Ok, I never took upon me to use this blog to freewrite from my stream of consciousness, and complain bitterly. But there's a new beginning for everything. Here it goes:
Why on Earth did I think that I could handle TWO Creative Writing courses in addition to my job, and why on Earth did I think that writing poetry in English would be a breeze?!!! This is the hardest thing I had to do in my life, except taking a Statistics course and struggling with the concept of Probability. Even Quantum Mechanics that I read about FOR PLEASURE in my own free time did not seem as hard as Probability. Now Poetry?
Who in their right mind calls Free Verse FREE? It has more restrictions than the rhyme and rhythm poetry. At least keeping the rhythm is completely natural to me, rhyming is much harder, for I have a hard time finding words to rhyme in the language that is not my own. But in Russian I produced the gems of poetry! When I was 18! What happened since then? Why now am I struggling so much? My brain is literally splitting up, and some new areas are at work that have never been used. I feel the connections between the neurons forming painfully with each new poetic exercise that the instructor throws at us.
One of the assignments is to write a SONNET! I am not Shakespeare, I'm just a beginner, as well as some other students taking that class. As far as I remember from the good old Russian school days, the sonnet form was considered hard even for experienced poets. So far I have gotten first four lines. With the PERFECT rhyme and rhythm and even making sense, but continuing with more seems impossible.
On top of that, I have to come up with a prose poem, a poem about an event I heard on the news about and assignments from a new lesson that I haven't even read yet for the fear of stressing myself out. In addition to that, I am extremely behind my creativity training prose class, where assignments are much more comfortable and easy for me, but no less time consuming. I have to write about a word of choice and about a writing day in a perfect world, and conduct Internet research on a subject I am not familiar with. The last one I feel the most comfortable with, because my profession as an ESL teacher have made me an expert in Internet research on almost any subject, including an academic one. Oh Lord, please don't remind me about doing research in grad school in the Cybrary into the wee hours.
As though all these responsibilities I put on myself are not enough, I also set my mind on finishing or restarting for the millionth time the story about Shibshib getting lost for the publication in Chicken Soup for the Soul, which is due MAY 31, which is like in TWO days! Oh, yeah, look at me, I'm a Superman, I can do it all AND successfully plan lessons.
And to top all this off, my writing and communicative ability, as well as cognitive skills are almost non-existent now. It is Friday, I've been struggling with the cold, lack of sleep and adjusting to the work schedule the whole week, and my brain is on strike, or vacation. So, I declare today a NOWRITE DAY, and I am NOT writing. As in not writing anything that needs to be written. I can't deal with requirements and expectations of being judged right now, so I am just rambling on aimlessly in my blog that no one will read anyway.
So, tomorrow, I will go on another Wine Tasting class, and then on a mindless shopping trip at the mall with a friend. Sunday, I will buy materials for our patio project with my husband, and have a barbecue dinner at another friend's house. To Hell with the writing which seems like a nightmare now. After recharging my brain cells, I will produce yet another masterpiece, as I have always done in the past.
Just have faith and let go.
About Me
- Lyubov Yelinson
- I am: The Djembe Warrior Drummer Princess, The Belly Shaking Goddess, The Seeker, The Mystic, and The Writer in Quiescence.
Friday, May 28, 2010
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Discovery: False Starts
I have not realized how many times I tried to write and how many times I gave up. The following was found in the old journal of sporadic entries from 1999 to 2002, which wasn't the only one started and then abandoned. I was blown away by the quality of my writing. I am glad I found courage not to give up anymore.
*****************************
It's the first to greet me in the morning. It's the last to wish me good night's sleep. It's in a sickly pale face of the moon; it's in the threatening frown of the clouds enclosing the sun.
It's so familiar, it's become a part of my identity, ME. It's been with me so long, I can hardly remember when I was free of its company. Maybe that's why I befriended it, because I never had anyone to take it's place. The imaginary friend of adulthood.
It hits unexpectedly, or should I say expectedly, since it's always there feasting on my self-confidence, preying on my consciousness.
When I used to write poetry, I would call it "My Pain". When it fits the schedule, I call it "PMS". Other poeple call it "Being moody". If I had a shrink, he would call it "Depression".
From the moment I open my eyes to the moment I sink into the bed -- it is always my companion.
******************************
Looking for a job is like looking for a mate: full of bitter rejections, unfulfilled dreams, and missed opportunities.
