This writing every night thing is hard...but a deal is a deal. It's not so much writer's block that's got me right now, it's that I've been going full force all day without time to think. I worked all day, came home, ate and then straight to trivia night at Liffey's. It's always a blast and I get to utilize my vast knowledge of absolute nonsense. There's also the bonus of getting to spend time with my friends AND sometimes we win money! I can be fiercely competitive, but it's all in the name of good fun, so I think it's OK. Anyway, enough with the excuses. Time to write.
Note: this might be a bit of a ramble, but the book I'm currently reading says I should start with "shitty first drafts," so here goes nothing.
I'm reading Anne Lamott's book Bird by Bird and it's got me thinking about how to put my story together. Frankly, it's got me a little spooked. I'm used to writing poems and "essays," so I have no clue how to put a larger story together. E. suggested taking a look at all the pieces I've written about my family and growing up Cuban, making some notes and going from there. There's so much, I almost don't know where to begin. Lamott talks about looking at a scene through a one inch square and describing what can be seen through it. Right now, I'm doing a lot of thinking about the past and the people that populated my life back then. This might sound crazy, but Facebook helps. I find myself back in contact with so many people from that time. People I knew in high school and grammar school are back in my life. I've thought about a lot of these people from time to time, but having them right there, even virtually, stirs a pot of memories I forgot I even had. It is great to be back in touch, but at the same time, I think of the person I was back then (rather the person I thought I was) and I think, "Who was that girl?" Let's explore a little bit...
I was, in my opinion, a nerd. Seriously. I happened to attend a high school where the honor society people were also, for the most part, the popular kids. I was not in the honor society, but I did alright as far as my grades went, if you don't count math or science. Many a teacher took pity on me, but no matter how hard I tried, I just didn't get it. Numbers have never been my thing. I was friends with lots of people, just like now, but most of the time I didn't feel like I fit in any particular group. So many people say high school was the best time of their lives. I can look back now and say it wasn't awful. My classmates and teachers were always nice to me, it wasn't them. It was me. I hadn't found my way and I was hard on myself. I felt different (as in not cool) and I think it showed. I lost myself in books, I went to the local "art house" movie theater and lost myself in films like Howard's End (side note: The Galaxy Theater is closed...so sad), I wrote bad poetry and I wrote in my diary. Some things never change, I guess. Well, the poetry might be a bit better.
What happened to that girl? When and how did I start to feel like myself, like the woman I am still becoming? I left home. It wasn't easy leaving that incredibly close community of Cubans behind and venturing to the wilds of Connecticut by myself, but I knew I had to do it. I needed to get away from the girl I had been, the girl I thought I was, the girl everyone knew as the Abreus' youngest girl, as Pete and Maria's baby sister. I needed to figure out who I was outside of all of that.
By the end of the first year at school, I had found my tribe. Granted, for the first month, I was pretty lost, more lost than I ever felt at home. I would call my sister every weekend and cry because I was so lonely. Then I met Chris and things started falling into place.Chris introduced me to Kev who introduced me to Cat, Jenni, Cyn and the rest of the Girls and the Boys. For the next three years I ate nearly every meal with these people. We took trips together, walked to class together, studied together, watched our favorite shows together (Northern Exposure!) and, as college kids do, drank together. It was wonderful and it felt right. I felt right.
You should know that all of these friends of mine are artists. Painting, printmaking, photography, sound design, ceramics, on and on. Maybe that's what drew me to them. The great thing about my writing back then (and now) was that I could do it anywhere. I didn't need a studio, I could keep my friends company while they did their thing. For example, if Jenni was in the print shop, I could sit with her and write while she worked. I could hang out with Cat at the music school and scribble away while she recorded things. It reminded me of being in my Dad's shop after school doing homework while he worked. Considering the amount of hours I spent in the art school buildings, I should have an honorary Bachelor of Fine Arts...too bad I can't draw worth a lick.
