Talent and the mirror

I think I've always considered myself a writer.  Not always.  Since I was about 13, I would say.  I remember a conversation with a friend about how well her sister wrote; she showed me some of her essays for school and that's all it took.  I was fascinated.  I wanted to weave those words into intricate patterns to make it seem like the author really knew what s/he was talking about.  Writing became crucial to my identity.  I felt I would only be a second rate person at best, if I didn't write.  Somehow, writing well meant bragging rights, and who didn't want bragging rights?  I think I started writing poems;  I wrote other things too.  I was fascinated by the story of Moses and I remember re-writing the story in my own words.  I was going to submit it to a writing contest in the newspaper, but never did.  I never really lead on to anyone that I truly enjoyed this new thing I was doing.  Bragging rights or not, I felt a strange compulsion.  No one told me to put pen to paper.  I just did.

I remember when I came to America, when everything felt new and out of place, my written word served as my clutch.  I wrote.  Anything I could think about, I wrote about. In college I remember I would explore short vignettes.  Random stuff.  Between studying, I wrote.  It was around that time I felt I maybe identified myself as a writer.  I say "maybe" because I couldn't convince myself that I was good enough.  At 16, I started the first 2 handwritten pages of a novel, that didn't go further than that. So, I couldn't be an author or write a book, but I just kept writing.

I think somewhere in my 20s, I figured it out.  It wasn't about bragging rights at this point.  I had started writing at 13 because it was cool, but nothing propelled me forward except myself.  I tried to pin it down as to why I wrote so much.  Why did I continue to write?  One day, the answer hit me in my face.  I write because I can't help it.  It was at that moment I realized that the words I was cooking up came to me because they did.  The stories I wrote about came because I didn't have a choice in the matter.  It was a part of me.

In my late 20s, I started to take writing more seriously.  I took some courses and tried to study the art of writing fiction.  In Indianapolis, I even started a writing club.  We met at a church every Tuesday night and we had rules about submissions and discussions.  It was this club that helped propel me to start writing my first novel, which is still not finished (75K words later).  Funny thing with life;  it throws curved balls at you and makes you balance and surf through storms and you find yourself immersed in a new, terribly disturbing situation.  When I lost my job and was very much in the process of losing my marriage, I lost something far more significant in the shuffle.  My words.

10 years ago, that 75K novel, called Color Of Rain, died.  Well, didn't die, the characters just left me to go to the other side.  Words failed me.  I stopped writing.  For the first time in 20 years, I stopped writing.  That is an inaccurate statement.  I think I wrote little bits and pieces, poems and sorts, but I felt I wasn't writing anything major.  I had gotten to the point of trying out for the majors and suddenly I was punting at the little leagues.  So, yes, I would say I wasn't really writing.  I wanted my novel and I wasn't going to have it.

That's when I met my husband.  In normal circumstances, the person that I was, would not have considered hanging out with someone like my future husband.  The carrot he dangled was something no other man had dangled in front of me - the challenge to write again.  He introduced me to the medium of writing plays.  I worked at it.  I have written 1 full length and 3 short plays so far.  None have been produced.  I look at the other playwrights and their plays and I meet my talents eye to eye in a mirror.  Do I stack up?  No.  Not really.  My husband thinks so, but what does he know?

I have to be honest with myself.  I don't have the best stories to tell.  Someone can make an amazing heart wrenching story about a cat that walked the street.  My story would be:  A cat walked the street.  Period.  The end.  I guess deep down it hurts that I don't have it in me.  I have to live by my own saying.  You do the best you can.  So, for now, I have to say, I'm writing.  This blog has gotten more words out of me; that's great.  Where to from here?  It's pretty much doing what I can't help; putting words together to make sentences.  Little at a time, about this and that and waiting.  If nothing else, it keeps me moving forward, talent or not.

Until next time,
TTR

Challenging myself

I have been on blogger for almost 8 months now and I wonder about my readership.  Does it really matter?  Of course it does.  Yes, I love to write and I would write irrespective, but the thrill of having people read my work, makes everything suddenly more worthwhile.  I guess, it's a form of validation.  I try to think of ways to get my blog more readers.  Well, to be honest, I am clueless about such things.  How does someone find my blog anyway?

I wondered about how people got chosen for "Blogs of note" and looking it up on google, I realize it's really random.  Or so they say?  Also, I notice there are a lot of bloggers out there.  When I say a lot, I mean a lot.  How does one compete with that for readership?

I know, I'm supposed to share my blogs on Facebook as often as I can and write as often as I can but the topic of this blog is challenging myself.  I'm going through a few challenges, but for now, for this post, my challenge is to get off Facebook.  Not completely though.  I think it would be more accurate to say, to use Facebook in a non-addictive way.  I find myself checking Facebook every hour as though a very important status message will show up, or someone will make a comment on my post and when I sit back and think about the truth, it's pointless.

