I'm Back! said Nora, with a monumental crash . . .

That might not be the exact line, but the image from NOISY NORA by Rosemary Wells (I'm thinking of the original illustrations) where Nora, the little mouse jealous of her big sister and new baby brother, hiding from her parents to make them worry and come looking for her, triumphantly bursts out of her hiding place, flinging open the closet door . . . is priceless, as they say.

So, I'm back. Or backish, as I still feel a little uncertain. I became fearful that my blog was beyond hopeless. Not hot enough or commercial enough. I know what I'm up against, in the author blogosphere, and, face it, I ain't there.

Nonetheless, having been given two recent nudges, I've traipsed my way back. Maybe I just got lonely for the sound of my own words. Personal blogs are very much a me me me situation. Well, all I've got to share is me, so there you have it.

As for writerly news: well, um, a manuscript is being shopped and another one is under construction, but that's about it. Scary times in publishing, as in everywhere else, but I feel strangely okay. Not sure why, but what else is there to do but get through it, come out the other side? In a time of buildings collapsing, meteorites hitting, dinosaurs prowling . . . I exaggerate, but it does feel that way . . . in these weird times I have decided to perk up and claim my authorhood. Weird seems to suit me.

"I'm back!" said Fusty, with a monumental splat. We'll see . . .

Years Past, Year Present

I remember how insulted I felt when I first encountered the phrase "content provider" being used in place of "author." Changes were surely coming, cattle-prodded along matter-of-factly by trumpeters of all things digital, but I deeply resented the denigration of my creative work.

Of course there are many ways to be creative, digital and not. I didn't believe, even then, that all truly creative people belonged over here, on my side, while the heartless digital pushers belonged on that side. No, I wasn't so closed-minded as that. I was just sorry to see the further crumbling of respect for those who produce art. Art being, in this case, the (often) labored result of the creative impulse. The story/book/song/canvas/sculpture that resulted from that endeavor, held up for the world to see.

It has been a great sorrow to see the held object vanish into history.

I knew art would blossom online, eventually. But I felt the loss of what had been should be acknowledged. Many people mourned as I did, while digital-lovers mostly laughed. But that's what happens when an era passes.

Now I am more adjusted to the changing world, though it is still changing so ferociously fast that there is no end in sight--assuming anyone ever dreamed of an end. I am not very technically adept, so that puts me at a serious disadvantage in this new world. Still, I am very curious about how the written word will transform.

Books of some sort will still be written, of course, because we cannot seem to stop telling the story of ourselves. Barring horrible accident or disease, I have just enough time left to see young people in their new and ever-coming-newer digital lives. I have just enough time, I hope, to see art not only continue but blossom in it's new garden.

Probably, it already is.

Dis Heart End

This afternoon it is raining, raining, raining. As evening has come the sky has moved rapidly from gray to black. And it's cold out.

In some ways, these are the kinds of days I like best, though I don't like to be out in them--catching a bus, say, or walking home with a bag of groceries. No, I like to be safe inside, the inclement weather making my hibernation a good, logical choice, a great idea.

Fall has always been my favorite season. The short days, night coming early. It's not for everyone, I know, but it is for me, maybe because the shortened day feels stronger somehow. Muscular and tightly held, but powerful.

That is the way a good poem should be, in my opinion. Though of course there are many wonderful poems the exact opposite, loose and flowing warmly across the page. I have been thinking about poetry lately, saddened because I rarely write it anymore. Though it is there inside of me.

I didn't realize my later years would entail such a struggle between time spent in necessary but disheartening tasks, and time spent staring at a computer screen. The disheartening tasks have come as a surprise to me. Not because they are new, but because I am newly impatient. I used to say nothing, in order to give my writing my full attention. Now, though, I find I say everything--or want to--and am just about unable to bear the incompetence which plagues certain aspects of my life.

So, writing a poem sounds good. Forget that which discourages me, turn inward, then fling the found words outward.

Except I'm so damn tired. That, apart from everything else, dis heart ends.

Stoopid Bloody Thanksgiving Post

Last night, Thanksgiving Eve, I was in a funk--otherwise known as depressed and feeling sorry for myself--so I decided to do what some people have often suggested: Make a gratitude list.

I gotta say, just thinking about doing it made me feel even more depressed and sorry for myself. Stoopid bloody cheerful people . . .

However, this morning a Big Gratitude came to me: I am grateful that there are people in my life who tolerate me, even going so far as to wish me a Happy Thanksgiving and invite me over for some grub. So, that's big. Thanks, all you guys out there! You know who you are, unless I forgot to mention it . . .

Concerning my writing, it's been difficult, of late, to feel either good about it or grateful for what I have accomplished, what with Everything In The Known Universe tanking. Basically, life has become a giant Going Out of Business Sale, with no buyers.