The difference between my college friends and my high school friends is time. By the time I started high school, I had known a number of my classmates since kindergarten. You get to know people pretty well during those years and if, like me, you are awash in self-doubt, you aren't going to take a lot of chances. I was in a constant state of "Oh God, I hope they like me. I want them to think I'm normal (whatever I thought that was)." I'm going to guess that my high school mates weren't thinking about whether I was cool or not. They liked me for who I was and treated me accordingly. I realize now how much time I wasted worrying. I've always been a worrier. (Again, thanks to Facebook for facilitating a second chance with so many of my childhood friends. I really did wonder what happened to everyone. Glad to be back!)
When I got to college, I didn't know anyone. Did that free me up a bit? Maybe. The people at college had no idea I I wasn't "cool," so I had nothing to lose. I didn't expect to be the most popular person at college, I just wanted to have one friend who "got me," in spite of my preference for English films and 19th century poetry, and maybe because of it. A lot to ask, I know, but I found them. Or, maybe they found me.
I am still in regular contact with most of my tribe. You might say I'm the hub of the wheel or the conduit that so much information flows through to the others. People move, I've got the new address and phone number. These friends are as much my family as my parents and my siblings. They've seen me through so much (breakups, bad jobs, bad hair) and I love them for it. No matter how many days or years have passed between phone calls or visits, I know I can pick up where I left off. They know me better than anyone. Sometimes better than I know myself.
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
Monday, January 05, 2009
Somewhere Different Now
"I'm not on fire, but I'm not burned out. Just somewhere different now." -Girlyman.
I'm in a different place than I was a year ago, and somehow it feels the same. On my own, starting over and feeling like this place I'm in is not one where anyone can really reach me. I've got to get my bearings, adjust to the surroundings and push on to the other side. Not easy, but perhaps I am up for the challenge.
The writing helps. It gives me an outlet, something to focus on, a goal and maybe a little peace. I started writing again to deal with my grief, to try to understand my place in this world without my dad. Then I branched out, started telling the stories of my life (as interesting or boring as they may be). I had a place where I could spout my ridiculous theories about the Academy Awards, go on about the wonder that was Audrey Hepburn and expose my mother for the delightfully wacky little old lady she is. Better to have it all down somewhere than have the wheels turning all day and night, right? Sometimes the stories make sense. Sometimes the stories only make sense to me. No matter, no one is really reading this thing, right?
The thing that worries me now is how everything will fit together. How will I tell the story I am supposed to be telling? What is the story? There are actually multiple stories. I've already told one, Spell. I managed to write a series of poems out of order and put them together in a way that made some sense. And it's a love story of sorts. And I've been sitting on it for over ten years. Yeah, I should do something about that soon.
So, what's the next chapter? The story of my childhood? How I came to be in this place at this time? My experience with losing a parent? It's obvious to me now that I have something to say, a lot of something. How do I do it? That's what I need to figure out. Now. It's time.
I'm in a different place than I was a year ago, and somehow it feels the same. On my own, starting over and feeling like this place I'm in is not one where anyone can really reach me. I've got to get my bearings, adjust to the surroundings and push on to the other side. Not easy, but perhaps I am up for the challenge.
The writing helps. It gives me an outlet, something to focus on, a goal and maybe a little peace. I started writing again to deal with my grief, to try to understand my place in this world without my dad. Then I branched out, started telling the stories of my life (as interesting or boring as they may be). I had a place where I could spout my ridiculous theories about the Academy Awards, go on about the wonder that was Audrey Hepburn and expose my mother for the delightfully wacky little old lady she is. Better to have it all down somewhere than have the wheels turning all day and night, right? Sometimes the stories make sense. Sometimes the stories only make sense to me. No matter, no one is really reading this thing, right?
The thing that worries me now is how everything will fit together. How will I tell the story I am supposed to be telling? What is the story? There are actually multiple stories. I've already told one, Spell. I managed to write a series of poems out of order and put them together in a way that made some sense. And it's a love story of sorts. And I've been sitting on it for over ten years. Yeah, I should do something about that soon.
So, what's the next chapter? The story of my childhood? How I came to be in this place at this time? My experience with losing a parent? It's obvious to me now that I have something to say, a lot of something. How do I do it? That's what I need to figure out. Now. It's time.
