That was the name of my column in my high school newspaper. Originally, I named it Honey Pot, in reference to my favorite cartoon character, Winnie the Pooh, but after my first column was published someone told me "honey pot" was some obscure sexual reference. I remember being flushed with embarrassment, and my next column ran under the heading "so much to say" after the Dave Matthews Band song.
Therefore, I thought it appropriate to dig up an artifact of my writing for this post, my first in a month, which means it will probably have no beginning, middle or end, that I will simply gaze at my naval a bit and write a bunch of run-on sentences and tip toe through the highs and lows of the past 30 days. There. You might be bored. (You've been warned.)
Despite the fact I haven't written much in my journal or on my blog, this past month has found me often thinking about writing and words, about how they feel on my tongue or fingertips, and how the words other people write feel in my mind. I've read 14 books in the past 4.5 months, and digesting these memoirs and novels has been good for my writing -- at work. My writing mojo has returned. It feels great. Only now I wish that instead of churning out 3-6 stories a week at work, I could slow down and concentrate on just one, or a handful, in an entire month.
What would it be like to not have deadlines every single week? I've started thinking about studying writing. Creative nonfiction, specifically. Even though I tend to read more fiction than non, I have no desire to make up stories. Humans who actually exist are endlessly fascinating and I'd rather chronicle their lives. My formal journalism education placed almost no emphasis on the art of storytelling - and it is an art - and so I find myself frustrated when I can't find the right words or sentence, and I don't have the time to think it over. My j-school experience emphasized reporting, information gathering and sorting, ledes, newsworthiness. I do not recall a professor ever talking about writing as craft. Nor was a creative writing class a requirement for my degree. I think this is a huge blunder by the j-school establishment. What use is a compelling story if you don't have the tools to write it well?
So I'm in the beginning stages of this quest to study writing. The scary part is: what if I get my act together and apply to a bunch of programs and am rejected? Does that mean I'm a shitty writer? Mediocre? Average? I know I can't really entertain these negative thoughts until I TRY, but it's nerve wracking to think about putting your literary self out there. Not to mention the fact that I'm not even sure an MFA in creative nonfiction is the means to my end. Getting a degree in education is still on my brain. The problem is that while I obsess about what to do next (since even though I'm enjoying my job much more, it has not and will not make me the kind of writer and reporter I know I can be) I'm also more content than I've ever been. I love San Francisco. I have amazing friends and am a part of an awesome community. I ride my bike or walk everywhere, I'm an hour away from cherry orchards (I picked 10 pounds yesterday!) and mountains, a 10-minute walk from incredible concert venues ... and when I don't feel like doing anything, I enjoy my bedroom, the sunlight streaming through my windows. All this is to say I'm feeling sort of stuck. I'm happy and content, yet still restless, pulled by magnets in two directions. Why is it so impossible to celebrate today?
For instance, I woke up at 9:30 and made myself coffee and oatmeal. In my head, the Busy Elf was telling me that I should go to the gym, that I should go for a long walk, that I should go read in a coffee shop or that I should get a pedicure. Seize the day! it shouted. Then the Chill Elf bitch-slapped Mr. Busy and said, sternly, "Maybe you should just lay around and read." Which is what I really wanted to do. So for the past few hours I've had to fight the urge to feel guilty for "doing nothing" when the doing nothing is EXACTLY the something I need to rehabilitate my chronically busy self. For the past few hours, I've laid in bed, reading and snuggling with my cat, savoring the silence that is my apartment on this Memorial Day holiday.
I just finished a book that reminds readers to listen to the small, still voice within (among other points). It's called "God in the Wilderness." I had to read it for work so I could write a book review about it. I sort of wish I had never volunteered for this assignment because I hate writing book reviews, but the copy editor who's in charge of reviews is a gem, one of my favorite people in life, so I agreed to help him out. Anyway, the book is quite fascinating. It suggests that Judaism has a framework for getting back to the basics -- nature, rest, meditative thought.
The author writes:
"On the path to peace I need to push a bit less and respect limits a bit more. I need to spend less time climbing the high peaks and more time sitting still and listening. I need to rush less from place to place and go deeper into the place I am. Somewhere there is middle ground, and our task is to find it."
I struggle with balance. Mentally, I'm okay. I don't mind life's hiccups and only occasionally do I feel knocked over when things don't go my way. I'm emotionally even. But logistically, I'm crazy. I have a hard time letting myself slow down. The issue is not that I don't enjoy chilling out, the issue is that I feel guilty when I do, like there are 16 other things I should be doing.
Yesterday, for instance, I left my house at 7:45 a.m., rode my bike 3 miles to meet up with a group of people that would carpool 1 hour to fruit orchards in the East Bay. I spent the whole day outside picking fruit and picnicking, and when I got home at 3:30, I just couldn't sit still. So I got back on my bike and went to a yoga class, which reminded me to breathe, to be present. While sweating in downward dog.
A totally different point: American politics. Last night, my roommates and I watched "Recount" an HBO movie that explores the 2000 presidential election recount in Florida. The writers did a huge amount of research to craft the script, and every character in the film is a real person. It was amazing how much I didn't remember or didn't know, and infuriating that our democracy really failed us. Such corruption in Florida! I hope the nation can bounce back after eight years of unprecedented bad decision-making and leadership.
