Tag Archives: Writing

Reclaiming Myself


After a far too lengthy “sabbatical” from my blog, I am planning my return on the New Year. For those who’ve befriended, followed & supported me along this path, I am deeply grateful. After the “When the Map Flies Out the Window” & “…the Crazy Lady Entered”, I kicked my reclamation of self into high gear! WOW!

I fled my shrink- not without a certain amount of trepidation- and began a new path. My time and my energy, often hindered by Fibromyalgia & the accompanying “Fibro fog”, was spent on this massive and challenging new path of my journey through this world. Thus far, the choice has proven excellent, if not a bit strenuous; somewhat emotional and containing a little side of “grrr” at the previous years wasted in a stupor of meds and non-productive therapy.

I am now ready to return.. a few short days away..and hoping that I find my voice has gained clarity. A part of me feels my words may have come from one pill or another and that it is no longer there. The reality check comes from loved ones, who’ve retained writings of mine from so long ago, unfettered by a fog-bound mind & spirit. Again, thanks to all who’ve stuck by me and to those new people who’ve found me & not been acknowledged.  I haven’t checked in for awhile, so I didn’t realize you were out there. My lack of acknowledgement, though out of ignorance, is nonetheless rude.

See you in a few days! Happy New Year…and dare to throw that map out the window, it’s an incredible journey when uncharted!

..and then the crazy lady entered


Just like moons and like suns,         
With the certainty of tides,                                           
Just like hope  springing high,                                                                                                             Still I’ll rise.

                                 Maya Angelou        

I have ruminated on the things that I once loved about being me, just me. More than anything, it was a spirit of adventure, of following the journey wherever it led….and it led to some amazing places.

When I left that little town  back east, roaring into the night on a 1942 Indian  motorcycle  in which  I had  been at least halfway responsible for rebuilding and restoring with my own  small sixteen year-old hands, I never looked back. We rode hard for New Hampshire, a child’s romantic teen dream of escape from a world in decline and into a marriage about which I’d no concept. Small town New England held no charm for me. I was a high school drop-out with a mechanic husband and a little second floor flat in an old duplex. It was comfortable enough and I tried to teach myself the rudimentary tasks of being a housewife. I was a far better mechanic. The town itself was picturesque, with little squares, a diner where the locals held court and the fresh mountain air was foreign to my New York and New Jersey nostrils and lungs. I actually missed the smell of bus exhaust, the noise of traffic and the anonymous hustle by which I’d survived. I was not accustomed to being Mrs. (fill in the blank), the friendly and all-too-familiar local charm. It was 6 months before I demanded that we return to the world I preferred…not that dreadful little town that my parents chose but something more familiar. We again embarked on a night’s journey, this time towing the vintage bike behind a newly restored vintage car. My husband…a term so ridiculous in retrospect, considering my age, obliged me in every way possible. Three months later, a friend of his introduced me to pot…in my mind, akin to heroin! It was not.  It was good and I began to look at the world around me and realize that it was 1968 and everything was changing. There was an excitement in the air that had never been and I wanted to know , to be part of it. I did the only thing I could..I called my mother and her fiancé and requested refuge. My mother was delighted to accommodate me and sent Charlie, her soon-to-be husband, to get me quickly, lest I change my mind. It didn’t take long to realize that I had no forgiveness in my heart for the past and the situation with my mother grew untenable. My step-father was the only buffer in a simmering war between us. I had no money, no prospects, no aim but I left.