Another View
I went to see the Curious Case of Benjamin Button tonight. It was good in that escapist, get out of the house for three hours kind of way (yes, it was three hours long and although it didn't feel like it was long to me, I recommend you use the bathroom before you commit to it). It is also one of those movies that I will put on the "I saw it on the big screen and will probably never watch it when it's on TV" list. Titanic, The Talented Mr. Ripley and The English Patient are all on that list too.
The thing that got me about the movie was Cate Blanchett. Granted, she is always luminous, always perfect. The woman played Katharine Hepburn for crying out loud. I would watch her read the back of a cereal box. But there was more. There was an aspect to her character that was, how do I say this without sounding like an ass? Me. Let me clarify. There's the obvious bit about her character being called Daisy. But then, she's a dancer...like I once dreamed of being. And then, she teaches dance at her own studio...like I once dreamed I would. It was weird. There's a lot of other things that happen that I won't give away, and obviously the Brad Pitt factor is not something I expect in my life (I'm more of a Daniel Day Lewis/Javier Bardem kind of girl). But...still. What are the chances? What are the chances that I would go to a movie on a whim and see a portrayal of someone with my name doing the things I dreamed of doing as a child? It made me think about what my life would have been like had I been able to pursue those dreams. Just seeing it on screen made me wonder "what if?"
Curious indeed.
The thing that got me about the movie was Cate Blanchett. Granted, she is always luminous, always perfect. The woman played Katharine Hepburn for crying out loud. I would watch her read the back of a cereal box. But there was more. There was an aspect to her character that was, how do I say this without sounding like an ass? Me. Let me clarify. There's the obvious bit about her character being called Daisy. But then, she's a dancer...like I once dreamed of being. And then, she teaches dance at her own studio...like I once dreamed I would. It was weird. There's a lot of other things that happen that I won't give away, and obviously the Brad Pitt factor is not something I expect in my life (I'm more of a Daniel Day Lewis/Javier Bardem kind of girl). But...still. What are the chances? What are the chances that I would go to a movie on a whim and see a portrayal of someone with my name doing the things I dreamed of doing as a child? It made me think about what my life would have been like had I been able to pursue those dreams. Just seeing it on screen made me wonder "what if?"
Curious indeed.
Sunday, January 04, 2009
The Insomniac Speaks, er, Writes
I have been writing more, mostly in my journal late at night. Here's last night's entry:
January 3, 2009 at something like two in the morning.
Lately I fele like I want to give up on writing. But then I realize that I haven't given it a real fair shake. And there are so many people who believe in me. Why can't I believe in myself more? Good question. I am scared that I will fail again. Scared that I will be laughed at and considered a hack or not be taken seriously. And after the year I've had, I don't know that I can give it a real shot. My confidence, the thing that I've been working hard to cultivate for the last year or so, is shaken pretty badly. I gave it my best shot and I failed. Really, this was a major setback. This was the voice inside of me saying, "I told you so." And I am afraid to try again, but really, I am more afraid of never trying. So I need to keep going. I need to wrap up the mourning, close out the pity party, put on my big girl shoes and push on. Because as bad as this feels, giving up and resigning myself to a life of quiet desperation would be worse.
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So, I lie in bed and write in my head. Sometimes, I put it in my journal. Sometimes, I post it here. Sometimes, I just leave it in my head. I'm bursting with things to say, but I can't seem to get it all down. That makes no kind of sense. I have to keep reminding myself that I don't have to show anyone anything I write. I can keep it to myself if I think it sucks. The important thing is getting it all out, because right now it is all keeping me up.
This is actually not as bad as it seems. A few months ago I couldn't write anything down. The well was dry. Now I don't feel like I need to push. The words are coming faster and easier than before, sometimes I can't keep up. It's not the actual writing that's the issue (OK, maybe a little), it's what to do with it. It's being brave enough to share it with anyone at all. I want to, but I'm scared, like I said.
You might be wondering what I'm going to do about all of this inner conflict. Step one: keep writing. No matter what. Step two: keep reading. Anne Lamott's Bird by Bird is helping me get my thoughts in some kind of order and I have another book about memoir writing on its way to me. Step three: find a great coach and a great workout buddy. E. is always there when I need her guidance, humor, honesty and general fantasticness. T. and I have made a deal to meet regularly to talk about writing, share our work and work together. Step four: don't stop believing.
