Another Way to Celebrate....

Now that November, and my NaNoWriMo are over for this year, I have time and peace to resurrect this writing space. For December, I am turning these pages into an outpost of Atheist Advent, my own small contribution to the ongoing dialogue about the many holidays that traditionally hold this month in their cold, sparkly grip. This means songs of the season, from a decidedly different perspective than your average Bing Crosby croon-fest. I plan on no less than one per week, but if I'm on a roll, who knows?

 I celebrate a calm, ripely Wiccan Yule for myself, and attend a semi-Catholic (read: no church for most of us) standard Christmas with family. I have a bad history with Christmas, though, that started when I was a teen, and got worse for a decade, before it came back around. I'll spare you the details here and now, as they might appear in a song soon. 

What you may need to know to get these songs is this: I am an atheist, have been for decades now, and there is no conflict with my pagan/witchy tendencies. In fact, most of the Wiccans and pagans I've known, and there are many, are wise enough to understand that the "old gods and goddesses" are simply symbols of a nature-revering outlook; not to be worshipped, but used to the betterment of our relationship with our planet and all of its occupants, animal vegetable and mineral. I knew a pagan man once who had dedicated his life to Saint Brigid, for her ideals, not because he thought she needed a worshipper. It gave him the framework of meaning he needed in life, as most religion was meant, somewhere back at its inception, to do.

 All this is to tell you, I love the Solstice, and what the spirit of it brings to this month. I enjoy the trappings of the season, but detest how all the major holidays that shine in December have been  perverted by ever-increasing greed. And I'm here to tell you, there is no fucking war on Christmas. Christmas has as many secular traditions as it does god-inspired ones-- more, actually, but who cares? What is, is; and atheists aren't trying to keep you from putting up a tree, a creche, a star, an elf, or an angel on your own land or your church's.

 Just don't expect us, me, to bow to it. And I won't expect you to light a candle on the shortest day of the year, or spend the 25th  of December having dinner at an Indian restaurant because they're the only places that are open, as I have many a year.

 Deal?


 

Treed

 

Today's prompt, from P&W again, as I'm lazy from having only 4 hours sleep:

 

Disaster Revisited

 

Think about a time or incident from your past when you just barely averted disaster. Write a story about it, but change the circumstances so that the disaster actually happens.

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 She almost didn't make it through the tree. Technically not all of her did make it through, or around, if you wanted to look at it that way; and likely you wouldn't, as parts of her did make it through, around, past, beyond. By 7:42 pm on the final Wednesday evening of her existence, Sheila Minkiewicz had forced the largest portion of her self, with the help of her 11 year-old Buick Regal, into and onto a half-rotted maple on her best friend's street, less than six blocks from her own apartment.

 She'd been on her way to band practice, running late. Running ten minutes late was on time, for her, but that Wednesday, she was running super-extra late, and had decided to take charge of it by not rushing anymore once she was out the door. Getting out the side door and into her car had been the hard part; getting out with her eye makeup cleaned up from crying, from another fight, from one of the fights that happened every time she and her live-in boyfriend had somewhere that they were supposed to go, together.

 What usually happened was, she was responsible for making sure that she was ready to leave, that the house was ready for them to leave it, that she had taken care of every possible problem and detail that he could have imagined (without telling her), and that she had not pissed him off in some way for a few days before they were meant to go. Which was impossible, since her least moment of contentment within their shitty life made him coldly angry. But all that was a cover for the real reasons.

 He hated obligatory social occasions but refused to avoid them. Traditional behavior, maintaining a middle-class standard, was more important to him than enjoyment, but he made up for it by making a scene just before they arrived wherever it was they were scheduled to be; or as on that Wednesday, while they were preparing to depart. Usually, by the time they had reached their destination, he would be calm, smiling when their host opened the door, or as they met their friends at the restaurant. He'd be collected, even charming, having vented his anger through her; and she'd be left crazed, upset, frustrated at having to shut off her emotion after he'd pried up the lid. She'd be a mess, embarrassed and vulnerable. She'd have a terrible time, and vow to herself not to accept another invitation or to do things differently, but it always happened again, the same way.

