I am merely demonstrating how I want my posts to be understood. If I write many short posts with titles, look for the narrative. My narrative will be found among and between the posts. I am forced to resort to this because of my muscular dystrophy.
There. In my last post I mentioned that I would soon tell you why I am forced to write in small posts. And now I am telling you.
I write in small posts because everything is difficult for me right now. This is how muscular dystrophy affects me.
I am going to begin posting a new narrative to my blog.
When I began this blog, I thought I knew what I wanted to say. My problem was that I had not yet identified the proper voice for sharing my thoughts. And, I hadn’t fully understood my need to really distinguish what belongs on my blog, what belongs in my book, and what should remain in my own journal.
But, now that I have worked some of this out, I would like to begin sharing it with you. But, I am going to share it in a series short posts that, in aggregation will tell a story. There is a reason for this. I promise to share this with you in due time.
I promise to post daily, beginning at some future date in the not too distant future. I will begin posting daily after I have accumulated enough pieces to sustain my inevitable droughts. I will tell you when my daily posting will begin.
Soon. I promise.
Soon.
I slept hard last night. My second night, not fussing with my new CPAP. I’m getting comfortable with the machine.
Wearing one is a trade off. Yes, it is slightly cumbersome. But, I have had too many episodes in the middle of the night. Needing to roll to my side. Then, forcing myself up, so I can breathe again.
Not breathing is way more uncomfortable than wearing a mask that blows air into my nose, while I dream. And waking, after a full night of deep and easy breaths, is damned refreshing.
I guess it took me three nights to get used to the mask. The first night was my sleep-study return-visit, in which I was fitted for the mask. I had a chance to try it out, and ask questions, and to be reassured. That was over two weeks ago.
Then, my second and third nights were this past Wednesday and Thursday, in my own bed. It took a while for the medical supply company to fill my prescription.
My first two nights of not waking were Friday and Saturday. Even now, at least six hours after opening my eyes this morning, I feel better. More alert. Less winded.
I gladly wear this mask. And, hope that my two cats don’t extend their claws while exploring this thing that connects my face, through a flex tube, to the grid.
I was just called by a pollster. She asked my permission to engage in a few questions on current topics.
I told her.
No. My opinions do not aggregate well. I am a unique perspective. I am a writer.
I was surprised at how spontaneously, powerfully, and politely, I conveyed my thoughts, before hanging up.
I loved that I didn’t wait for her response. Saying no feels good, when it means saying yes to something more important.
I think I am going to use this line for the forceable future, until my message gets out there, on metaphorical paper.
My opinions do not aggregate well. I am the aggregator. I am here to make sense of your data.
Than yesterday, and the day before.
Same pain. More energy. But weak.
I didn’t expect much when I approached today’s writing. It felt perfunctory.
Then, I got going. In the past, I would flail for days, anticipating a revisitation by my muse, sometime after my symptoms would inevitably recede.
I would write for days, waiting for creative insights to return.
However, today, although I still feel crappy, my mojo reappeared. I wrote a thousand words, most destined for some place in my story.
I am excited, because these past six months, I have been writing in my journal about these episodic symptoms that set back my mind, every time. I knew I needed to overcome these ill effects.
Somehow, I trusted that the seemingly endless weeks of deep concentration would eventually pay off.
My second post back from today, I attributed my new ability to brain-rewiring.
My book is being physically wired into my brain, by my mind.
A first-time writer has more to overcome than a published author. Both are telling a story. But a new author has to figure out how to tell a story, before doing so.
A nascent writer’s brain is pure potential, until the secrets of success unlock themselves from past habits of thinking.
Until everything else in life became secondary to my book, I couldn’t appropriately focus my thoughts.
Until I could focus my mind, I couldn’t envision how to achieve that first draft.
Today, I can trust in the process. Just write every day.
While I retain the ability to think about my story, during this latest episode of symptoms, the willingness to write is diminished.
I can think about my story. I can have new insights. But it is still a challenge, in this state, to find the energy to develop the narrative.
That’s what I’m trying to overcome, right now. That is why I’m posting these brief thoughts.
Traction overcomes inertia.
The blog has not gone.
Quiet. Writer. Preoccupied.
My creative periods come in spurts, between bouts of symptoms.
My book is my focus. I am writing my calling card.
In this moment, between symptoms, I can be intensely productive.
I am on disability. But, I no longer believe my condition should hold me back.
