The Next Shut Down

I've been in bed with my back out for three days, with plenty of time to think, and have decided to shut this down.

In truth, I blog because I think I might need a record, publicly, when my next book comes out. But I also realize that committing to blog doesn't move me forward creatively - it narrates the process I do/would undergo anyway. A process that used to live in my journals. A private process that I miss.

So this is the last blog - again - for a while. I'm sure I'll pick it up again someday, but for now, I'm taking fiction, emotion, questions, questing back inside.

The Next Fear

Tonight, I am co-DJing a happy hour and party at the Duplex Diner.

This should not cause me fear. But it does. I spent 20 minutes this morning changing clothes until I struck upon an outfit that is cute (enough) while being comfortable since I'll be eating and drinking gay Diner food for free.

It surprises me, the degree to which this is a true hurdle I need to overcome. I worked at the Diner for almost 8 years during grad school, and have a deep bench of friends and former customers who it will be great to see. The happy hour is a group I know quite well too.

So why the fear? Or, is what's important that I recognize the fear, but move forward anyway?

....


PS: Wrote a few words last night, and again this morning. Fiction creeping back in.

Snow Day (The First This Year, Not the Next)

A great galloping pile of exciting comic books.

A bit of work to do - turning technical wonk-speak into compelling human interest tales (and yes, that's my justification to call it creative...).

THREE movies - all artsy - I want to see (which, yes, means I get a SODA).

The last hundred pages of FREEDOM by Jonathan Franzen.

Oh, it's going to be good.

The Next Release

I've been feeling as if I should be attending the Association of Writers and Writing Program conference (AWP) up in Woodley Park next week.

I'm still a writer, a reader, a lover of literature, right?

And yet when I peruse the listings of seminars and lectures and discussions I felt... nothing. Sure, a few held a bit of excitement - turning short stories into novels, historical fiction, research, that sort of thing. But that gasping enthusiasm I used to feel, that need to devour everything AWP offered, had gone.

Good or bad? I don't know. But I like my life as it is now: writing, reading, choosing images to complement the words. So I think I shouldn't feel as if I must do any one thing. And that actually feels very good.

Rediscovery

So I felt better yesterday, and actually got a few things done.

"Learned" how to wood-glue a loose floorplank. (Learning requiring only reading the back of the tube, but still.)

Rediscovered a story I'd begun working on long ago, and reconsidered short fiction, something that, post-novel, I'd tended to consider something for the past.

Taped the living room wall for painting (tonight's project).

And this morning we completeid the first of our training runs for a 10-mile race in April.

Now to work, with a print-out of the story idea in my pocket, and a gorgeous living room wall later tonight.

The First Stumble

Yesterday, at church, I went from lively to dead-alive in about three minutes time, and slept the remainder of the day. I'm not even sure what the message of the sermon was, except, possible, to live fully, experience deeply, "pray unceasingly" and be open to the beauty of every day.

So I left, slept for seven hours, and now drag my ass to work.

But working with Glen's manuscript on Saturday was a treat and an honor, and those few fiction ideas continue to buzz around my head. Perhaps tonight?

The Next Coming to Terms

I have always been a dabbler - before I was out of elementary school, I'd tried karate, trumpet, chorus, sign language, drawing classes, a failed physical activity here or there, petsitting and more.

So I wonder if this attempt to respect dabbling in my almost-40s has its roots in something fundamental?

Things I want to do:

Honor my family, and their needs, more.

Same for friends.

Write - but whether that's the football star, the reluctant son, the lost girl or someone else, who knows?

Remember what I love - popular arts and entertainment - and find myself a venue.

Be inspired - books, movies

So is that dabbling rather than committing? I don't know? Maybe - just maybe - it's simply LIVING life.

The Next Message From The Universe

The universe is trying to tell me something.
Into fear about the dance class - a cancelled dance class.
Into time-driven stress about a potential freelance opportunity - a relaxed set of expectations but a still-open door.
Into terror about teaching again - excitement and inspirational words.
The universe is ready for this 40th year, even if it hasn't yet revealed exactly how.

The Next Stumble

Tomorrow is my first intentional Friday. I need to send an updated resume and some clips to a freelance agency a friend connected me to. I need to work on my syllabus. And I'm seeing the retirement community Mom and Paul are moving into. Not sure it feels super intentional, but it is, at least, all new, good things.

The Next First Tiime

A class! I forgot to remember I'm teaching a class.

Talk about fear-facing, cliff-leaping, bravery-tinged things that I'm (ultimately) quite qualified to do.

Starting in February, I teach an Intro to Writing Fiction class, and I'm actually beyond thrilled.

