Archives for May 2017

See the Butterfly

May 21, 2017 by

My favorite journal is a blue hard bound with the proverb on the cover

~Just when the caterpillar thought the world was over, it became a butterfly~

I’ve always loved that. There is something in that idea that had always resonated. The earliest entry in that journal is September 2010. But there are some pages torn out so I may have had it a little longer than that.

But I have owned it for at least six years. And for six years that quote has crossed my vision and stirred up something in me that I never quite caught, an idea never proper

All of that up there was written back in September 2016. I can’t remember why I didn’t finish it. The highest probability is I got preoccupied with something else and it just didn’t get finished. My writing discipline is obviously less than impressive; the chances of me picking up something I started after I started it are not historically good.

I am trying to change that; my writing discipline that is. More words, more work, more reading, more intention. Part of that is sitting down to write even if I don’t know what kind of time I have and coming back to finish that which is left undone. So here I am picking up this forgotten, unfinished thing. Honestly, the feeling isn’t that unlike realizing you left a load of clothes in the wash and crossing your fingers when you go to see if the clothes are stinky or not; can you continue with the task where you left off or has it sat there too long and you have to start over?

As an aside, I really fucking hate it when I do that. And, between me and you, I do that shit. All. The. Time.

So anyway, I pull up this barely a thing entry and decide to work on it because that fits in my new writer’s discipline. And I read it. As suspected, I have no idea where the fuck I was going with any of that thought right there. In self confirmation (which isn’t always the positive mojo you think it is), the first thought that came to my head was, “See, this is why not being able to finish something when you originally start it is useless. This stealing seconds where you find them to write is just ridiculous.” And in personal buffoonery triumph, I almost left it at that.

Okay, in full disclosure and appreciation of anyone other than me or my mother reading this, there is not some amazing trick of turn in your future with this little post. Oh sure, I think I have found some pretty nifty insight going on here. But if you’re waiting for a, “holy shit that cell phone salesman geeky looking guy can blow the notes outta Nessun dorma, whoulda thunk” shocker, this is the wrong post. Just didn’t want you to think there was more to this than a 0300 coffee and chat session with myself going on here. Of course you are welcome to stay. You always are. I’m just saying…

Anyway, instead of hitting delete and reinforcing seemingly justified, but obviously inaccurate, habit development, I did something unorthodox – I trusted the work. I looked at it again and tried really hard to think about what I was going to say next. For the life of me I couldn’t remember.

But, a new idea did occur to me…whatever I was going to say then is not the same as what I would say now. It may have been close, but what I know now could not have been the same as then. Too much has happened since I first started playing with the idea. There’s been a ton of growth and understanding. A lot of forgiveness and releasing. A lot of tears and swearing. There’s just been a lot…

~Just when the caterpillar thought the world was over, it became a butterfly~

Inside a chrysalis, a caterpillar digests itself from the inside out. Literally. Let’s just mull that fact for a moment. This creature is so compelled to become what it is supposed to be that it will take the the same stuff it used to digest food and use it on itself. That is some gangster level shit right there. And, with the help of some witty scientist somewhere, it gets cooler. The byproduct of this process is a bio-matter called “imaginal cells.” I have no idea who decided that they should be named that, but I would totally pick up their bar tab to hang out for a night. These imaginal cells have the ability to become nearly any type of cell. And that’s what the butterfly does. It takes the broken down stuff that’s left from its previous existence and creates wings. Wings.

I kinda feel like I should have more to say at this point, like I need to bring the idea full circle. But that’s another discipline I am trying to respect – and the truth is, the butterfly executes the perfect mic drop. And who am I to see it as anything other than that?

Except I will leave you with the “holy shit that cell phone salesman geeky looking guy can blow the notes outta Nessun dorma, whoulda thunk” shocker because honestly, Paul Potts killed that shit and he deserves it.

