Tag: writing

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When the Universe Sends You a Message…

meanderingthroughmidlife

black asphalt road near mountains under cloudy sky

A month ago I was driving home from work.  It was a bit later than usual.  I was thinking about my son waiting for me at home.   And I was thinking about work, specifically my need to lighten my load and not spend hours at night grading papers, or planning.

The traffic was slowing down quickly at the exit I take off Route 22.   I reached forward to hit the hazard lights to alert the driver behind me.

As I leaned back into the seat,  I felt the impact. It reverberated through my back to my chest, head, and neck. The noise rang through my brain.

I never saw it coming.

A stranger came to the passenger side of my car.  I was dialing the police.

I regret not asking the guy if he was okay.  Instead, I got out to inspect the back of my SUV.  There was little damage.  I called my husband and cried.  Blue and red lights came up behind us.

I told the police officer I was fine.

But forty-eight hours later, I ended up in the ER for hours.  I felt fuzzy on one side of the head.  My ears were ringing.  Lights bothered me.  And I was exhausted and anxious.  It took a few days to learn I had whiplash with concussion symptoms.

My Doc told me to stay home and rest.  Little light. No Screens. Quiet. Sleep.  The truth is that I don’t know how to do that. I pride myself on my ability to juggle job, motherhood, friend, and wife. On the first day I went for a massage because the room would have dim light, and it would be quiet.  Day Two: a walk on the wooded path in town.  Day Three: I begged friends to come over to keep my company.

It was only when I returned to work on Day Four that I understood that I was in trouble.  The noise, bright lights, and required work on the laptop made my symptoms worse. I struggled through that first week.  And barely made it through the second. The fuzziness would shift sides throughout the day.  Some days my eye socket would ache.  On others, I would have migraines that did not respond to my meds.  I took yet another sick day to rest.

My colleagues said I looked like hell. Everyone had their own advice: get a lawyer, go for tests, or go out on disability.

Oddly enough, I really wanted to write.  But I couldn’t look at the bright screen.  The letters pricked my brain.  So I thought about reading.  I could hardly follow the ideas sprawling across the page.

I was afraid.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been in a car accident.  And the first time I’ve had concussion symptoms. But I’ve made peace with it.  The accident jarred me our of my life for a bit.  It forced me to slow down.  And I realized that there is much more to life than I have been experiencing.

Taking some time to just sit made me a bit reflective.  I can’t believe I am about to start my fifth decade.  It seems as if I was just thirty.  How has Time passed so quickly?  And what have I done?  Am I really happy? What do I really want to do?  How do I really want to spend my time?

I am grateful for this injury that forces me to put limits on how much work I can do in a day.  It forces me to take time to sit and read cheesy lit., or listen to music.   Slowing down has made me relax.

You, dear reader, may not believe in signs, or in some force greater than yourself, but I see the accident as a message, a message to slow down and live for today and take the time to be happy.  Life is fragile. And it may be short.

So here, at four weeks out, I am starting to feel better. Writing on the computer doesn’t hurt too much.  I am learning to pace myself when it comes to “work”.  And I’ve slowed down a bit, learned to say “no”, and take moments just to sit and breathe.

But I am most excited that I want to write.

Jennifer

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Story

meanderingthroughmidlife
architecture building castle clouds
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

I’ve been thinking about the nature of story this summer. What is story?  Is it truth?  Is it a well-constructed lie used to dupe an audience?  Is it escapism?

Some might suggest that our stories about ourselves are the narratives we construct in reaction to events and others’ perceptions.  These can either damn us or set us free.  If this is true and your story is dependent upon other’s perceptions of you and your actions, what does that say about you?  Maybe it makes you a passive character in your own construct.

I’ve been thinking about this a lot.  When life becomes too hectic, I often feel like I’m in a hamster ball on a treadmill.  When I settle for mediocre because I feel I have to, then I lose a bit of myself while maintaining the lie, the sweet facade that says “Yes” all the time.

But if I was more like Rhett Butler and “didn’t give a damn”, would that force me to surrender passivity?  Would that make me arrogant?  Maybe. At least I would feel as if I am driving through my own narrative landscape.

We are all distracted by others’ stories.  How much time do you spend on social media?  Isn’t that what social media is… story?  How many of us see so many posts of beautiful people, beautiful things, and feel bad about ourselves?  We forget these are fictions.  Or we are overwhelmed by cries for help punctuated by Go Fund Me or the personal cause de jour.  Often I can’t even see some of my friends’ stories because of some blasted algorithm.