And the Result?

Here's the thing. I love what I do professionally.

I look forward to helping someone by taking a close look at their writing and finding a way to make it clearer and more effective. I enjoy writing a story myself - sifting through information, collecting both discovered and delivered insights. The next issue of FOCUS needs to congeal relatively immediately and I'm excited by that prospect. I get to turn an Indonesian woman's answers to my questions into a personal profile. I get to figure out the best way to link stories about polar bears and ice floes with a tiger tagging project in Nepal. This is really cool stuff.

And maybe it's enough. Maybe this outlet - this creative job of mine, requires enough inventiveness to keep my soul moving forward. And that if I can see movies, and write a paragraph of fiction here, or a memoir-paragraph there, then my creative spirit (along with movies, and art, and good tv) is fulfilled.

Stuff to think about anyway. A good way to start the week.

The Next Inspiration-MLK Day Version

I suppose that title is a misnomer. Today's inspiration: The Fighter. An awards-winning movie. At noon. (Oh, and the movie theater attendance also means I get a Coke!)

The Next First Thing in the Morning

Well, this new little story idea is pumping!

It woke me up this morning, as new ideas often do, so I could get down some notes about how my latest character (brain-friend? visitor?) might gain some grit and texture, and even where she might end up one day.

But even when I'm not feeling inspired, characters often circle my brain, so what's different in the year I turn 40 about this development? Mainly just that, for the past two years, when a story woke me up at night, I'd gotten into the habit of telling it to go away so I could get some sleep. This year I'm remembering the worth inherent in listening to that voice and - if nothing else - jotting those inspirations down.

So I'm up, a little post-dinner and drinks blurry, early on a Saturday morning. Today is about health and art. They gym, the office (necessary and not that sad) and an exhibit at the Corcoran. I may visit my new friend/idea/interloper today, but I may not. Both options are OK. And I have a sense, my dear Fawn, that you'll be fine for a while, either way.

The Next Inspiration

...came out of nowhere.

OK, not true. Two forms of inspiration came to the fore last night, both reliable, even if I wasn't looking for them last night. A new television series called "Shameless" that transfixed with its roughshod, creative pulse. And actually dipping into Franzen's "Freedom" which, for some reason, I'd been resisting.

Oh, and the third inspiration: silence. Silence, silence, silence. After a long, busy work day (from home, for which I'm deeply grateful) I took more work to dinner - just me, my notebooks and reports, and the new Entertainment Weekly magazine.

Somewhere in all of that, a new story started to flow. No promises! No promises. But I will say it felt good.

This weekend: an art exhibit I've been wanting to see for months.

The Next Blog (Friday's) Today

Writing this a bit early, because I had an epiphany on the ride home tonight, as I read article after article about artistic events and expressions that I was passionate to see. And I felt guilty. Because, shouldn't I be creating something of passion? Shouldn't I have a story I feel I need to tell?

Well right now, I don't have a story I'm passionate to write. When I discovered what became The Zookeeper, I immediately knew that I needed to focus on it. When I take a new job I am invariably consumed by all the things I need to learn.

Right now, I am passionate about rediscovering my creativity. Classes (taking a dance class starting next week at a local dance school, and testing out a singing class at Church) and books (Freedom, The Lacuna, perhaps another dive into Susan Collins - the author of The Hunger Games), a photography exhibit at the Corcoran. An after work event at the Phillips.

Perhaps its justifying a lack of writing, but it feels as if right now I need to refill my well of inspiration. Read, take notes, explore, soak in. So while by tomorrow I may be off on a novel tangent, I think it's more important to let myself not.

The New No Snow

Bummer! I had such visions of a snow day today. Nestling at a coffee shop with Jonathan Franzen's FREEDOM and dredging up memories for the memoir idea.

Instead, I'm half-an-hour into work mode, and heading to the office early because my dear one and I are out of milk.

But hey - ate well yesterday, have still not caved on soda, and I've decided the new iphone will allow me to take instant dictation on the street (inspiration captured!) without looking like a madman. So there's that.

The memoir goal, by the way, is to physically describe both of the main players. To really dig in and use description to give a better vision of who they are.

The Next Deep Breath

Christa's blog talks about patience today. The idea that all those" overnight successes" we constantly hear about are actually, usually, the end result of years of hard work.

Today's question (taking a deep, deep breath before I dare ask it) is: Do I have the patience for a major project like another novel? Do I even want it that much?

Next Time, I Won't Beat Myself Up

That's become a mini-mantra over the past few days.

Don't beat yourself up. Do your best, but do it because it brings peace and pleasure, not as if not-doing is a failure of some kind. Go to joy.