 Sheila was smart, well read, but she'd never heard the term "passive-aggressive." She didn't own the descriptives necessary to articulate their disintegration process, the pattern of Matt's control of their situation. She didn't have enough confidence in her instincts anymore to assert that somehow, through deliberately riling her up till she burst, his emotional needs were served. He used her to emote for him and she understood that, counter-intuitive as it seemed, but could not explain it clearly enough to avoid his rational decimations of her attempts to clarify. They'd get caught in a semantics battle, arguing about the details of their argument, caught up in a conflict that neither had the will to end. She wanted to understand, he wanted to negate her understanding of him-- there was no winning, and she was too optimistic to concede that unfortunate reality.

 That Wednesday, when she'd worked her waitress job, gone home and cooked dinner, then tried to warm up her voice while washing the dishes, the same fight started, as always, with him hinting about them being late well before it was a probability.

 He was tagging along to her band practice to hang out with the husband of one of the other girls in the trio. They'd go down to the basement to drink beer and talk Civil War strategies while the three women upstairs worked out a capella harmonies and wrote new songs.  It was a regular thing, and should have been pleasant for all concerned, except that Matt disliked any regular social schedule. He'd begun to resent the necessity of effort involved in maintaining any relationships. He resented Sheila's enjoyment as well, and so this, their one set social engagement, was beginning to pall for both of them.

 They went five or six rounds, a bout of meaningless anguish for Sheila, and then he'd stalked out, having decided to walk instead of wait for her, since she'd obviously be late in leaving. Now that he'd wasted her prep time and her throat was constricted from holding back sobs,  he was off to make sure that he, at least, wasn't going to be seen as rude. He'd be on time, if he hurried, and could blame her if he wasn't.

 When the door shut and she was left alone with her fizzing rageful grief, she let the serving bowl in her hands sink back into the bed of suds, and sat down at their round kitchen table to cry. A thought hit her then, a thought foreign to her basic premise of life, but she reached for it and held on long enough to see every edge clearly: he didn't love her anymore, really did not. And so she could leave him. She could float through tonight, and spend her day off tomorrow looking for a place to go. It didn't even matter when she found one, just that she start looking. He wouldn't be aware of any changes, because he spent all his time avoiding her company. All she had to do, was allow that. After nine years, she could let go, instantly, and feel better. There would be sadness at the loss, later. Now,  relief flowed up her arms, and neck, and back, relief and hope.

 She freshened her face makeup, thinking about a new apartment, a new roommate maybe, and changed into clothes that didn't smell of pizza grease and soda. Then she took up her tambourine and her song sheets, got into the car and drove, slowly, appreciating the cool of early Autumn, feeling huge pleasure at the sight of each tree and house she passed. Often she and Matt walked to Anna's place, since it was so close, but walking back home after a long rehearsal, after work, was too tiring. Matt would expect a ride, too, & be expecting her to act normal the minute he saw her-- and she would, right up till the day she walked out. So she drove, stopping at the corner convenience store to pick up a six-pack to loosen her throat, for singing. Her mood was high, now, and she drove faster, eager to get going on a song she'd just introduced to the group last rehearsal.

 A block away from Anna's, Sheila noticed a group of cute college guys walking, talking-- they were a couple years younger, but what the hell? When they waved and called to her, she waved back, feeling saucy, smiling and watching them in the the rearview mirror as she went forward faster than she'd meant to, into her new life, into the tree.

Oktober Again... Oh So Promptly.

  Last year I began this blog as a way to prime my writing pump for November, with no intention of using it for other purposes. Since then I've come to enjoy the challenge and changing needs of a blog that takes up a new meaning each month, while remaining, at heart, a writer's space. I spent a month here writing daily poetry, a month with old and new songs, a month with true stories, and had a short month of fiction writing problems.