As a writer I have found myself a bit stumped about story lately.  I am starting to understand that writing is not inherent in the first draft, but is the process by which we take that clay and shape it into some form that affects our reader. Stories today need to be more evocative then ever, needing some shock value to just get attention.

Hopefully a reader can relate and connect to the characters and understand that they are not alone.  Maybe they can adapt to a foreign setting and find new appreciation for history, or learn that the “other” is just the reflective image in a mirror.  Rarer still is the reader who appreciates the author’s craft.

While preparing for my high school adventure that starts in September, I have been reading older stories, ones that some would argue should be removed from current curriculum.  This makes me wonder why these are the stories I am to share with my students.  I ponder how to help them understand these narratives’ value in this modern world, and of course, how to read them.  Which brings me to the most nagging question, whose story is worth knowing?

Enough musing.

Time to read some story.

JMonell

 

 

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Stress and Writing, or the not of…

meanderingthroughmidlife

stress

 

I am blessed.  I thrive on stress.  Usually.

But as I get older, I have noticed that just behind Stress is Distress.  Burn out actually, which is followed by RAGE.

There was a time when working full-time, going to graduate school, and trying to write felt like juggling oranges.  Sweet ones.  But now, I feel like the oranges are on fire.

So I make deals with myself.  I will start writing again when… the house is cleaned, the students’ essays are graded, Nana’s party arrangements are made, make it to the gym once per week, sign Munchkin up for camp, soccer season ends, school calms down, etc., etc., etc.

My life becomes like the pet hamster in his exercise ball.  I can see the end, but I keep rolling over and over and over.  I can’t break through the clear block to actually do something.  The frenetic energy makes me feel like the Taz from Looney Tunes stuck in slime, the kind you make with your kid on a rainy day with food coloring and Elmer’s.  Insert image here.

Writing during these moments rarely happens because as I plod along further into middle age, my tolerance decreases and I fall back to “But life was supposed to be like…”  Thoughts spin. My body twitches, especially the left eyelid.   And then I just want to drool in front of the TV.  If I am lucky, I will pick up a book.

But write?

It seems easier to call up a friend and vent.

Writing down those erratic thoughts can make my hand cramp.  And for the story I’ve been working on for three months?  Well, that is just about as disjointed as a bad sitcom.

But writing down those troubled thoughts in the privacy of the page makes you face the truth, whatever shape and size it is.  No matter how ugly it is. Truth is truth.  Mostly.

I need to be calm when I sit down to write.

Life needs to be somewhat neat and organized for me to punch words onto a page.

That’s what middle age has done to me.  Slowed me down.  But maybe that’s what’s supposed to happen anyway.

So dear audience, tell me how you do it.  How do you write when your life is enveloped in chaos?  Love to hear from you!

Happy Writing,

JMonell

 

 

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Flame Wars

meanderingthroughmidlife

pexels-photo-750225.jpeg

Sorry I’ve been away for so long! I don’t know what happened to March, or the first part of April.  But life has been more hectic than normal, and my muse has buried her head through the snow to just below the screaming daffodils in my backyard.

But I was jarred when I read a comment under a social media post by a friend, who happens to be a writer.  The comment intimated that my friend had his ass handed to him on another post, a post that had to do with diversity in anthologies.  The person who commented was shocked at the lack of respect for my friend, and rightly so.

So I called my buddy to find out what happened.  And the conversation troubled me.

Now, it wasn’t the first post I had come across in recent weeks that had to do with diversity in anthologies, specifically horror.  Paul Doro asks about the prevalence of white men in Mainstream Horror: Where is the Diversity?

While Doro is speaking of film, there has been a lot of discussion about speculative fiction as well.  Should anthology editors require that submissions include the writer’s gender, race, and sexual preference?

I don’t think so.

This is not a new debate.  Many female speculative fiction writers, past and present, have used pseudonyms to hide their gender, and their identity.  BTW, I do the same.  In response to discrimination, women writers have created their own groups to support themselves.  Just look at Broad Universe.

But these recent posts are about race, gender, and sexuality.

So let me digress.

John Barthes  in his essay, “The Death of an Author” asserted that a reader must “separate a literary work from its creator in order to liberate the text from interpretive tyranny” (Wikipedia “The Death of An Author”).  The reader must regard the text as a singularity, and make his/her/their own interpretation of the text, therefore creating a relationship with it.  If a reader has that relationship, then the reader has a better chance of allowing the text to be evocative, and dare I say, memorable.  Maybe memorable enough to purchase the book.