It's actually a little bit exciting, the idea of having a real project to work on, having other writers to talk to and work with, making myself make something of all of these stories. I don't know what it's going to become, but it could be the start of something good for me.
January 3, 2009 at something like two in the morning.
Lately I fele like I want to give up on writing. But then I realize that I haven't given it a real fair shake. And there are so many people who believe in me. Why can't I believe in myself more? Good question. I am scared that I will fail again. Scared that I will be laughed at and considered a hack or not be taken seriously. And after the year I've had, I don't know that I can give it a real shot. My confidence, the thing that I've been working hard to cultivate for the last year or so, is shaken pretty badly. I gave it my best shot and I failed. Really, this was a major setback. This was the voice inside of me saying, "I told you so." And I am afraid to try again, but really, I am more afraid of never trying. So I need to keep going. I need to wrap up the mourning, close out the pity party, put on my big girl shoes and push on. Because as bad as this feels, giving up and resigning myself to a life of quiet desperation would be worse.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
So, I lie in bed and write in my head. Sometimes, I put it in my journal. Sometimes, I post it here. Sometimes, I just leave it in my head. I'm bursting with things to say, but I can't seem to get it all down. That makes no kind of sense. I have to keep reminding myself that I don't have to show anyone anything I write. I can keep it to myself if I think it sucks. The important thing is getting it all out, because right now it is all keeping me up.
This is actually not as bad as it seems. A few months ago I couldn't write anything down. The well was dry. Now I don't feel like I need to push. The words are coming faster and easier than before, sometimes I can't keep up. It's not the actual writing that's the issue (OK, maybe a little), it's what to do with it. It's being brave enough to share it with anyone at all. I want to, but I'm scared, like I said.
You might be wondering what I'm going to do about all of this inner conflict. Step one: keep writing. No matter what. Step two: keep reading. Anne Lamott's Bird by Bird is helping me get my thoughts in some kind of order and I have another book about memoir writing on its way to me. Step three: find a great coach and a great workout buddy. E. is always there when I need her guidance, humor, honesty and general fantasticness. T. and I have made a deal to meet regularly to talk about writing, share our work and work together. Step four: don't stop believing.
It's actually a little bit exciting, the idea of having a real project to work on, having other writers to talk to and work with, making myself make something of all of these stories. I don't know what it's going to become, but it could be the start of something good for me.
Monday, December 29, 2008
A Random Beginning
The following is part of a "writing exercise" from Facebook. The point is to write twenty-five random things about yourself. Turns out random is not necessarily my strong suit, but, as E. said, this is a good start for a completely different project. Enjoy.
1.I am the youngest of four children. My father's son from his first marriage (he still lives in Cuba), my brother and my sister were all teens and pre-teens when I was born.
2.Having much older siblings meant that for first part of my early life I was raised by two sets of parents (sort of). By the time I started high school, my brother and sister had moved out. After they left, it was a little bit like being an only child.
3.I grew up in a bar. OK, it was my parents’ social club. My parents and siblings took me everywhere. I was seen but rarely heard. I think this explains why I always felt more comfortable around adults instead of people my own age. It also explains why I am so comfortable on a bar stool.
4.My parents taught me a lot about the importance of helping others. In the 1980s they took in a lot of people that came to the US from Cuba. They gave them a place to stay when they arrived, helped them find homes and jobs, and made them part of the family. My parents asked for nothing in return, they were simply repaying the kindness shown them when they arrived in this country. I try to be that way for my friends. Don't ask, just give.
5.I did not meet my grandparents (or any of my extended family) until my father took me to Cuba when I was eight years old. It was the only time I got to see my grandparents, but the love was instant.
6.I saw my uncle (my mother’s brother) when he came to the states in 2002. I was amazed by the instant connection my siblings and I had with him, in spite of being apart for over twenty years.
7.When I am with my family, I am a Cuban girl who happened to be born in America but when I’m not with them, I am an American girl of Cuban descent. I struggle to find the balance and not lose either part.