 This Oktober, I' ve decided to use a new writing prompt for each post. As always here, the work will be fresh, with little done in the way of editing (I can't avoid all editing). Expect about 3-5 posts per week only, as this will be an unusually busy Oktober for me. Join in if you get the urge, and share how the prompt worked for you. And we can all get ready for another NaNoWriMo!

 I'm excited about this year's NaNo project-- a character and setting that have been waiting their chance to be written, in a fiction novel that may crossover from mainstream to YA.

 And now, for today's prompt, taken from Poets & Writer's website:

Flash Nonfiction

 

Write a nonfiction piece of no more than 500 words. It could be anything from a single scene to a complete micro essay—either way, try to utilize the same techniques and structure that you would for a full-length piece. For inspiration, check out Brevity, an online journal dedicated to the art of flash nonfiction.

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The Biscotti Murders



 You know you've found a good recipe when men still fear it three years later.

A few years ago, for our family Christmas dinner, I brought a nice, creamy pumpkin lasagna as a main dish for the vegetarians among us, (three & counting!) and a plate of gingerbread biscotti for dessert. Note: I warned everyone that the cookies were quite spicy, and not safe for kids.
 
 My BIL John, being a tender tongue, took several bites of a biscotto, and has never forgotten the burning in his mouth, nor the upset to his delicate inner organs, which apparently went on for days afterwards, as he tells. He reminds me of this incident pretty often, and makes a big show of being terrified of all my cookies. Why, he asks me, should cookies kill? They aren’t even supposed to hurt or maim, and they shouldn’t have the same ingredients as a high-grade explosive, blah, blah blah.

 He admits, though, that the bisk-hotti, as he calls them, were delicious, and if only they hadn't burned out his lungs, he'd love more.
 
 I take his terrified attitude towards my baking as high compliment. John isn’t a wuss; he’s strong, capable, handy, discreet— a man’s man. He watches the Sabres religiously, can build a porch, was a volunteer member of the Fire Department for years, and sired five children. He’s got another creative side, too, as an award winning painter of military war machine models. The incredibly accurate but innovative details he uses add an energy that makes those plastic war birds or aircraft carriers come alive.

 So his praise, when given, means a great deal to me, as does his opprobrium. To know that one of my own, personal foodie creations struck a fearful memory so deep into his heart that it has lasted through over a dozen other family holidays and celebrations since, is a wicked satisfaction and a positive source of pride. Not to mention, it’s a neat piece of leverage to use against him— come help me fix my shower tiles, or I’ll make biscotti! Can we borrow your best hammer for a week, John— better say yes, I’m in baking mood. How could any woman not enjoy that kind of power? It’s the perfect threat to heave around, because I win either way; I get what I want, or I get cookies, my wonderful homemade gingerbread biscotti recipe.

 Now, if I had just written the damn thing down.



By Mari Kozlowski, 10/8/2012


 

The Awful Truth

It takes balls to let truth win out when writing.

This is as true for fiction as for non-fiction-- people can become very upset by the true actions of a fictional character. Whether the character is doing something that they themselves did in the past and are ashamed of, saying something they don't want said because it may influence children, or doing something they are afraid someone will do to them, a character that behaves realistically can be scary.

I recall two incidents that impressed this on me, in a visceral way. The first occurred during the course of a semester-long fiction workshop in college. One of my classmates was a woman in her late 30's, early forties; good as far as the nuts & bolts of writing were concerned, but she spent the entire semester reworking the same piece, and it wasn't a compelling story even in the beginning, when the subject was fresh. It was essentially a story about a marriage in trouble-- the friend of the wife is trying to find out where the trouble has come from. In some versions, it was the wife herself, or sometimes a sister-in-law, but in all of them she doesn't understand why the husband in the marriage has cheated. Every rewrite, even when the author said it was a different story, had the same problems in the dialogue and the characters' motives, and in each discussion afterwards she was stymied by the comments, and looked for different reactions from us, towards the husband and his actions. It struck me that she was trying to reason away infidelity, make some kind of logical talisman against it. If she could make the husband in the story see that it was unnecessary, then it needn't have happened-- there, or more importantly, in reality.