Filed Under: Chrysalis

Neurotic About Reading what I Write

May 15, 2017 by

I hesitate to even admit to the amount of time I read, reread, and reread again things I have written. There is a little voice in my head that says, “If you admit this to them, they will know…they will know…they willllll knnnowwww.” Yeah, the voice in my head is just that much of a nag, and just that obnoxiously creepy. See what I have to deal with? Seriously.

However, if Hamilton can write the Reynolds Pamphlet, I can write this. Okay, so maybe one is way more serious than the other. I’ll let you decide which is which. I think it’s a no brainer. Really.

I reread my own words neurotically. I do not say that lightly, with exaggeration, or figuratively. I consume my own writing with anxious and obsessive repetitiveness. I am constantly going through, saying the words aloud, working through the structure, putting it down and coming back again, attempting to pretend like I am reading it for the first time with a different worldview. Sometimes I even attempt to read it with a different accent. Not a mandarin one though. That’s just too much. I have boundaries.

I often worry that this is an ego thing. I am sure there are some folks out there who will bet a paycheck that it is. One, it’s the easy answer. Two, it’s what they want to think about me anyway. But I am going to go ahead and let you know that it is not an ego thing. I have ego things – my hair, my gym time, the way my man looks, my hair (did I say that already – of course I did) – but the way I reread my shit, is not like any of those. So I can only conclude it is not an ego thing. I really wish we had bet that paycheck.

There is some embarrassment to admitting this. I have heard folks talk about what they don’t do with their work – actors who don’t watch their own movies, musicians that don’t listen to their own songs, children who won’t acknowledge their own mess. Okay, so that last one is not the same, but you get my point. I have heard folks say this and there is an air to that sentiment that suggests confidence, coolness, professionalism, comfort that I just don’t have. At all. And I really would like to use all those words to describe myself. Instead, I get compulsive. Yay.

But truth is truth and I am attempting to process it as it comes in its rawest form and see what types of interesting ideas I can pluck from the material.

The best I can figure is I just give a shit.

Writing is so amazingly personal for me. It’s a gift, really, as being able to put nouns and verbs together on a page in a way that seems to be pleasing to consume has helped me more than any other outlet in discovering my ideas, sorting my brain, and growing in myself. So I am appreciative.

But it is so amazingly personal. Words that I put on a page have always felt like an extension on myself – another toe, maybe an arm, most assuredly a piece of my heart. So I am critical of it. Concerned that I have presented it properly, was truthful, respectful, honest, not dodgy. I worry about how others perceive it, if I was responsible in the tone and delivery, thoughtful of others who may see themselves in it.

So I read it. And I read it again. And I read it again. And then again.

But the truth is no matter how many times I read it, I will still miss things. And I am not talking just about commas and misspellings (although I am sure there are both). I am talking about perspectives, nuances, thoughts between the spaces.

Because that’s where the real stuff with writing happens – between the spaces. And there’s nothing as a writer that I can do to control what happens there. I know this. The catch is that I have total control over what creates the space, therefore I feel responsible, to a large degree, for what happens inside the space. And, while I may be a bit harder on myself than I should, there is a real sense of responsibility and insecurity each and every time I push ideas into the public domain.

But I continue to do it because writer’s write. And the only avenue I have found to calm my nerves about the appropriateness of the thoughts I have put together is to read them over and over again. The repetition, as irritating as it is for me, does serve to either confirm that I have done the best I can do, or bores me to tears to the point where I just don’t care anymore and it’s fine the way it is. I’m not sure this follow through technique is the most productive proofreading style, but I work with what I have.

I felt compelled to share this little bit of explanation just in case someone gets twisted, disagrees, or generally hates something I have to say or that I felt the liberty to say it. I just want you to know that I read it, extensively, and so there is a bit of confidence that it was something I wanted to say, in the way I wanted to say it, that I felt I had the liberty to say. Also, I realize I get it wrong, so I am completely up for a discussion concerning what happened in the spaces when you visit what I create. But the neat thing about this journey is that I am learning that while I do get it wrong sometimes, I am not always wrong just because someone says that I am. My voice is valid. Yours is too. That doesn’t take agreement or submission.

Filed Under: Writing