I wandered back into New York where I found everything imaginable happening! Being born in Brooklyn, it was always home to me and my love affair with New York has never waned. I love the noise, the people, the 24/7 life that I’ve never found anywhere else. At that time, movements of all sorts were afoot: civil rights, women’s rights, anti-war and everything in-between. I attended the first Earth Day in Central Park! I still look at old news footage of marches, so many in New York, knowing that I was among the thousands of faces in the crowds. The reality, though, was that I needed money of some kind, so I found a receptionist position in a county office, which led not to the drudgery I feared but to more freedom. I worked for brief periods but most of my time was spent on activism, hanging around college campuses, experimenting with minor drugs and living on and off in a commune. When I grew restless, as was my habit, I would hit the open road with my thumb out and off to parts unknown. During one of my trips to see my family for the holidays, I happened into a store where I met a Puerto Rican conga drum player, all looks and charm, living in Hoboken,, N.J. and there I was again. I had a great apartment on the first floor of a brownstone, the park featured in “On the Waterfront” across the street. I took a job in the garment district and spent six months in a crazy life of playing it straight by day and spending nights in Latin clubs with my heroin addict and barely English-speaking lover. Then I woke up. He disdained my politics, my commune past and my feminist ways and I abhorred his drug-addicted, womanizing failures. Again, I left. Back to the farm in Canada, to heal my wounds, regain my wits and grow restless for more travel…and yearning to be free of the sub-zero temperatures and hip-deep snow. The farm was spectacular in other seasons but winter was brutal and I was not made for that…nor am I a farmer. So, I rolled some cigarettes, a little weed, donned my hiking boots and layers of clothing and headed to the Trans-Canadian Highway with the first person willing to drive me the 15 miles out. On it went…

More trails than I could have imagined, more people who became friends, still fondly remembered, more impulsive but priceless experiences. I met another love: he on his post-college summer and me with my thumb out. We married in Los Angeles and, lo and behold, I once again ended up in suburban New Jersey! What were the odds? I tried my best to be a suburban working wife, converted to Judaism and had cocktail parties for people who I considered vapid and annoying. I lied my way into a management position at a chain bookstore, where I worked for several years…my respite from the Short Hills Mall women by whom I was surrounded. I soon found a guru fresh from India and that, along with my ongoing consumption of pot, kept me there for six years before the dam broke. It was an emotionally wrenching time: I was leaving a man I did not want to hurt but staying was worse; my father was dying a long and slow death from a broken heart which he drowned in alcohol and my company had me under pressure for transfer to the second largest store in the chain…in Los Angeles! My divorce was final in March, my father passed away in May and I took my transfer in July. I left all I knew to begin again. Success was short-lived. I was still grieving, trying to fix a business that I was sent to troubleshoot and one day, I tossed it all. I ended up living in the desert, trying my hand at alcohol. The party didn’t last long and I did get and stay sober for many years. Life settled into a pleasant groove.

I figured it was time for that G.E.D., followed by college and an Engineering degree. I acquired a nice vintage (of course) restored Mercedes, had a townhouse at the beach  and , best of all, a great group of people in a 12-Step program. I married again, moved to Oregon where I found love at first sight in Portland. It was the first place since childhood that felt like home to me. My marriage didn’t last but life in Portland did.

I made wonderful friends, took up activism on other fronts, returned to college and then university. I majored in Political Science, minored in Journalism and Creative Writing; transferred on to another school and left to work full-time on a major political campaign, followed by a stint in the Senate Majority Office. When I left, I went to an art school.I was independent, outrageous, self-appointed “Hostess at the Party of Life”. I worked and lived among many dear people who were at the center of the HIV/AIDS crisis and lost many friends to this still ongoing plague. I still thrived until I made one last, really bad choice.

I returned to my family of origin, thinking I had a place at the table. The results of that have been recounted in earlier posts. I am back in my beloved Portland now, blessed with an exceptional man who loves me as I am, a cat and a companion dog round out our little family. As I’ve noted before, it has been a decade if curses and blessings, about evenly split. I am still healing, the emotional and physical toll remains and while my spirit rises, my body has taken on the burden of the trauma. My material possessions are few and I teeter on bankruptcy, living below the poverty levels, but I am alive and blessed. I have regained extended family that I believed lost to me forever and these things buoy my spirits on the days when I think I cannot face another sunrise under these circumstances. Gradually, in spirit anyway, I am re-entering my own. I try not to look too far ahead, but stay close to present. It is what I must do if I am to succeed.