And I've "given" myself two projects to play with - the nofiction and the fiction - which seems a nice way to give myself room without blame.

The Old Idea, Too

And then this morning, between church and a cup of coffee with a creative friend, I realized: I don't have to pick one thing. It doesn't have to be this idea or that choice. If creativity, and fiction, and engagement are to be my bywords, then I have to allow for writing as play. (Even using all these italics and bolds goes against the mantras drilled into me during my MFA.

So if for a morning it's Michael V and next week it's "Divided Son," more the better. If on Saturday I sleep and watch movies - no guilt, let yourself enjoy. And if today, I write a few lines for both of my current story ideas, and then go to the gym, good for me. This year has to be about peace as much as ambition. I've got 40 more years of this balancing act to go.

The Next Idea, Part II

I'd sort of given up on the "next idea" from last week's post. Last night, however, we had a huge family meal for Bonnie's 70th Birthday. Great big fun. Lots to drink. Lots of conversations with the sprawling extended family. And I thought: there's something there.

New Plans for Every Other Friday

So suddenly I'm calling them "Intentional Fridays" and trying to define a list of activities that qualify.

Essentially, the idea is to treat my every-other-Friday-off as the gift it truly is: and opportunity to invest in

my LIFE, rather than the work I do to support it.

The deal I'd cut (the idea I'd proposed) was that every other Friday I'd get up with Matt and leave the house with him, so I could be out in the world (even if only at coffee shop) and engaging in something meaningful at the opening of the day. The idea continued that I'd stick to my "intention" for at least 2-3 hours, so that I could still benefit from the joys of pure, unplanned time in the afternoon.

And then I realized that I'd just assumed that to be of value, that time had to be writing time.

But wait, aren't I also committing to a bigger, broader approach to this 40th year? So I've expanded the "intentionals" list. Here we go: writing, fostering fiction/creativity/inspiration (research, reading a good work of fiction or seeing an artistic movie), exercising, or providing support for family and friends – particularly family.

Because I realized that a serious strain of guilt has been growing in me over the past year or so - the idea that I'm not doing enough as my parents age and my friend's lives (and Matt and my life too) accrue complexity and challenge.

So instead of feeling guilty for not writing (or whatever it is I'm not doing on any given day) my goal is to commit that time simply to moving onto a positive path for the next 40 years. To dedicating at least 3-4 hours, every other week to the things that will sustain me in the long haul.

The Next Big Idea

I think I know what I want to start writing about.

Without giving too much away, I'll say that it's very personal, it's inspired by what I call the Nate stories, and it's wildly, embarrassingly influenced by the friend's manuscript I'm reading right now. And that I'm both excited and nervous, which is always a good thing.

Tomorrow - my off-work Friday, is the first day I'll attempt to dive in.

The Next Disappointment?

I'm finding myself thinking a lot about writing. Lying in bed at night spinning elegant, emotionally rich sentences. Sentences that speak volumes about character and motivation and backstory and plot. I'm finding myself not getting up from bed to capture those ideas.

Is it that my physical health seems to be taking precedence this first week of this 40th year? That my need to feel on a healthy path is more powerful than my need to feel on an artistic one? I mean, I'm reading and editing a ton, and having a smart, artsy movie renaissance.

So perhaps "the next disappointment" is too strong. Maybe I should trust my "I'll write on every other Friday - at least" plan. (Ask me on Monday how that went.) ;)

The Next Reality (started Monday, finished Tuesday a.m.)

I still need to go to work.

Ah! There's the rub with all this planning/organizing/reading/silence/breathing.... work. How did I manage to forget?

Yesterday, I organized and read, giving in to the siren call of a clean, open office where I can look out the window and write novels so gorgeous that virgin hearts break. Or something. Call it the "Room of One's Own" procrastination. The idea that with "just the right space," the next novel would flow.

I also saw 127 HOURS, the James Franco/Danny Boyle movie about the hiker who, trapped in a canyon, cut off his own arm to survive. So whatever complaints I may have, let's keep a little perspective, shall we?

I also spent the entire day silent, moving like a quiet mouse through my busy, productive day. It was wonderful.

Today, at work, I resolve to talk less and listen more. To enjoy the gifts this job offers, and to be intentional about my Fridays off. This coming Friday, we have plans in the afternoon (family event) but the morning is mine, and 9-12 will be work time. What work? Which fiction? I don't exactly know, but Nate seems closest to ripe for re-starting from scratch.

The Next Challenge

Today is a silent day, eyes open to eyes close.