Therefore, I thought it appropriate to dig up an artifact of my writing for this post, my first in a month, which means it will probably have no beginning, middle or end, that I will simply gaze at my naval a bit and write a bunch of run-on sentences and tip toe through the highs and lows of the past 30 days. There. You might be bored. (You've been warned.)
Despite the fact I haven't written much in my journal or on my blog, this past month has found me often thinking about writing and words, about how they feel on my tongue or fingertips, and how the words other people write feel in my mind. I've read 14 books in the past 4.5 months, and digesting these memoirs and novels has been good for my writing -- at work. My writing mojo has returned. It feels great. Only now I wish that instead of churning out 3-6 stories a week at work, I could slow down and concentrate on just one, or a handful, in an entire month.
What would it be like to not have deadlines every single week? I've started thinking about studying writing. Creative nonfiction, specifically. Even though I tend to read more fiction than non, I have no desire to make up stories. Humans who actually exist are endlessly fascinating and I'd rather chronicle their lives. My formal journalism education placed almost no emphasis on the art of storytelling - and it is an art - and so I find myself frustrated when I can't find the right words or sentence, and I don't have the time to think it over. My j-school experience emphasized reporting, information gathering and sorting, ledes, newsworthiness. I do not recall a professor ever talking about writing as craft. Nor was a creative writing class a requirement for my degree. I think this is a huge blunder by the j-school establishment. What use is a compelling story if you don't have the tools to write it well?
So I'm in the beginning stages of this quest to study writing. The scary part is: what if I get my act together and apply to a bunch of programs and am rejected? Does that mean I'm a shitty writer? Mediocre? Average? I know I can't really entertain these negative thoughts until I TRY, but it's nerve wracking to think about putting your literary self out there. Not to mention the fact that I'm not even sure an MFA in creative nonfiction is the means to my end. Getting a degree in education is still on my brain. The problem is that while I obsess about what to do next (since even though I'm enjoying my job much more, it has not and will not make me the kind of writer and reporter I know I can be) I'm also more content than I've ever been. I love San Francisco. I have amazing friends and am a part of an awesome community. I ride my bike or walk everywhere, I'm an hour away from cherry orchards (I picked 10 pounds yesterday!) and mountains, a 10-minute walk from incredible concert venues ... and when I don't feel like doing anything, I enjoy my bedroom, the sunlight streaming through my windows. All this is to say I'm feeling sort of stuck. I'm happy and content, yet still restless, pulled by magnets in two directions. Why is it so impossible to celebrate today?
For instance, I woke up at 9:30 and made myself coffee and oatmeal. In my head, the Busy Elf was telling me that I should go to the gym, that I should go for a long walk, that I should go read in a coffee shop or that I should get a pedicure. Seize the day! it shouted. Then the Chill Elf bitch-slapped Mr. Busy and said, sternly, "Maybe you should just lay around and read." Which is what I really wanted to do. So for the past few hours I've had to fight the urge to feel guilty for "doing nothing" when the doing nothing is EXACTLY the something I need to rehabilitate my chronically busy self. For the past few hours, I've laid in bed, reading and snuggling with my cat, savoring the silence that is my apartment on this Memorial Day holiday.
I just finished a book that reminds readers to listen to the small, still voice within (among other points). It's called "God in the Wilderness." I had to read it for work so I could write a book review about it. I sort of wish I had never volunteered for this assignment because I hate writing book reviews, but the copy editor who's in charge of reviews is a gem, one of my favorite people in life, so I agreed to help him out. Anyway, the book is quite fascinating. It suggests that Judaism has a framework for getting back to the basics -- nature, rest, meditative thought.
The author writes:
"On the path to peace I need to push a bit less and respect limits a bit more. I need to spend less time climbing the high peaks and more time sitting still and listening. I need to rush less from place to place and go deeper into the place I am. Somewhere there is middle ground, and our task is to find it."
I struggle with balance. Mentally, I'm okay. I don't mind life's hiccups and only occasionally do I feel knocked over when things don't go my way. I'm emotionally even. But logistically, I'm crazy. I have a hard time letting myself slow down. The issue is not that I don't enjoy chilling out, the issue is that I feel guilty when I do, like there are 16 other things I should be doing.
Yesterday, for instance, I left my house at 7:45 a.m., rode my bike 3 miles to meet up with a group of people that would carpool 1 hour to fruit orchards in the East Bay. I spent the whole day outside picking fruit and picnicking, and when I got home at 3:30, I just couldn't sit still. So I got back on my bike and went to a yoga class, which reminded me to breathe, to be present. While sweating in downward dog.
A totally different point: American politics. Last night, my roommates and I watched "Recount" an HBO movie that explores the 2000 presidential election recount in Florida. The writers did a huge amount of research to craft the script, and every character in the film is a real person. It was amazing how much I didn't remember or didn't know, and infuriating that our democracy really failed us. Such corruption in Florida! I hope the nation can bounce back after eight years of unprecedented bad decision-making and leadership.
Hey lady, I miss you! I am bad on balancing things, too. Case in point my upcoming trip to Europe. Instead of choosing the one of two things that were in front of me, I opted to do both and will consequently be running around like an idiot, and probably spending more money than was necessary. I'm already regretting not focusing on one experience and making that really great. Oh well. You'd think at my age I'd know better. I need a life editor. Anyhow, I'm glad you found your writing mojo again! If I don't talk to you before I leave I'll send you a post card.
Posted by: Claire | May 26, 2008 at 02:21 PM