However, when I really, really, really think about it, I am glad that I managed, if imperfectly, to produce a few books that someone thought worthy of publication, and I am grateful that a few people have actually read and enjoyed them.

I am also happy to realize--however improbable the odds are of actually pulling it off--that I need to re-create myself as a writer. Both to shake up the creative juices and to greet the new publishing world that is emerging. A monumental task, I know.

But I spend way too much time on the surface of things, worried and anxious and doing exactly nothing. Sometimes there is no help for that, but other times I'm just too lazy or too distracted to pull on my spelunking boots and snap on my head lamp, too tired to grab my shovel and start the descent.

That is the hard work of being an artist--getting to the core of things to find just what it is you need to understand, just what it is you need to express in your work. It's not an easy trip, and it's one that often has little material reward. I believe it is essential, though, to satisfy the soul. Mine, at least.

So my goal is to continue, despite all odds, to dig down and write write write. If that is a paltry Thanksgiving message, so be it. It's what I've got.

Today, Though

I need to take my own advice. In the last entry I wrote about the journey between center and surface, and how maybe the voyage to and from is what feeds the artist's soul. At the time, I was enjoying a visit to the center, and feeling renewed.

Of course, it immediately followed that I have spent every day since not only on the surface but blasted against it. Core? What's that? I'm all hard edges and distance and misery.

This current dislocation is caused by the things in life that gnaw at you, which you have no control over. We all have these things, of course. Mine just seem, of late, to be twenty feet tall and really, really mean. Of course I cringe. It's expected.

It follows that when I am in a place like this, I cannot write.

So I read a couple of cherry, professional writing blogs today. It helped, a little. Nothing like a little cheery professionalism to perk one up, and I've been in need of perking. I am often not cheery or terribly professional, so sometimes I need a lesson.

Today, though, I am a bad student. I am still stuck to the surface, miserably. I end up here again and again and again. Why why why why why why why?

Tomorrow's lesson: Figure this out.

P.S. It's tomorrow. Yesterday my Internet connection went out, and I was unable to post the above blog. I have still not figured anything out . . . I am doomed!

Re-Surfacing

I have been MIA for a couple of weeks. Another aimless drifting off into space. Which is probably a good reason I am not an astronaut.

When one re-surfaces into one's life (the drifting stopped, at least momentarily) the familiar always looks refreshingly new, as if someone had slapped a fresh coat of paint on everything while you were gone. I feel a little like that today. And, in fact, my front door really did just get a fresh coat of paint this very morning, so how timely is that?

In this pleasant little spot of renewal, I am trying to shake off some unhappiness's that have been weighing me down for a long time. These are things related to the practical aspects of life, such as housework (see previous post) and paychecks and being visible and the general not-knowing when the giant meteor is going to hit earth and exterminate us all in a puff of dust. (Hmm. Dust again. See previous post.)

I am only good at one thing, which is writing. I am not excellent at it, of course, or I would be rich and famous, or at least I would be one of the people saved in a disaster movie, right? If I was also good-looking, that is . . .

No, I am merely good at what I do--but I still really want to do it. So maybe there are some things I have to shrug off, some issues I have to ignore, to get back to the core. From which I will eventually drift again, but maybe it is the motion iself, the movement back and forth between surface and center that is so important to the creative spirit. Sometimes it might even be called drifting.

Stoopid Bloody Cosmos

Life isn't fair. We come from dust and return to dust, which is depressing enough. But then, in between all that, we have to dust!

Stoopid bloody cosmos.

I have cleaned my writing room--or "office", to sound more professional--ridding it of stacks and stacks of printed out piles of old manuscripts and indeterminate paper stuff, not to mention buried cat toys. And dust. I have dusted.

Dusting a thick layer of dust (reminder: we dust, and are dust) can be satisfying, as you see great swipes of clean surfaces emerge from beneath a thick coating of gray haze. And yet, some dust always remains. Even with a clingy-type dust cloth, which promises to not just move dust around but to pick it up and carry it away. The system inevitably fails, and dust lives.

What is that about? It is baby dust, sneakily stashed in cracks and corners by adult dust, to better increase its chance of survival. And survive it does. Soon enough, I will have a new crop of thick adult dust coating every surface of my room. (From dust, to, etc.)

So writing, I think, is a stay against dust (the "to" part.) We die, therefore we dust to rid ourselves of the reminder, but also therefore we write, so people will know we are more than just dust. We are words! Thoughts! Ideas!

A pleasant pause, as we consider just how smart and cute and good we are, then it's back to shoving around stoopid bloody dust.

Later this week: the living room!