My book, if she sells, will be evidence I can earn my own keep.
Silence is the foundation on which all noise is built.
Sacred Space.
Within, I work.
I am recovering from an intense period of brainstorming that was very beneficial to the evolution of my writing. But I am back, to actively telling a story.
I finally understand the text I am writing, as the synthesis of all the possibilities I wined and dined in my mind. Is it fiction? Check. Is it memoir? Fuzzy check.
At one point, I thought I was exploring a new space called Fantasy Memoir. I don’t know if there is such a thing. There probably is, because when I think I have a good idea, if I look hard enough I will find others preceded me in that particular line of imagination.
But, I have also explored different options to speak my thoughts as non-fiction. That, though, would require something different than what my spirit wants to say. My spirit wants a Meta-Myth.
I have found that my spirit, when I judge that it is grounded in appropriate aspirations, typically identifies fruitful avenues. And, my spirit is telling me to write a myth about myth.
This evening, I once again sat down to work on my manuscript. And, I wrote a bunch of stuff that doesn’t belong in that piece. But, it belongs in the story. So, I have within my Scrivener project, folders for what different characters might say. And, I am further breaking it down by having individual pages of possible statements and thoughts for each main character at the beginning of the story, the middle, and the end.
My writing style is haphazard, in the sense that I follow inspiration where it takes me. To hell with the narrative, when great ideas come for individual moments. So, I write them where I am, which is my draft. And then, I have to pull them back out. I just read what I wrote this evening. It’s all great. But, none of it seems to go together.
Tomorrow, I will re-organize today’s writing, as a warm-up activity, after my journaling, but before my story-telling. I approach my writing as a potter explores hand-built pieces. I am developing a narrative for all of the individual inspirations, that provide context for a truth I seek to convey.
I feel like hell today. But, this is why I have this chair. I can still do something.
I ran into my neighbor, and her daughter, in the driveway. They were happy for me. Then, at McClintock, I caught the bus to Southern. Forcing myself to go beyond self-consciousness. My first surprise was learning that the bus is not free to wheelchairs. I thought it was. My bad.
And now, here I am. First time, in my favorite coffee shop.
In my wheelchair.
I received it yesterday afternoon. In my driveway. Running, again, into my neighbors. I was very grateful, but I felt guilty. I felt well enough, in yesterday’s hot afternoon, to question whether the chair was a necessity.
But, after dark, with a strong, spring, wind blowing, I took it for a spin to the corner store, for a bag of chips. Just to have something to do on a dark and mysterious evening.
And yes. I was high.
I caused a bit of a headache for the store owner, by trying to breach the front door from my seat. It took a minute of struggle, before he came to my aid. He apologized, profusely. But, I insisted I needed to learn how to do these things. And then.
I got stuck. I made it through the door, and down the first tiny aisle, brushing some few snacks to the floor. And, I turned the corner, to find myself.
Cornered. No path, back to the counter, except from where I came. I had to back up, because he had crowded the floor so tight with merchandise. But first.
I grabbed a bag of Lay’s. Then, the owner spent a couple, more minutes, backing me with hand signs and instructions. Pronounced, Bengali.
I was embarrassed, because I could have used my cane and my car, if I really wanted those chips. Instead, we enjoyed our own private circus, because I was curious to do this, once the day had cooled.
I hope he enjoyed it. I thought it was fun, except for putting him out.
But, by the time I returned to the garage, and plugged it in, I had decided that, I only made the trip because I had the chair. Otherwise, I did feel crappy enough that, before yesterday, without it. I would have rationalized.
I wasn’t very hungry for chips. And here I am, this evening, in my favorite coffee shop, writing. This definitely would not have happened, feeling like this, before yesterday.
This is wonderful. I am beyond self-conscious. I am happy.
This has been a great month of April. My sister and eight-year-old nephew came.
To me, from Melbourne. We saw.
The Canyon. The museum. And Wupatki.
They left east as the second week began. To see.
Other places and faces.
A widely scattered, diverse family.
I love them dearly.
But, I was worn.
Then, ten hard days. Like the first eight weeks of disability.
Too worn to stare beyond the walls.
But, ideas came.
Voice recognition, I am learning to love you!
And I now have folders, labeled for all my concepts.
Ideas filling them with story.
The narration of my ideas is now.
A slurpy concrete.
Setting, in mind.
The Atheist Who Believes in God 