Oh yes, and laugh..more at myself than others, often irreverently, sometimes sardonically, but laugh nonetheless. If I lost that capacity, I would truly be mad. The jury is still  out on that.

Are we the Sob Sisters…or is it really just being Celtic?


Harry, the 4 lb. bada**                                                                                                                                                                                                

                                     K.M.                                Mumford

My darling cousin E and I speak at least every two weeks and, almost every time, one or both of us cries. She called a few days ago to tell me that the last post I’d written had made her cry as it brought back such great memories of the great times of childhood. As is usual, we were both crying by time we were done. It is rarely based on negativity  or sadness but, rather, on a shared memory of our childhoods among our huge and somewhat eccentric Celtic clan. As I’ve written in earlier posts, removed from my family through circumstances not of my choosing, reunion was decades to come. One evening, about 8 years ago, I happened on a genealogy website with one little query including the names of my paternal grandparents. I was so excited, my heart was racing…after all these years! It was E and she was looking for family members. I responded and soon we were talking and we grew to be four of us woring on it.

Before the Brooklyn Navy Yard closed,  2 generations of family had lived & worked in Red Hook. Our paternal grnadmother was a strong woman. She was the mother of 18, 12 of whom made it to adulthood,  8 of those being boys. Each served in one or both wars and in every branch of the military. My grandmother became well-known on her own right at home.  She donated more blood than anyone in NY; collected infinite amounts of silk hosiery, rubber and whatever else needed. We never knew these things about her growing up. Just like we never realized how hard our Dads worked at the Navy Yard…I still cannot see “On the Waterfront” without heartache. I never heard complaints or saw a hint of what each day was like for my Dad or uncles. No one complained, it was just life on life’s terms.

E’s dad was among my favorite uncles, incredibly hilarious and the entertainment for all the kids. When we were young, there would be an annual gathering at an aunt & uncle’s in New Jersey…they had a huge piece of property that could accommodate the entire brood. It was in sharing these fond memories as well as re-connecting with one cousin after the next that brought up the concept of the reunion. E & I, along with a couple of others, began tracking down names and addresses or whatever contacts we could. She & I are alike in that we both seem predisposed to organizing, planning, playing Nancy Drew…or in her case, Lois Lane…The Golden Age Lois Lane and Superman, from th...

and getting the task done. I did it in politics where she’s done it in life on a grand scale and , I suspect, we love it equally well. Unfortunately, we can only control so much. I knew before we began that I could not attend due to personal constraints. Many others were enthusiastic until it was a reality and then, one by one, they begged off until there were just a handful. E is the most optimistic and upbeat person I know &, God knows, she’s gotten me through some storms, but I know what family means to her and I knew this was a big disappointment. As always, she made the best of it but I was incensed! Most lived within driving distance, a couple a day or so by car and then one in the mid-West and me in Oregon.A stitched panorama of downtown Portland, OR a...

I pray that next year, I will have the resources and that others will show a legitimate effort to attend. Our parents are gone and I hate to see the family history of certain animosities and pettiness be carried on. Most of us who have spoken have talked about the little family feuds and skirmishes and spoke of gratitude that we would not travel that path. I would like to believe it sincere. In the meantime, E has demonstrated reaping what we sow. Although I don’t know  her family, their devotion to each other and the bonds that exist are amazing. It is an almost abstract concept to me as I didn’t grow up with it and have spent most of my life seeking. Unconditional love came from one person and all animals. E & her husband have worked hard and earned all that they have,no one takes anything for granted…neither the people in their lives nor the comforts with which they are blessed. E is a person of optimism, commitment to those around her, generosity and kindness to all with whom she comes in contact and an unfailing faith and spirituality. She never fails to inspire me at every turn and has seen me through these last dark & challenging years. I retain a certain  amount of N.Y. cynicism, sarcasm  and snide comment when I consider it necessary. I aspire to that which seems innate to Elaine. I do have a soft heart and a spirituality of my own, but if I wanted to catch up to her, I’d better hurry….I’m not getting any younger, I just look that way!