******************************
Why does every man, when he is with his male friends, turn into a belching monster, too eagerly laughing at their jokes about his own impotence?
******************************
*****************************
It's the first to greet me in the morning. It's the last to wish me good night's sleep. It's in a sickly pale face of the moon; it's in the threatening frown of the clouds enclosing the sun.
It's so familiar, it's become a part of my identity, ME. It's been with me so long, I can hardly remember when I was free of its company. Maybe that's why I befriended it, because I never had anyone to take it's place. The imaginary friend of adulthood.
It hits unexpectedly, or should I say expectedly, since it's always there feasting on my self-confidence, preying on my consciousness.
When I used to write poetry, I would call it "My Pain". When it fits the schedule, I call it "PMS". Other poeple call it "Being moody". If I had a shrink, he would call it "Depression".
From the moment I open my eyes to the moment I sink into the bed -- it is always my companion.
******************************
Looking for a job is like looking for a mate: full of bitter rejections, unfulfilled dreams, and missed opportunities.
******************************
Why does every man, when he is with his male friends, turn into a belching monster, too eagerly laughing at their jokes about his own impotence?
******************************
Friday, May 7, 2010
Cooker's Block
Note: "cooker" is an incorrect but endearing term used by ESL learners that means "cook" or "chef".
So here I am at my Physical Therapy, doing the treadmill. I love the treadmill, for it lets me concentrate on some creative writing book full of inspiring ideas, and at the same time do some deep torturous self-examination. As Socrates proclaimed at his trial, which would eventually sentence him to death, "The unexamined life is not worth living", so I am the Great Master of this sport, setting my own trial and being my own plaintiff, defendant, advocate, prosecutor and judge, .
As I try to concentrate on the "Writing as a Sacred Path:" by Jill Jepson, who traveled the world analyzing the spiritual practices of all religions and marrying it with the writing practices, and as I am being enlightened by another pearl of wisdom about nurturing the stories like you would plant a seed, the self-deprecating plaintiff kicks in. "You are no good. You ain't no writer. You can't create nothing. You are a boring person, a whiner, and a bad wife. You always make problems for yourself. Why you can't just let it go and be happy for once! What was the last time you cooked dinner? No wonder your husband don't like you."
Who can fight with that? I, the defendant, just let it go on, ramble itself out, trying to focus on another pearl of wisdom from this wonderful book. A thought pops into my mind, that time from a wise mature compassionate advocate, the one that keeps observing all from the back of my consciousness. "You don't just have a writer's block, you have a cooking block. That's why you can't cook and come up with any idea of what to cook. You are too tired and winded to create anything." Yes, thank you for your understanding. Finally someone not trying to judge me.
As I keep walking on the treadmill and thinking what would I like to do for myself today, what would my heart desire, I see an image of a dusty honorable bottle of shiraz, so dark that it's concealing the treasure inside it. Yeah, shiraz sounds good. I tried it for the first time in Tandoori's, Indian restaurant, and it was sublime like a vampire's feast: spicy, deep, earthy, black currant, thick, violet blood. Since then I've wanted to buy a bottle at Premiere but never found time. Now is the time.
Reliving the tangy aroma of the wine, my mind comes up with the perfectly paired dish to accompany it: medium done, with a pink kissable softness inside and smoky seared crust on the outside, grilled sirloin steak, light on the spices to enhance the real taste of meat; woodsy crimini mushrooms and caramelized onions sauteed in olive oil with savory and caraway seeds; plain salad with iceberg lettuce, slices of radish and cucumber, garnished with parsley, drizzled with lime juice and olive oil, seasoned with a dash of freshly ground black pepper and salt. Simplicity and sincerity, without embellishments.
So, my plan for the night was determined. The sage old bearded judge has spoken. With the new-found goal and creativity, I create a meal that is perfection in itself, like a brilliantly written poem. Writing and cooking are intermingled, both being the capricious children of inspiration. You have to dig deep inside the well of yourself to find the perfect recipe from your soul.
Needless to say, my husband was pleased. ;)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And for the true wine connoisseur,
here's the wine I drank with that unforgettable meal:
So here I am at my Physical Therapy, doing the treadmill. I love the treadmill, for it lets me concentrate on some creative writing book full of inspiring ideas, and at the same time do some deep torturous self-examination. As Socrates proclaimed at his trial, which would eventually sentence him to death, "The unexamined life is not worth living", so I am the Great Master of this sport, setting my own trial and being my own plaintiff, defendant, advocate, prosecutor and judge, .