 This is not to suggest that my classmate had been cheated on personally-- I have no idea, but she had clearly been shaken up by some case of infidelity, and in her stories, she was virtually trying to undo it, for good and all. And each of her story versions suffered from her inability to let the truth, unpleasant as it was, come through her character's actions. Yet she couldn't hide from herself that infidelity happens, and that it can cause hurt to good people. She just kept trying to figure out the logic of an act that she refused to approach from the perspective of those who might commit the act. I often wonder if my classmate ever learned to separate her own needs from her stories.

 You can't get away with writing only what you wish would happen in an ideal world, if you're going to write fiction that rings true now.

 The second incident also centers on infidelity. One day, chatting with the mother of the family I was working for, I mentioned that I had seen the movie Unfaithful, with Richard Gere and Diane Lane. She asked what I thought of it, and apart from the fatalistic ending, I felt it showed most of the sides of a certain type of extramarital affair pretty well-- the compulsion of illicit sex, and how it works on people. I've avoided being part of such an affair myself, but I won't say I've never been tempted, or approached for such; and I certainly have known many women, and men, that did have affairs. I've heard their stories, heard the lines used, seen the patterns. It's funny how standardized the pattern of conversations within those relationships tend to be.

 My boss, however, was horrified by the film, from her expression, and seemed to momentarily lose respect for me due to my opinion.  She thought it was completely unrealistic, or said that-- but as I questioned her to find out why, underneath her protest I detected again the fear of such a reality, and the need for a talisman to ward it away from her own life. If I had agreed with her, it might have been comforting enough to ease the fear. As I hadn't, it almost made the prospect of infidelity-- lush and ravenous infidelity-- more real, and therefore, more possible.

 In each of these incidents, there is an irrational impulse at work, that makes the person want to push away and reject the truthful use of infidelity in a fictional story.

 But you cannot rid the world of infidelity by refusing to imagine yourself or your husband giving in to it, by not understanding the unreasonable reasons for it, nor by forcing your cheating character to see how great his wife is, after he cheats on her. Infidelity happens despite good wives and good husbands, despite children, despite the damage to trust, despite the social or financial inconvenience or embarrassment it can cause. The only person you can absolutely stop from being unfaithful is yourself. That's all the control we're granted, and it's not equally easy for everyone.

 The truth, here, could be anything besides cheating: hunger, war, poverty-- or lovely things, such as the kindness of strangers, the beauty of young women, the taste of good tea. Doesn't matter. What matters is, if it's the true object or meal or action you character would have or take, let them take it. If it's what they want to say, let them say it-- don't hold back out of politeness, correctness, or fear. Don't force your morality onto a character like a saddle on a horse, and don't be afraid to let good things, or bad things happen, if they come from an honest place. There are readers that will reject your story for being too true, but the story will stand better, and you'll be able to tell how close you've gotten to reality, by the discomfort caused in some circles.

 I learned, again, not long ago, that writing the truth in non-fiction can be dicey, too. You can lose friends by speaking your mind, however tactfully, on a subject dear to a person's heart. You can be jailed for it, some places; and today, on International Blasphemy Rights Day, I'm here to tell you not to give in to that bullshit. We shouldn't make laws that constrict our free speech, and we shouldn't bow down to the false correctness that says tolerance means an absolute horror of giving offence.

 Offensive things need to said, sometimes, to keep more offensive things from happening. Lose a few chickenshit friends, if you have to, but write honestly, write bitingly, write so that it matters. Don't apologise for it, either-- you can be sure that I won't.

The Perfect Scene Strikes Again

When you fall in love with a scene you've written and edited to perfection, a scene that supports the  plot afterwards, it's a deep pleasure and relief-- you know that point, at least, is covered. You know you'll never need to change a word of the limpid, tender moment between those complexly engaged characters. Every note of their connection is correct, emotion flows warmly across the page-- the dialogue shines, reactions ring true, your restraint and skill make each beat and syllable seem not just necessary, but the only possible way to have written them...