Clan Tartans:

Kilt (or Dress) Tartan

Casual Tartan      Hunting Tartan

The Warrior Morrigan, one of the three incarnations of the ancient Celtic Goddess. She is usually accompanied by three ravens. The warrior version that I have tattooed on me is different and I’ve not gotten the third one.

Fate smiled upon me..in a weird way…when I moved into this building. I had a reclusive neighbor who spoke to no one and grumbled at everyone. One day, he deigned to strike up a conversation and I discovered that it was the flags of Scotland & Irelamd, along with our family crest, that drew him. As I leanred, he was a writer, historian & fact-checker who freelanced his services. He moved away 2 years ago and passed suddenly but before he did, he presented me with a gift. Unbeknownst to me, he had spent countless hours documenting, annotating and gathering over 900 years of family history! I was speechless…how rare. I could not believe he had done all this and the details were amazing and , so far, proving to be accurate. I passed them on to E to distribute. Unbelievalby, it is the last 3 generations that are the hardest to sort out. In Journalism, I first learned the who,what,when where and why. With our combined research and educations, it is hard to believe that those basics are the stumpers. That, however, is for another day.

It has been an emotional roller coaster in recent weeks and last week ended on a sad note. My cousin (more like my brother)Ralph, on the maternal side of the family passed away a few years ago & I always miss him. About three or four years ago, I found his childhood best friend on FB and we began sporadic contact. He remembered me as the bratty five-years younger girl with whom they were often stuck. I remembered their 45 vinyl records and learning the words to all their late 50’s early 60’s music and my natural flair for dance.

I received an email from a mutual childhood friend telling me of Pat’s sudden death and found myself overwrought as my mind  flooded with memories and of missing my cousin. I wrote to Pat’s family though they’d no idea of me and they were appreciative of the memories I shared of his youth. Then I called E…as always, it started out tearful but ended with laughter.

There are a small number of people who can bring that kind of  bond to our lives; give us laughter and tears in the same few moments; have compassion for our difficulties and true joy for our happiness. I don’t know how many anyone gets nor do I know who they’re supposed to be…parents, friends, lovers, extended family? For me, there have been a very rare few and almost none related by blood…then there’s my cousin, E. I am more than blessed.

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Letting Go & Moving Forward


English: A view of Mount Hood from the Rose Ga...
English: A view of Mount Hood from the Rose Gardens. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Portland at dusk, looking east to Mt. Hood and the moon rise….it doesn’t get much more beautiful than this! After a lengthy period of change, leaving me with some challenges to face daily, I am prepared to move on to acceptance, not resignation; to change that which is within my power, not dwell in powerlessness.

It has taken a long time to reach this place and it began, as with most change, unexpectedly. The new year brought me one challenge and that was to start this blog, using the “mantra” of fearlessness to bring my writing to light. I did begin in January but circumstances found me stepping back into the world of my journals, Netflix and solitude. I mourned the loss of a friend while also mourning physical issues that demanded major life adjustments which then triggered PTSD, anxiety & Agoraphobia issues anew. I spoke openly on FB and to loved ones of these things and knew I must present myself as the most negative person , all the while unable to stop. There were even those who, though well-meaning, could not understand that what I faced did not even offer satisfactory medical answers. This increased my frustration with those around me until isolation from them was easier than explaining myself ad infinitum. After all, if there were no satisfactory answers for me, how could I explain to others? Frankly, I would have preferred to slap the crap out of te more witless among them…better to discourage them from imposing their trite suggestions or the infuriating implications that I was making much ado of nothing. I was newly diagnosed with Fibromyalgia, Chronic Pain & Osteoarthritis….the first two without clear medical causes and almost no solutions and the last, a condition which has no cure, just limited treatment and the hope of slowing progression. These do not live in my mind but in my body: the inability to get a good night’s sleep due to pain; the pain & swelling upon waking & throughout the day, moving to different points in my body. Who the hell wouldn’t be upset? Who would compare their temporary and self-induced aches & pains to a chronic, non-stop travelling demon? The National Fibromyalgia & Chronic Pain Centers provided a response I wish I could tattoo on my forehead:

