Putting Down the Fugue

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Along with the sorry state of the world, heavy matters of life and death have left me without a soft place to land and write.  I spent several weeks just thinking, trying to pin down a faceable subject.  But I kept returning to an exhaustive rehash of other people’s criticisms of my work. What a fugue; but it provided an effective escape from the recent tragedies and losses.  Enough already, it’s time to let it go.  So please bear with me as I do.

Beginning this litany with the comments of a well-published essayist, he suggested that each subject of these latest shorts is packed enough for a whole book.  My close friend who’s a copy writer and poet has respect for the discipline of the epic-on-a-single-page.  And his preference is an original voice that includes consciousness and politics over obvious spiritual or political writing.  However, some do favor my inspirational columns, and others are most interested when my pieces hit upon today’s issues.

While the above mentioned essayist has no objection to Self as a subject, a few are of the opinion that personal writing is indulgent, possibly ugly, although no one has used that word to me.  My siblings don’t object to pieces from our collective past, but they remember events differently than the way I tell them.  And at a reading in Kansas City, one family member said: “You know, Steph, if I didn’t have to work so hard, I’d like to write a book too. ”

As much as writing is a privilege, it’s not an evening in front of the TV with a box of chocolates and a G’n’T.  The process (not complaining, just stating facts) often requires drilling through a mountain of resistance.  Yet, because life doesn’t make sense without writing, when I’m struggling in the dark to come up with a decent sentence, or trying to figure out what the piece is really about, I have no desire to escape.

Much of what I’ve learned about myself is from the commitment to this work and reading other authors brave enough to expose the foibles of humanity.  Even though it is an interior practice and I stay true to the subjects that interest me, others’ criticisms are invaluable.  But this rehashing exercise has eaten up enough time.  So I’ve cleared my slate and shall begin again.

Official Announcement

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As I sit perched upstairs at The Ledge on a snowy day,  contemplating the close of another year, I know in my bones it’s time to announce a change in my blog.   Photos and short lines of poetic prose have served Wild Nature well, but as a writer of a certain age who has so many stories inside, I want to write more.  That means upcoming short pieces with only a photo or two.  The challenge in this change is finding the balance of brevity and juicy depth that keep me as a writer and my readers engaged, yet not overwhelmed.  So now I’ve said it out loud with the intention to begin soon…with a Christmas party story where I met Ruby Flame, a drag queen in the early 80’s: Springfield, Missouri.                                    Thanks to all of you for the inspiration to keep it new.

A Ghoul’s Lament

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This past week, writing has been daunting,

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Leaving me scorned by the mighty pen,

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Floating unanchored,

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As if a branch of skills is screaming for attention.

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The haunting question remains: how does one not use the blood of blogging as a distraction from the longer pieces that are boiling through my brain, begging for mercy to be written.

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Without discipline for simultaneous both, I’ll end up a speechless ghoul.

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A telltale, but fading heart,

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In the sad, sad life of a writer.