Facebook, to me, has become this vehicle for narcissism.  Here's my selfie and I'm putting it on Facebook.  Don't I look cute?  I'm sorry, but I'm not into the bragfest.  As a matter of fact, it annoys me when there's too much unwanted sharing.  There are some amazing articles that are shared that I truly enjoy.  I have used that as an excuse for being on Facebook, but I'm really trying to downshift.  I'm taking a self made Facebook challenge.  A form of detox, if you will.  I'm trying to get more control of myself.  I'm tired of being the Facebook zombie starring at a screen, thinking the world will magically change at any given moment.

So, where does this all relate to my blog?  As I mentioned, I would love to grow my readership.  I know Rome wasn't built in a day.  Instead of staring at a Facebook screen, I would like to challenge myself to write more blogs and after a week of no Facebook to just go on to post my blog.  I would also use Facebook for my business and post there to keep things moving forward.  Also, I plan to limit my Facebook time to maybe a maximum of 30 minutes, if that, a week.

I took the challenge yesterday and it has officially been 24 hours since I have checked Facebook.  I feel that when I get back on Facebook, I will have a blog to post and I will have my priorities straight.  Instead of watching the craziness of the world, I can just delete the people I don't want on there and streamline my friends.  If I keep my blog posts public, I can perhaps grow my readership.  We'll see.
I know my blog about being a Muslim and the Ferguson verdict got a lot of hits.  I don't really want to be known for religion or politics though.  Blogging is such a balance.

Enough of my rants for now.  I'm still fasting from Facebook.  When I get on, I'll pick a few of my blogs to re-post, perhaps.

Best wishes all,
TTR

Keeping track of thoughts

When I started this blog, the one advice I got was to write down blog post ideas.  Well, I did write ideas down.  I have a few sitting on my iPhone notes even as we speak, but the funny thing with jotting down idea points, is emotion.  I feel that when I get an idea or a thought to write, it comes with feelings and invariably those feelings help my words and my expressions.  If I'm not in the moment, even if I'm writing about it, I lose the moment and my writing shows.  I feel it'll be a disjointed fact page missing the beat.  Sometimes, I get lucky.  The thought returns with the emotion and so there you have it.

Last Christmas, 2014, I was invited yet again to the annual Mercy Christmas dinner.  I have always looked forward to this dinner.  They have 4 ice sculptors, live classical music and a buffet of food that will fill you if you tried just a bit of everything.  Shrimp cocktail is what I primarily indulge in and then I suffer not being able to try a lot of the other foods.  Dessert is the chocolate fountain with strawberries, and other fruits to dip in, and that's just the tip of the iceberg.  There's a plethora of little cakes and eclair type things.  It feels quite heavenly really.  It's funny how excited and happy one gets when they are presented with a ton of desserts.  I usually feel like a kid again.  Anyway, it has sort of been a tradition for me to go to this dinner for the past several years.  It's a dress up affair, and the only thing I need to figure out is who I'm talking with me.

2014 was strange.  I got invited again.  I was free that evening.  I had a date, my husband, and he was free also.  We both had nowhere to be and we had a nothing evening ahead of us, and yet, we didn't go!  Yes, just like that.  We didn't go.  I looked at him and explained the hospital dinner that we had been to the year before and basically stated that I didn't feel up to it.  The whole thrill of a free fancy dinner had somewhere evaporated and there I was suddenly all mature and grown up and taking charge of my life and doing what I wanted even if protocol dictated otherwise.  I can't recall what we did.  I think we just hung out at home, ate some left overs from food I'd cooked in the past and just snuggled watching television or a DVD.

I did not miss the grand Christmas dinner.  The pomp and circumstance that made me so excited to go to this fancy dinner had finally died.  I have made it.  Even this experience had worn thin.  In the deep recesses of my mind I am grateful.  Grateful to have had the experience, grateful to be able to recognize the facade of the fancy, and grateful to have spent a quiet evening at home instead.

I started this post talking about how I have notes for what blogs I want to write and how I need an emotion to write them.  Interesting enough, this post is not in my iPhone.  Maybe it is.  I haven't checked of late.  I am sitting at my office ready to leave home and the thought of the Christmas party came up.  The thought of a blog post that had disappeared suddenly peeked through the clouds and said, "write about me."  As I was close to leaving, I decided to add it to my notes on my phone, but then I changed my mind.  Why not add the notes to my blogger and keep it as a post that is not published?  I could go home and finish it or finish it some other time.  At least, it would be on blogger.

Well, 5 paragraphs of notes later, I think I only need to edit this one before I post.  See what an emotion can do.  It writes the post itself.  I need only to sit on the computer.  Perhaps I'll look at the iPhone notes and see what I want to write about next.  See, if they talk to me, but if not, I may just wait for more ideas to suddenly break through and hope I'm at a computer when that happens.

Best always,

TTR