As I try to concentrate on the "Writing as a Sacred Path:" by Jill Jepson, who traveled the world analyzing the spiritual practices of all religions and marrying it with the writing practices, and as I am being enlightened by another pearl of wisdom about nurturing the stories like you would plant a seed, the self-deprecating plaintiff kicks in. "You are no good. You ain't no writer. You can't create nothing. You are a boring person, a whiner, and a bad wife. You always make problems for yourself. Why you can't just let it go and be happy for once! What was the last time you cooked dinner? No wonder your husband don't like you."
Who can fight with that? I, the defendant, just let it go on, ramble itself out, trying to focus on another pearl of wisdom from this wonderful book. A thought pops into my mind, that time from a wise mature compassionate advocate, the one that keeps observing all from the back of my consciousness. "You don't just have a writer's block, you have a cooking block. That's why you can't cook and come up with any idea of what to cook. You are too tired and winded to create anything." Yes, thank you for your understanding. Finally someone not trying to judge me.
As I keep walking on the treadmill and thinking what would I like to do for myself today, what would my heart desire, I see an image of a dusty honorable bottle of shiraz, so dark that it's concealing the treasure inside it. Yeah, shiraz sounds good. I tried it for the first time in Tandoori's, Indian restaurant, and it was sublime like a vampire's feast: spicy, deep, earthy, black currant, thick, violet blood. Since then I've wanted to buy a bottle at Premiere but never found time. Now is the time. 
Reliving the tangy aroma of the wine, my mind comes up with the perfectly paired dish to accompany it: medium done, with a pink kissable softness inside and smoky seared crust on the outside, grilled sirloin steak, light on the spices to enhance the real taste of meat; woodsy crimini mushrooms and caramelized onions sauteed in olive oil with savory and caraway seeds; plain salad with iceberg lettuce, slices of radish and cucumber, garnished with parsley, drizzled with lime juice and olive oil, seasoned with a dash of freshly ground black pepper and salt. Simplicity and sincerity, without embellishments.So, my plan for the night was determined. The sage old bearded judge has spoken. With the new-found goal and creativity, I create a meal that is perfection in itself, like a brilliantly written poem. Writing and cooking are intermingled, both being the capricious children of inspiration. You have to dig deep inside the well of yourself to find the perfect recipe from your soul.
Needless to say, my husband was pleased. ;)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
And for the true wine connoisseur,
here's the wine I drank with that unforgettable meal:
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Letter to Elizabeth Gilbert
Dear Liz,
May I call you that? Because that's what you are to me - Liz. I consider you as close as a friend, or maybe even closer. You are more than a friend. You are my mentor, my guide, my guru. Actually, you are my Jesus. And your book "Eat Pray Love" is my Bible.
Do I sound too pompous? I didn't mean that, for what I am sharing is coming from the deepest regions of my heart. This is the truth I am telling. You, girl, changed my life. Your book and your thoughts, like you just plucked them from my mind. You were talking to me in your book, straight to me, like a dear friend at a bar with a drink in her hand, telling it like it is without avoidance and embellishments because the drink made her sincere enough to speak her mind.
And I owe it to you, those sleepless nights on the bathroom floor, trying to contact God, waiting for the sign that He exists, asking for the meaning of life. Wanting to write, but being scared to start. Conquering my fear and taking the first step. Signing up for the online class. Loving every minute of it. Finding my voice. Feeling like I finally fit in, like I found my niche in life. Blogging at 1:19 am about the writing life. Publishing in the newspaper. Having something to say, and somebody to read it. Trying to conquer myself. Stepping out of the comfort zone. Listen to the voice in my head, dictating poetic verses to me in the middle of driving.
You, Liz, are not just a famous writer to me, you are an example of what a thirty-something woman like me can achieve if she puts her mind to it and is not too scared to share with the world her innermost thoughts, even though some people might say they sound too self-absorbed. I am too very much self-absorbed and melodramatic, but it seems like there is a market out there for people like us, and we will be heard.
Liz, the Seeker's soul, the childless woman by choice, the Enlightened, I have so much in common with you, and I hope that one day, I will be able to tell it all to you face to face. We will share a drink at a dim quiet bar, soothed by a mellow Miles Davis' saxophone, or Nina Simone's wistful voice. Dream big, that's what they say. So I am dreaming.
With great love and respect,
Lu
XOXO
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