 Until you get a new idea. The juggernaut may happen earlier or later than that "finished" part, it may skim the sides of discontinuity or dive deep, but it makes an impact on work you thought was done, with a capital D.

 Now, your new idea sends a shimmer through the thin spots you didn't know how to fix before, and promises to make loose endings tight... except it will completely fuck up your best, sweetest, work so far, the part of your book that made you believe you were onto something here, the part that showed you just how good you were. But with the new changes you need need need to make, it will be confusing/unncessary/just plain stupid.

 You've heard that phrase, kill all your darlings, and thought you knew what it meant, and maybe even had done it easily before, wondering what the fuss was about. Till now. So-- do you try to salvage the best parts and use them elsewhere, cut it completely, or wait and hope you'll find a way to keep it?


 What do you do?

The Green Plum Finally Ripens

  There's a big project going public today, that I could have been part of, but declined to join.

  A shining group of artists, poets, storytellers and musicians came together to create a super-duper care package for the hungry and disenfranchised of the Sahel region of Niger. It's a mulitplicity of events, really; an art auction, an anthology, a radio show, and more.

 It's called Song of Sahel, and it will, with your help, bring much-needed relief to people starved by both drought, and the painful effects of war. A great deal of beauty, easily available, awaits those who wish to partake, and in so doing, help. I urge you to check it out, for there is sure to be something that moves you-- a gorgeous print, a lovely phrase or sentiment, haunting music.

 I can't lay claim to any of that beauty, and I haven't been clearly sure why: I am an artist, a musician, a poet, songwriter, writer. I could have contributed somewhere, somehow, but never did. Thinking on it last night, I finally understood why.

 At first, I was left speechless by the plight of the people in Niger-- the starving children that had been born there, the refugees fleeing in fear of war, over the Malian border, placing stress on an already stressed area, not because they wanted to leave their homes and country; but because it was their only choice for even a slim hope of survival.

Unlike some in our bountiful country, I have been relatively poor most of my life, and as an adult, I have gone hungry. But not for days on end. Not without hope of getting through it and into a time of plenty, again. Not like these children and their parents, their communities-- whole communities, ransomed by nature and perhaps incompetent leadership, to a fate of constant aching emptiness.

Such huge and hollow realms of need do not inspire me to lyrical flights of melody-- they leave me in the silence of grief, the silence of frustrated helplessness. I have no financial resources to help assuage this great, grave ocean of loss deepening so far away from me. So I was struck dumb, and then lost the daily use of the internet, so that my understanding of the project faltered-- sort of disengaged.

 There were other issues, too. Unable to research the beginnings of the project, I feared to partner myself and my talents, however tenuously, with any organization that could be religiously affiliated: forcing your view of the universe on people so hungry that they have no choice but to take all you give them, food and foreign morality, is to me a foul and evil thing, and the basis for many a further evil along the way. I had never heard of Plan International before; I knew that someone working for them in Niger had provided the original inspiration for SOS. So there might be a connection, a slight one. The very possibility made me cautious, and I was afraid to find out it might be true.

 Now, at this last moment, I have been able to allay those worries, and to see fully why my mind and heart weren't ready to commit to Song of Sahel. I felt I had nothing to give. And I didn't, I don't, but for this... telling you that my reaction to the tragedy may have been quiet shock and useless dismay, but there are artists of the first water  that had a better reaction. People like Sue Lobo, Tonia Marie Houston, Shirani Rajapakse, Marta Pelrine-Bacon, and Giorgio Mostarda-- and so many more dedicated creative minds and hearts. They have given deeply of themselves, to end the hunger and celebrate the strength of Sahel. Go to the link on the title above, or to the Plum Tree, and you'll find those gifts of verse, line and tune.

 Peace, Mari

August, You Bitch! I'm leaving you.