It’s the reader that has the power to choose which texts should be published.  If a magazine, book, novella, script is not favorable to a large enough audience, then it dies on its own.  If it is beloved by a large audience, it does not matter how well-written the text is, or who wrote it.  Why else do we have Amazon and Goodreads reviews?

Popular opinion is powerful in the marketplace.

Now I am not saying that diversity shouldn’t be welcomed in the world of publishing.  Absolutely not.

But I’m not sure that affirmative action has a place in publishing.

Texts should speak for themselves, not for the writer who penned it.  Good texts are good texts.  They exist on their own, regardless of who penned them.  Can we ignore great art just because we don’t like the person?

I am saying that having flame wars between our brethren isn’t useful to any of us, except for those who wish to stoke the fires of discontent on social media.  Write on brothers and sisters! God knows the world needs more art.

Cheers!

JMonell

 

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The Great Divide

meanderingthroughmidlife

point of view

Today a colleague celebrated her birthday.

And I am twice her age.

In fact, I remember when she was a student at the school when I first started teaching.  While she was not my student, I can remember her walking through the hallways with friends, laughing and happy.

So as I munched on bagels with other teachers this morning, wishing her congrats between bites, I pondered about what makes us different, besides our age.

The newer colleagues think differently.  While I felt that earning the salary I do was the reward for years of dedicated service, they feel that I should work harder because I get paid more.  Working nights and weekends is commonplace even though I am nearly twenty-years into my career.  Many of the newer ones walk out at 3:15 without any papers, bags, or chromebooks.  And if I stay late, only we veterans can still be found at the copy machine after 4:00 p.m.  Some younger colleagues are so attached to their cell phones that I watch them play their games as they walk into the bathrooms.  I hide every glance at my muted phone buried within my purse.    During faculty meetings, I look forward to hearing from our union rep.  Others pack up, peck at their phone, or peer behind colleagues at the parking lot.  I struggle with new tech.  I used to struggle with tech period.  Younger colleagues dance circles around me with the latest apps and extensions, and I cling to the old ways: Let’s read aloud together.  What’s wrong with paper?

At first, I was frustrated.  I didn’t understand why people can’t follow the rules.  You know, the rules that have been in perpetuity that govern how we act at work.  Only my work world is now inside out.  The rules are no longer the rules because of  younger populist opinion.  Civility between colleagues is relegated to social media where we behave as is we like each other, alot.  We are supposed to be one unit, one team.  Instead the divide between old and new has become more apparent and wider than ever.

There’s this idiom: if you can’t beat them, join them.  So I decided to listen.  I tried to feel them out.  Look for explanations.  Find common ground.  I kept silent and heard their suggestions, some of which were very good.

And while I may not agree with their all their beliefs, and codes for living, I do feel that I understand why so many of the younger colleagues act the way they do.

And I try not to judge them.

But it’s hard.

And I feel old.

Which is why I run home so many nights with dreams of writing flowing as I grip the car’s steering wheel.

JMonell

 

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SPACE

meanderingthroughmidlife

 

spaceHappy New Year!

Today I have been thinking about space: space to write, space to read, literal and metaphorical space.

Yesterday I took some time to clean out my “writing room”, a third bedroom in our suburban ranch that houses books, this computer, a few chairs I’ve inherited, and my Reiki supplies.  It felt good to rustle through the desk drawers and chuck things I haven’t looked at in over a year.  It felt even better to find lost stories in the closet, ones I would like to revisit and possibly revise.  Spending an hour cleaning up the room felt right on New Year’s Eve.  It felt like throwing out the old to make space for the new.

My Reiki training has helped me make cleaning spaces a priority.  If I want something new to show up in my life, I need to make space for it.  Clutter in a room can muddle a mind.  Heavier energies can get trapped in piles of “things” that I may not need.  Letting go of stuff is important.

Space is time.

Tomorrow we return the chaos of everyday life.  Back to work and school, sports, meetings, and more gatherings with friends.  It is a tricky time for me because I give more than I’ve got at work.

One of my resolutions for 2018 is to give myself SPACE.  Space to write.  Space to read.  Space to be ME.