8.I am currently 36. My mother had her last child (me) when she 36. My sister had her last child when she was one year older than I am. Makes me wonder.
9.My father died five years ago. I have come to realize that I will never get over it. Life goes on, but it will never be the same. I know I was lucky to have had as much time with him as I did. He was far from perfect, but loved me unconditionally. I miss him every single day.
10.I still believe in love. My parents were married for 45 years. They fought like mad but they also took care of each other and us. Now that I’m older, I understand how and why they stuck together.
11.I still believe in love, but I’m not going to settle. My mother has often said, “Better to be alone, than in poor company.”
12.I have recently started buying art. I don’t know what’s “good,” but I know what I like and I buy pieces when I can afford to do so. I can’t paint or sculpt or draw worth a lick, but many of my friends can, so I’m learning about different techniques from them.
13.I’m trying to be better about traveling. I haven’t been out of the country in two years. My last “big trip” was for five days for a friend’s wedding in Wyoming. I don’t know what’s holding me back. There are a lot of places I want to go, but I never actually plan a trip. I guess I’m not good at vacationing.
14.I used to hate the mole on my nose so much that I once tried to scratch it off.
15.I have had short hair since right before I started college. Before that, my hair was shoulder length, chemically straightened and often pulled back (one French braid, two French braids, pigtails, cornrows, ponytails). I also had TERRIBLE bangs for a long time. Whenever people ask me if I would consider having long hair again, I want to say, “Sure, will you be hiring someone to come over and do it for me every day?” I was never good at doing my hair, so this works for me. Plus, I think I look cute.
16.I have very large feet for someone my height. My father used to tease me that, if I wanted to, I could sleep standing up.
17.I always wanted to be a dancer, but my parents could not afford dance classes, so they signed me up for the free after school gymnastics program. I haven’t tumbled in years, but I cartwheel when I can, preferably in front of monuments and historic sites.
18.When I was in kindergarten, my teacher told my mother that I was a “soft touch” because I cried at the end of every movie she showed in class. I still cry at movies. My top tearjerkers include Rudy, The Color Purple, Shadowlands, Cinema Paradiso and Truly, Madly, Deeply.
19.I played Susan B. Anthony in the fourth grade school play and led the other girls in a rousing rendition of Helen Reddy’s I Am Woman. This clearly explains my feminist/activist ways.
20.In 2004, I took a bus to Washington, DC and participated in the March for Women’s Lives. A friend invited me to go and after thinking about it for a day, I realized how important to me it was to go. We left before dawn and got home late the same day. It was one of the best days of my life.
21.I am learning that for every major (or minor) setback, there is an opportunity for success.
22.I have become more comfortable in my own skin over the last few years than I have ever been. I think this feeling comes with growing up and doing things that used to scare me (taking a big girl pill as my sister would say). We’re not talking huge things, I’m not jumping out of planes or anything, but going to open mics, walking up to strangers and striking up a conversation…things like that are making a difference.
23.I have always been a night owl/insomniac. No matter how tired I am, I’m up until at least midnight (at most 2 or 3 am). Sometimes I’m productive (cleaning, writing letters, paying bills), but mostly, I just lie there reading until I’m drowsy.
24.Instead of counting sheep when I have insomnia, I make lists in my head. The most popular list is of authors in alphabetical order. Jane Austen, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Raymond Carver...
25.This list took a ridiculously long time to compose. If it were truly random, it might not have taken as long.
There's a theme here and all I have to do now is flesh it out.
1.I am the youngest of four children. My father's son from his first marriage (he still lives in Cuba), my brother and my sister were all teens and pre-teens when I was born.
2.Having much older siblings meant that for first part of my early life I was raised by two sets of parents (sort of). By the time I started high school, my brother and sister had moved out. After they left, it was a little bit like being an only child.
3.I grew up in a bar. OK, it was my parents’ social club. My parents and siblings took me everywhere. I was seen but rarely heard. I think this explains why I always felt more comfortable around adults instead of people my own age. It also explains why I am so comfortable on a bar stool.