I am especially fond of the far right, center box….a whole lotta dumb going on.  Not that there aren’t honest and thoughtful offers of advice & support but I’ve a low threshold for stupidity and my verbal censors are often absent, often to my amusement. 

At any rate, this served to only exacerbate my emotional issues, which I have tried to address for the last several years. Where the medical community offers little to treat the various diagnoses, the psychiatric community is more than willing to dole out medications with impunity. It is easier than admitting that  coping with my particular issues is not within their ken and referring me on to someone who can offer tools and skills needed to live with the earlier stated mental health issues. Better I should become addicted to some serious prescription drugs than talk it out or learn needed techniques ! That’s what I need is a treatment program to recover from my treatment! In the immortal words of Dr. Frank N.Furter of Rocky Horror fame:

                   So I’ll remove the cause……….But not the symptom

 It appears  up to me to deal with the symptoms and deal with them I shall. I want my life back & I want me back….the raucous, age-inappropriate, adventurous me! As one cousin thought of me, “like a pirate or something”. I also want to speak my passion aloud: I am a writer. It has been the one constant in my life.

As stated earlier, I live in one of the most beautiful cities in the country, with a host of arts & entertainment; green space, such as a length of downtown area named the Park Blocks, each block with statuary & trees & benches on which to sit and enjoy the city from a serene point of view;  the Rose Test Gardens or  sipping cappuccino overlooking the Square or the Chinese Gardens.

Portland Chinese Gardens
Portland Chinese Gardens (Photo credit: Darin Barry)

I fell in love with Portland from the moment I saw the night skyline as I drove in from L.A., where I’d spent 7 years living a mostly beach lifestyle; where I became alcohol & drug-free & went to college for the first time, becoming a “Flintstone-era” techie and the rare female engineer in a male-dominated environment; I learned to roller skate & weight lift…let’s face it: if you live beachfront in L.A., you have to look good  or so I thought. It was fun but grew tiresome, all of it. I wanted seasons-not extreme but some change; I wanted a city not a sprawl where one spends an inordinate amount of time in a car. I felt the new chapter open the moment I made that late night arrival along the waterfront and along the edge of downtown. I was in love again and felt at home for the first time since my teen wanderings began. I settled in, enrolled in the university in the middle of downtown, studying Political Science, Journalism and Creative Writing. I volunteered on a gubernatorial campaign & ended up with an eye-opening career in campaigns and the Oregon State Senate! Who would have thought  the freshman high school drop-out, commune-dwelling, hitchhiking girl would find her way here? As they say, you can’t make this stuff up.

Given the money to do so, I would likely spend the rest of my life between school and travel..there is so much I want to learn and even more I want to see. That is the person I seek to recover. Though I will have the physical and emotional disorders to balance, it suddenly seems less daunting than it has in years. That could change with the weather, the pain or a PTSD-triggering event but, overall, I feel more optimistic than I have in years. As one fellow blogger told me, the one thing we do have control over is the use of our time here. I want to use mine well: being in love with my fiancé & our 4-legged kids; having new experiences & meeting new friends as well as reuniting with long-lost family & , maybe, living out on the coast where I feel most alive and recognize my very small place in this grand world. Baby steps, I know, will be what it takes. I will need to learn patience to pace myself, for my health; for my serenity; for my pleasure. I do not delude myself into thinking I’m well on the way but, like the cave in the header, I see the horizon and , for now, that is a joy in itself!

When the Map Flies Out the Window….


