesis of the Taliban, the desperate fervor for life.  Afghanistan may hold my heart more than any other nation.  Afghanistan has the second highest illiteracy rate the in the world and not only one of the highest birth rates (seven births to each women), but the country’s infant and maternal mortality rates are just as high.   I could go on forever, at least fifteen pages, as that’s how long my research paper was this quarter.  But I suggest, for the hopeful side of the story, you read Stones Into Schools.   Mortenson presents a look at the Taliban, the most forgotten people in the most remote corner of the world and how pockets of the US Military are changing their approach.  Every page of this book cries out “everything must change.”  And I cried through every page. 

2.  The Fellowship of the Ring, J.R.R. Tolkien

How many reviews have been written on LOTR?  Must I give another?  Let me say this much—the trilogy stands as a testament to passion.  The amount of time and creative energy that was spent for its purpose are evident through every word of every made up language.   The culture of creativity is seen in every character.  And the book reminds me, above all, that even if I were to know all that would hinder me along the way, the journey is still worth every step, every tear and every crumb of Lembas. 

3.  Savage Beauty, The Life of Edna St. Vincent Milay, Nancy Milford

I’m sorry to say that I could not finish this book.  In fact, I could barely start it.  While Vincent ranks right up there with Zelda and Sylvia in tortured famous females, there are a lot of pages filled with very little depiction of the world outside of Vincent’s own mind.  The author herself writes in a such a straightforward manner that I believe it actually contrasts with the manic nature of Vincent too much.  As a result, I could not engage with either fully. 

* Veiled Threat: The Hidden Power of the Women of Afghanistan, Sally Armstrong

This was a book for school, so it doesn’t actually count for my twenty-five, but it is worth making a note of.  Armstrong, a Canadian journalist, follows the story of RAWA through the refugee camps of Pakistan and parts of Afghanistan.  Veiled Threat exemplifies the kind of writing I most want to do.  She gives a history of the women, the Taliban and the current war and provides the stories of the Women who have endured all of it and have continued to fight for their own futures.  This is one of the most captivating books I have read on the subjects of both Afghanistan and women’s right.  

4. The War of Art, Steven Pressfield 

What can I say?  The day I opened this book on the bus, I stayed on the bus for a few extra stops, planted myself in Stumptown and skipped class.  The next day I called a counselor.  Being an honest person, I will say that I am a drama ridden, justified hypochondriac. I hate this about myself and have often wondered where this comes from? The book has helped me explore some of the roots of these character flaws and see how the directly relate to my creative expression.  Pressfield doesn’t leave anything untouched.  He address the ways artists try to escape the pull of our art, he draws the picture of a professional and shows you just how much time you need to put in to make your work sustainable, never once sugarcoating his own long journey to success.  The Art of War is wise, contemplative and raw.  It’s kicks your ass. 

Working on Now

5. The Two Towers, J.R.R. Tolkien

6. Snow, Orhan Pamuk

7. On Writing, Stephen King

8. A Poetry Handbook, Mary Oliver

The Spring Reading List

9. Little Women, Louisa May Alcott

* On the Road, Jack Kerouac (for my Beat Generation Lit. class)

* Naked Lunch, William S. Burroughs (for my Beat Generation Lit. class)

* The Pocket Beat Reader (for my Beat Generation Lit. class)

10.  Half the Sky, Nicholas D. Kristof

11. A Moveable Feast: The Restored Edition, Ernest Hemingway  

Thoughts on the Summer Books           

12. Strength in What Remains, Tracy Kidder

13. The Return of the King, J.R.R. Tolkien

14. The Outliners, Malcolm Gladwell

15. What the Dog Saw, Malcolm Gladwell

16. What is the What, Dave Eggers

15. Zeitoun, Dave Eggers

16. The Kite Runner, Khaled Housseini

17. The Bookseller of Kabul, Åsne Seierstad

18. The Evolution of God, Robert Wright

19. Middlesex, Jeffrey Eugenides

20. I really am not at a loss of books here…But I’m leaving room for suggestions.  Help!!

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I’m not going to lie.  I’m feeling very conflicted at the moment. I’ve been writing for two days.  I’ve been alone in my room for the most part. I’ve been studying the written word.  Taking the time to do the one thing that I love more than anything else in the whole world—the thing that I have almost no time for between school and work.  But I’ve been living the life the last two days, and will be for three more. 

I was supposed to have my wisdom teeth out but the surgery was cancelled last minute.  I decided that I would spend my time the writers who I admire and the books I learn the most from.  The first day I spent time with Steven Pressfield’s The War of Art exploring the roots of my resistance.  I wrote about the first poem I ever wrote and how a fire destroyed them all in 2005.

Today I remembered things.  I used Natalie Goldberg’s book Old Friend From Away to help me remember the things that mark my past and shape my future.  I wrote about the contradiction of my desires to travel the world forever and to be grounded in one place, living quietly day-to-day. 

Tonight, after a friend’s art show and drinks with some friends, I came home to edit these two pieces.  And there it was.  A tiny voice whispering tiny lies.  “You can’t write.” 

Even as I write this I can’t help but think that these things I am typing on this screen are not real words.  That they make no sense at all and that the idea that anyone, anywhere, at anytime would ever want to read them is absurd. 

I keep highlighting my sentences with notes in the margin that read “I know what I’m trying to say, but I’m not saying it.”  Isn’t that the point of writing?  To say it? 

I’m starting to feel crazy.  Like famous female poet crazy.  At this point I think the difference between me becoming a Sylvia Plath or a Mary Oliver is knowing when to stop and sleep.  Sleep heals everything.