4.My parents taught me a lot about the importance of helping others. In the 1980s they took in a lot of people that came to the US from Cuba. They gave them a place to stay when they arrived, helped them find homes and jobs, and made them part of the family. My parents asked for nothing in return, they were simply repaying the kindness shown them when they arrived in this country. I try to be that way for my friends. Don't ask, just give.
5.I did not meet my grandparents (or any of my extended family) until my father took me to Cuba when I was eight years old. It was the only time I got to see my grandparents, but the love was instant.
6.I saw my uncle (my mother’s brother) when he came to the states in 2002. I was amazed by the instant connection my siblings and I had with him, in spite of being apart for over twenty years.
7.When I am with my family, I am a Cuban girl who happened to be born in America but when I’m not with them, I am an American girl of Cuban descent. I struggle to find the balance and not lose either part.
8.I am currently 36. My mother had her last child (me) when she 36. My sister had her last child when she was one year older than I am. Makes me wonder.
9.My father died five years ago. I have come to realize that I will never get over it. Life goes on, but it will never be the same. I know I was lucky to have had as much time with him as I did. He was far from perfect, but loved me unconditionally. I miss him every single day.
10.I still believe in love. My parents were married for 45 years. They fought like mad but they also took care of each other and us. Now that I’m older, I understand how and why they stuck together.
11.I still believe in love, but I’m not going to settle. My mother has often said, “Better to be alone, than in poor company.”
12.I have recently started buying art. I don’t know what’s “good,” but I know what I like and I buy pieces when I can afford to do so. I can’t paint or sculpt or draw worth a lick, but many of my friends can, so I’m learning about different techniques from them.
13.I’m trying to be better about traveling. I haven’t been out of the country in two years. My last “big trip” was for five days for a friend’s wedding in Wyoming. I don’t know what’s holding me back. There are a lot of places I want to go, but I never actually plan a trip. I guess I’m not good at vacationing.
14.I used to hate the mole on my nose so much that I once tried to scratch it off.
15.I have had short hair since right before I started college. Before that, my hair was shoulder length, chemically straightened and often pulled back (one French braid, two French braids, pigtails, cornrows, ponytails). I also had TERRIBLE bangs for a long time. Whenever people ask me if I would consider having long hair again, I want to say, “Sure, will you be hiring someone to come over and do it for me every day?” I was never good at doing my hair, so this works for me. Plus, I think I look cute.
16.I have very large feet for someone my height. My father used to tease me that, if I wanted to, I could sleep standing up.
17.I always wanted to be a dancer, but my parents could not afford dance classes, so they signed me up for the free after school gymnastics program. I haven’t tumbled in years, but I cartwheel when I can, preferably in front of monuments and historic sites.
18.When I was in kindergarten, my teacher told my mother that I was a “soft touch” because I cried at the end of every movie she showed in class. I still cry at movies. My top tearjerkers include Rudy, The Color Purple, Shadowlands, Cinema Paradiso and Truly, Madly, Deeply.
19.I played Susan B. Anthony in the fourth grade school play and led the other girls in a rousing rendition of Helen Reddy’s I Am Woman. This clearly explains my feminist/activist ways.
20.In 2004, I took a bus to Washington, DC and participated in the March for Women’s Lives. A friend invited me to go and after thinking about it for a day, I realized how important to me it was to go. We left before dawn and got home late the same day. It was one of the best days of my life.
21.I am learning that for every major (or minor) setback, there is an opportunity for success.
22.I have become more comfortable in my own skin over the last few years than I have ever been. I think this feeling comes with growing up and doing things that used to scare me (taking a big girl pill as my sister would say). We’re not talking huge things, I’m not jumping out of planes or anything, but going to open mics, walking up to strangers and striking up a conversation…things like that are making a difference.
23.I have always been a night owl/insomniac. No matter how tired I am, I’m up until at least midnight (at most 2 or 3 am). Sometimes I’m productive (cleaning, writing letters, paying bills), but mostly, I just lie there reading until I’m drowsy.
24.Instead of counting sheep when I have insomnia, I make lists in my head. The most popular list is of authors in alphabetical order. Jane Austen, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Raymond Carver...
25.This list took a ridiculously long time to compose. If it were truly random, it might not have taken as long.
There's a theme here and all I have to do now is flesh it out.
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