Misleading Road Sign

You’re driving down the road with the top down, best friends along for the ride, top down and, though you’ve hit some bumps and had a few minor breakdowns, the trip’s been great. You’ve got the top down, you’re with your best friends, it’s a great day and you’re making your way to the next exciting destination when, suddenly, the map flies off in the wind! Shit!

Now you’re in the middle of nowhere and you realize that you’re travelling alone.The beautiful day, the best companions you know were a daydream that abruptly ended when that map left your car…not the convertible gliding along on the breeze but the clunker you bought for $500, driving through some blighted area long since deserted by

  

anyone with any semblance of a brain and the only places in sight make the Bates Motel look like a spa vacation. Suddenly your Janet Leigh in a blinding rainstorm, running from a life no longer bearable  and with few options available. What are you going to do? That was how I felt about one the singularly most pivotal moments in my life…except that, unlike Janet Leigh, I had neither a crisis of conscience nor  intention of turning back. Given the circumstances few people would. My back story was different and what drove me was not a crime….at least not one I perpetrated.

In this most unlikely of places, the pre-pubescent shy girl that I was, already feeling that she was an unwilling traveler on the wrong road, found it could be worse…much worse. As I tried to acclimate myself to my strange surroundings, the hands of strangers reached out. Actually, it wasn’t a reach so much as a grab…I was being kidnapped! Yes, kidnapped! Four grown men had seemingly decided, as one, to yank this young stranger off the bleak Main Street on this drizzly evening…from this, the “safe” and small town, away from the Brooklyn,N.Y. neighborhood that had been home to generations of family. My gut always told me this was wrong but what say has a child? Now, here I was, being restrained and driven who knows where and for what purpose?

The drive ended deep in a wooded area. I was dragged from the car & thrown to the ground. They talked among themselves, passing around a bottle of schnapps, from which they eventually forced me to drink. This is when I learned that one never knows what one’s reaction will really be until placed in a situation where “fight or flight” becomes part of the scenario.  Logic would dictate that a petite 12 year-old facing 4 grown men intent on violence would be best served by submission. What I know is that logic played no part in what followed, pure instinct took control of this child. When told to strip my clothes, I refused & found my clothes being roughly torn from me…each garment followed by a demand to strip the rest; each demand refused.

Finally, naked, being told to get on the ground. I did so and as they again talked among themselves about what was to follow, I began scrambling-part crawling, part running. I had no direction but to escape. I didn’t make it more than a couple of yards before being dragged back. My failed escape followed by the first rape and another escape attempt. 

 I fought all four with all my might but the horror of multiple rapes, sex acts I’d never even knew existed and more fighting and escape attempts. I’ve no idea how long this went on but it seemed an eternity. I was oblivious to my injuries as I wondered if my life would end here…and, if so, I wanted it known that I fought. Then, it was over. They threw my tattered clothes back at me, instructed me to dress and drove me to a dirt road. As they let me out of the car they advised me that this was my chance to survive, to find my way home. It came with a warning that this act came with a warning: should I tell the story or identify them to anyone, ever, they would return and this time, it would cost my life. 

I did make it home that night. There was no hiding from my parents…it was 3 a.m.; I entered the house battered, clothes in tatters and refusing to speak. I finally had to tell the tale; spent 2 weeks recovering in an isolated pediatric hospital room and the perpetrators caught. Unlike today, there were no advocates & poor counseling available. My family was left to our own devices and they were not good. In fact, they kept it secret & just tried to move on. The unexplained absence of our large & close-knit clan was unknown to me until 3 years ago, when tears were shed by those who would have helped had they known. To them, my mother’s leaving was not a shock; my father’s decline into the bottle was stunning & my leaving home, the act of an out-of-control teen whose world collapsed.