This holiday season has been magical as a middle-aged mom because I felt as if I had space to just BE.  I read when I wanted to.  I ate when I was hungry.  I laughed when something was funny.  I said “No” when I just wanted to stay inside and binge watch TV.  I was spontaneous when my son asked me if we could see The Last Jedi for a second time late one afternoon.

Most importantly, I did not worry.

And this made me happy.

Space is necessary for writing.  It takes more than just duct taping your ass to a chair in front of the writing tool of your choice.  Writing requires giving your muse some space amid the text messages, social media, to do lists, and other “important” things that causes your brain to spin.  Imagination requires time to slow and the mind to wander.  Doubt needs to take a hike.

Reading requires space too.  Taking the time to read aloud to my nine-year old before bed is still a sacred time for us.  Allowing my mind to slip into story and see someone else’s characters interact in their plot is still priceless.  It is in that space that I lose time, but it’s worth it as I come out feeling connected to another writer’s world.

I dare say that giving yourself space, allows you to connect more deeply with others.

Best wishes for giving yourself the SPACE to be you in 2018!

JMonell

 

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Convention Craze

meanderingthroughmidlife

IMG_3248

Believe it or not, I did not know that such things as Cons existed until my thirties.  Insert joke here (   ).

But when I got more involved with the writing community, I discovered the thrill of Cons.  The first time I went to a Con was back in 2000.  A friend took me to a small NJ convention called DevilCon.  It’s not longer around, but I still remember the awe of listening to writers and fans talk about books, and gawking at the few who dressed up as their favorite characters.

Then I was off to Horrorfind, World Horror, NeCon, LunaCon, and PhilCon, one of my favorites.  And that was before the Munchkin arrived.  Going to Cons is a rarity these days.  I’m often pulled in other directions in attempts to be a responsible adult. But every once in a while, you just have to escape.

And PhilCon this year was a great escape from the stressors of my humdrum hamster ball life.

I loved seeing friends that I may see once every four of five years.  Listening to writers and readers speak about the political nature of science fiction was thought provoking, and hearing Seanan McGuire speak about breaking the rules of writing was inspiring.  Then there were the costumes, the dealer’s room’s wares, and the art.

But the best part of being there was….well being there.  There is something about being a writer and surrounding yourself with other writers.  The atmosphere was soothing to everyday woes.  I felt I was with my peeps, as my students would say.

So here’s a few pics of my day:

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Happy writing!

JMonell

 

 

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Falling into the Flow

meanderingthroughmidlife

It’s been nearly sixteen years since I dared called myself a “fledgling writer”.  It used to be that I could sit down and verbal vomit onto the screen a complete story.  I was a pantser.  But now, writing is a bit more tricky.

Which is why I am turning back toward reading to jump start my writing.  But reading isn’t always easy these days either.  There is the required reading for work, the rereading of texts for work, and the endless emails, texts, tweets, and posts.  But it surprised me how challenging it can be to fall into the flow of a novel.

I will put the book by the bedside, intending to spend a chunk of time reading before sleeping.  Instead, I will spend a chunk of time on social media, checking out the latest news stories, and be half asleep by the time I put down the ipad/phone and pick up the novel.

Why is that?  I know that Nicholas Carr’s THE SHALLOWS tries to explain that Google just might be “making us stupid” by encouraging us to skim and scan, to not read.  But it frustrates me that when I think I want to sit down to read, I struggle.

Last summer I tried a new approach.  I picked up a book that I loved as a teenager: Anne Mc Caffrey’s Dragonflight.  For a week, I fell in love with reading again, yearning for the extra free moments when I could slip into the world of Pern and ride a dragon alongside Lessa in my imagination.  And it was interesting how things that did not stand out for me as a thirteen-year old reader, did as a midlife mommy.

More importantly, I felt a sense of accomplishment.  I had fallen into the narrative’s flow and allowed myself to experience  the story.  For a little while, I had forgotten all the day to day challenges.  Reading in the flow was cathartic!

And all it took was carving out some time, choosing the right book, and slowing down.  Slowing down might have been the magic ingredient in the fairy dust that transported me to Pern.

It was a healing experience.

Upon finishing Dragonflight, I felt compelled to research about Mc Caffrey’s life and her inspiration.  Then I marveled at how dragons are once again an important part of our culture.  And at last, the single sandy grain of a story began to form in my head.

Reading is breathing for a writer.  And I am still working on falling into the flow of others narratives.  But when it happens, it’s extraordinary.

JMonell