Matt is 100% supportive, and even having some fun with it - making some notes of things we'll talk about when I talk again, "blocking three hours" tomorrow to hear what I have to say. Last night I even nervously asked him if I was crazy for doing this (something I'd never have done back in my Ptown/post-Ptown artist days) and he shut the self-doubt down for me. Told me it was great, and valuable. Reminded me that his parents have both done silent retreats all their lives as they search for insight. While I don't aspire to follow his parents footsteps, I'm reminded again how incredibly lucky I am to have him.

But beyond the silence, I don't have a real goal for today, which causes me to clench up a bit. Because if I'm taking a day for myself (note to self: why the word "taking"?) don't I then have a responsibility to pay it forward with art, or fitness, or organization, or capital-P "peace"?

Or can I just try this not-so-easy day of silence out, and see what follows? (See Christa again, #s 1, 2 and 5).

So today is about feeling the day as it comes. I do have an organizing project in mind; I'm daunted by Day 3 of no soda (my only official resolution); excited to finish the novel I'm reading and start reviewing a friend's manuscript. I even put in some time for work last night, so I could truly sign off from all communications today. Matt and I kissed goodbye, and I think today was the first time he said "I love you" when I didn't say it back. I'll have to tell him extra tomorrow, in trade. :)

The organizing project has also reacquainted me with some old stories and made me miss a few of my characters again: this week, it's the Gare du Nord ladies and Nate Wheeler and his stepdad.

But, again, today's goal is simply silence. It's one I'm excited to have underway.

Alex

PS: Anyone know of a non-religious silent retreat, maybe out in nature, I could try?

The Next Question

How Quickly Will I Falter? (Yes, I put that in all caps.)

Right now, I'm fighting frustration at skype and ichat, both of whom - on this fancy new computer - are telling me they don't know who I am.

Maybe it's a sign of being in the year I turn 40? The continuing chasm between me and my effectiveness in the digital world? (Irony alert: I question tech-savviness via blog. Or is that even ironic anymore? Are blogs "so" 2010?)

The faltering, however, is more due to my lack of enthusiasm for what, by all measures is a lovely day. A friend in town for brunch. A movie with a few other friends later this afternoon. And yet somehow those minor events read to me as obstructions from what I "should" do: get to the gym, do a little work reading, finish the book I'm reading, see if I can't bring one of my fallow characters back to life. (I'm also sitting here fighting with free video-messaging software because I've got an 8a.m. chat-date with a buddy in London. OK, techies - it's not all bad.)

So that's the question for the day: Here, on January 2nd, can I call it failure already, when it's only 8a.m.? Or do I need to drop the whiny pretenses, and just get up and go about my day?

What's Next? Why Now?

I've been reading a friend's blog of late.

She writes consistently, every single day, but freely acknowledges the importance of marking things like holidays, turns of season, and a new year. So while I cringe a bit at re-launching this blog on January 1st (the same day I quit soda - again, as I have almost every year in the past decade) I also realize that I don't have to let anything get in my way. Thanks, Christa, for that.

I also realized, just around the stroke of midnight, that while I don't turn 40 until late June, this is the year I turn 40. And that it's very important to me to feel as if I'm creating a life that will give me another 40 years as rewarding as the 39 years, 6 months and 1 day I've had so far.

So this blog takes another turn. The alphabet prompts and "Danny Gets Fat" remain on hiatus, but I'm hoping to take a new look at things, here, starting today.

What will it mean to be 40? Who do I expect to be at 40, and in the hopefully many years beyond? What stories does a 40-year-old need to write?

The year I turned thirty, I started the year lost. I'd been left by a man I loved; I'd gained weight I didn't want; I'd recently taken a job I knew was a mistake. In short, I felt trapped by the life I'd built. At 29, I didn't trust the track I was on.

I also realized, in January of that year, that I could change things. That I could upend the "rules" and expectations of my life, and do something new. I did some great things that year, all of which helped me get where I am today.

So, what great things will I do this year? I know we will run a 10-miler, and intend to run a half-marathon. (The we is Matt and I. He is not something I want to change.) I intend to make more of my free time and to be more accepting of times that seem out of my control. I need to be a more engaged brother to a harried sister, and a more helpful son to two sets of parents who are quite quickly growing old. Finally, and this blog should be a central part of it: I need to write.

In retrospect, I did a lot of writing last year, putting down tens of thousands of words on 3 new novel ideas. As of today, none of them shout to me that they are "the story," but I do believe "the story" is there. Perhaps, I should say "the next story" instead. Perhaps that should be the new title of this blog: The Next Story. The Next Forty Years.

Here's to the next half of my life. Cheers.