The hearings and final trial took almost 3 years. In that time, I endured being ostracized by the locals because I was new and these were 4 well-known guys, washed-up post high school jocks with little potential; my father began drinking and spiraled down into alcoholism and eventual death; my mother ran away…from the situation, from her own guilt, from a family that was never her wish to have. She lives alone, isolated & bitter, turning on anyone who attempts to bring the world in or her out. After many periods of no contact, our estrangement seems permanent, she unable to look at me…a mirror of all that went wrong; me tired of being the hated child whose presence was always just tolerated. I have many family members, both blood & not, who love me as I am; value what I bring to the world and teach me self-acceptance. I no longer need to seek out a mother who will never love me and always see me as a reminder of a life she never wanted.

So, the map flew out the window long ago and it was the best thing that could have happened. I left the wreckage of my family at 15, had a crazy brief teen marriage; found myself in the ’60’s, no longer the timid girl. I participated in the various movements of the time; moved to a commune in Canada..where I found myself  keeping  journals, where I lived on and off for 3 years and would leave on hitchhiking trips….no maps, no destination. I managed 48 states; Mexico, the Yucatán Peninsula on one of those crazy buses filled with locals & livestock. I married 3 more times…all great guys. My wanderlust was too great to stay settled. I’ve had several amazing careers; attended several colleges & universities…my thirst for knowing about so many things and writing, always writing. Reading old entries and amazed at where life has taken me and certain in the knowledge that all experiences that take us out of the status quo are part of who we are today. To change any one of them would be to change ourselves in unknown ways. While the kidnap/rape brought years of tragedy, it also freed me to go on a journey far beyond my imagination…no regrets & no do overs needed. Writing is marking life in the present and leaving amazing reflections for the future.

 Until this blog, it was my secret. With the exception being long letters to extended family, resulting in “you must write!” phone calls, I hid what I believed would wither when exposed to light.

the next four journals

Now, my uncharted trail has led to another place I never thought I’d be…online, writing for anyone in the world to see & I am so happy right here, right now! From Brooklyn, N.Y. to Brooklyn, Portland, OR…and the journey continues.

On My Writing & My Blog


Shake It Out
Shake It Out (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I’ve been told for years and by many that I have talent, a natural flow and the capacity to make one both laugh and then cry all within a paragraph. Well, I ask myself, where the hell are you, oh great one? I do my best writing in the late night/early morning hours; I rarely think but rather write in a more stream-of-consciousness manner.I also avoid editing when at all possible as it seems editing triggers over thinking, over thinking followed by changes that eventually result a piece that is no longer what I began with..and that is frustrating & bewildering to me. I know that not editing is not a common teaching, but writing is a craft in which, I believe, the writer is best left to instinct and experience. For me, my first instincts always seem to spawn my best work.Of course, all of this is based on my full acceptance of the concept that I have an innate talent which I should practice and not hide away in journals. I am not fully convinced yet. I am a harsh critic when my work is exposed to others,as though it goes horribly awry upon leaving my private little page. When I started my blog, I resolved to write at least 3 times a week. So far I’ve accomplished 4 (not counting the 5th and inflammatory to some close to me) in a month. This will make 6 & I feel good about that.

It seems that each time I am on the verge of a good topic or an idea is brewing, something bizarre occurs. The first time was the sudden death of a friend. This week it was a home invasion. Is the Universe sending me a message or a topic?

POINT of VIEWS @ SCHIPHOL AIRPORT : Amsterdam ...
POINT of VIEWS @ SCHIPHOL AIRPORT : Amsterdam : The Netherlands : Experience MORE, Feel MORE, Explore MORE, Fly MORE! WORLD : SENSE : Enjoy! 🙂 (Photo credit: || UggBoy♥UggGirl || PHOTO || WORLD || TRAVEL ||)

Someone whom I love dearly & tease unmercifully about being pompous in his critiques did give me some sage advice: a good piece is one in which the reader is left to turn it upside down and shake out that which is hidden among the prose. This is what keeps the reader turning the page; keeps the interest going and allows the reader to find the unwritten but significant bits. More often than not, I phrase so tightly that one could shake til it falls to shreds and still not find the hidden treasures within. I’m still digesting that concept…..