 July, August: these months were not fun without my laptop working, and hotly hot weather. Little family troubles piled onto that, a few biggies followed, and August refused to end or get better. I'd decided to skip right into September a week early, give the summer a rest, and it seemed September was obliging me, but no... the heat returned, as it did last summer's end, to twist my plans around one more time.

 Who, I ask, that is not in grade school or living on a beach, can enjoy summer anymore? If you like summer, I'm not sure we can still be friends. Okay, I'll try, but don't talk swimming, golfing or the glory of being outdoors to me, please. I gave my cat fleas by going outdoors this August.

 I gave my cat fleas!

 Now I'm in for three months of treatment tubes, plus all the extra cleaning we had to do. #@!% summer! Summer in Buffalo, the bitch goddess of Weather-That-Makes-You-Hate-the-Sun. I moved back to Buffalo for the cold, and what happens? Summer takes over and extends herself in all directions. Well, not on my watch, baby. I'm leaving you, and just to prove it, I'll turn on my oven tomorrow and BAKE AN APPLE PIE!!!! Crumb-topped, cinnamon rich, flaky fruited pie. How's that for Autumn-erotica?

 Okay, maybe Tuesday I'll bake; it's still too warm.

 As my carefully laid plans for that evil season just past were blown to hell,  I'm going to use this space, in September, for a purpose I normally wouldn't-- a writing blog about writing. Don't expect elegance, query techniques, or lofty meditations on the nature of art itself, unless I write a drunken post, one day.

 Let's get right into the shit, then.

 Say you're going along, getting things done, or at least moving your projects from stage to stage, when the clouds descend, and you can't go forwards, or backwards; in a ward, your stride has been broken. Could be something as annoying as a broken laptop (that was less than a year old, dammit!, so why did I have to have the motherboard replaced already?) or something personal/emotional, like having a friend/family member go off the deep end and drag you into their drama. Or, you approach the state of divorce, but pull back; or you could get sick.

 Whatever it is, it stops you for a time, and then resolves, leaving you in a state of dissaray. Maybe so scattered you can't properly spell disarray, even though you were a top speller in grade school without working at it.

 It's not a block, it's more a thorny mix of lethargy and panic. Panic, because all the work to do and ideas and hot excited stuff running through the veins in your head built up into crazy, impossible layers while you couldn't get to it, or use it; lethargy from not writing, not regularly pushing your idea meat through the ole grinder. More panic, because you're aware that you are stale, too stale to properly assemble the bright structures your luminous, mile-high ideas deserve; and you know that as soon as you try setting them down, they'll crumble into sharp, painful reminders of what should have been.

 Then you try to jump in anyway, and the work is stiff, it's like running through molasses, and just as messy and cloying. You find yourself crazily hopping from metaphor to metaphor, in search of solidity, perhaps.

 What do you do now?

 It's a given that others will tell you to work through the rough patch, and I'd agree. However, I'd caution choosing your re-entry into imaginationland carefully. Pick a small piece to rewrite, or a very tight goal within your large work-in-progress. One that you don't have to worry about screwing up too bad, one you know you can go back to. Don't take on the glistening new idea just yet.

 Some may argue with this point, saying that the energy of newness will carry you through, and maybe it will. Or it could help you botch a promising new project in a way that drains you further, so that you curse the darkness while throwing out your last broken taper. Not what we're trying for, right?

 I think the safest, most comfortable project is the one to help you ease back in. Copying a final draft of a story, just to copy it, and giving yourself the opportunity to admire your past work. You might even see what needs improving-- you might get some of the juice back, taking it slow.

 For instance, I've been updating my blogs, and then stacking up posts for some of them in advance. Knowing I have even a half-finished draft of one of my weekly posts takes the pressure off. The feeling of relief is beginning to segue into excitement about a new book I had planned, before the onset of problems that put me off my daily writing habit. I can feel myself becoming ready-- not there yet, but closing in, getting to that hungry, happy state where I can't wait any longer to Start!

 Are you there?