What the Heck Happened??

Writing stopped abruptly, like a summer storm.  The torrent of thoughts and inspiration pouring out of me, dried out without any trace.

What happened?  The silence inside my head is deafening.  There is nothing, but empty hollow space filled with vacuum.

It started with the desire to run away.  To get away from everything, from myself, to forget, to stop thinking. To run away from writing and the agony it's been causing, the sleepless nights, the self-doubt, the criticism, the constant nagging desire to persevere and succeed and publish. No matter what.  I guess that just killed everything else that comes from writing - the self-satisfaction, the quiet dialog with God, the reverence for precious words combined  into tentative poems.

I ran.  I couldn't stay home anymore, with myself, alone with my oppressive thoughts.  I went out.  I traveled.  I tasted wine.  I chatted with my friends.  I just wanted to stop processing, and start absorbing the world around me.  Without judgment, in a quiet meditative state.  Not think.  Just be.

But then, the thinking just stopped completely.  The new semester started again, and for the love of God, I still can't comprehend the resounding yes in me when I was offered to teach another class in Graduate School.  After having agonized about my role as a teacher and having finally decided that I don't want another teaching job, I had no doubts when I agreed to take on another one.

So the struggle to balance the teacher and the writer in me is continuing.  I still can't find myself between the two.  The tug of war between my two personalities is never ending.  Now I am a teacher, dedicating myself wholly to my three classes, giving up a piece of my Soul every single day to each of my students.  I tell myself to stop caring so much, and just do a job, but it's impossible.  I AM a teacher.  My life is a classroom.  I mother and mentor by default.

But I'm also a writer.  Somewhere deep inside me, she is cowering, unable to give herself voice, or yawning, tired and jaded from all the repetitiveness of life.

So I pray to the God of Writing, to please return my voice to me, to fill the dried up well with creativity, and defeat my fear.  I may not be good, and I may not ever publish, but I just want to write.

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. ;)
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And for the true wine connoisseur,

here's the wine I drank with that unforgettable meal:

Waiting to Write

Having not written in a while due to sickness and life's turmoil, I am scared that I will never be able to produce anything worthwhile anymore.  I'm a one hit wonder with one essay published by a local newspaper, big on words and small on action. As I struggle to pull out the words from the deepest regions of my soul, from the hidden caverns of my slow, encased in a thick fog mind, I am disheartened and disappointed at myself.

With so many writing projects in sight, I keep telling myself I will work on them the next day, only to come home to a horrible headache and a stack of essays to correct.  Dinner uncooked, cat litter uncleaned, house in disarray, essays uncorrected, only enough energy left to lie on the couch, unthinking and staring mindlessly at TV while American Next Top Model or American Idol is on, feeling guilty for not being able to juggle my health, house, husband, cat, work, and writing. 

How do they do that, the women who are actually married WITH CHILDREN AND TWO PART TIME JOBS?  Are they blessed with special superhuman powers and can survive without any amount of sleep?  Do they caffeinate themselves to such extent that they actually have energy to keep up with a million tasks a day?  Do they delegate half of their household chores on their husbands who actually have time to obey?  Or do they just feel satisfied enough with keeping their lives half-lived, meals half-prepared, house barely cleaned up after the dog brought all this mess from the backyard, husband on the back burner, children dropped off at multiple after-school activities to delay dealing with them, while the mothers are trying to catch their breath?

I don't know how they do that and why I am incapable of getting a hold of myself and my life, since I have the luxury of working only part time and NOT having children.  But here I am, struggling to survive every minute of every day, toiling through each heavy moment laden with responsibilities, barely relaxing and constantly feeling exhausted from duty, waiting for that free moment of time when I actually feel struck with inspiration and energy to string a perfect sentence together .

Waiting to write.

Who am I to write?

OMG - this was written a long time ago, fall 2009. How far have I come!  I am ACTUALLY pursuing my dream right now AND I'm going to be PUBLISHED in the Buffalo News!

Isn't it lame that the only follower of my blog is myself? Well what do I want? I haven't written anything worth reading, nor do I want anyone to read what I'm writing. It's just ramblings after all.


But write I do want, and it's my dream...


In search of any creative writing workshops/classes in Buffalo I found only online classes. For only $89 I can learn how to be a Travel Writer or how to Write a Life Story. But the point is, I need people to share my writing with, not the computer. Moving on to looking for any kind of creative/journal writing online, I get the same result, "Purchase this program and you will write your therapy journal and observe your progress, as featured on TV...", "For paid members, we offer online workshops...", "Buy hardcover journals for only $19.95...", blah... blah... blah...


I just want to write, not PAY for it. It gets even worse when I try to find a book on creative writing at the library. I think that THEY. JUST. DON'T. EXIST! Now if I wanted to actually PUBLISH something, there's a lot of help in that. Publishing children's books, romance writing, fiction writing, writing AND PUBLISHING about your life for retired and postmenopausal geriatrics, getting an agent, a publisher, and editor, etc. etc. etc.


GAH! I WANT to write, I truly do, but I just don't get any inspiration. Nor do I think that what I have to say actually matters. I'm not as funny, or creative, or interesting as other people. I never got cured of cancer by Jesus, never taught overseas, never adopted an autistic child from Cambodia, never climbed Mt. Everest, never shook Dalai Lama's hand, never was on TV or even radio... I AM BORING! AND I lead a boring life! Describe myself in three words: I own a house, I'm married, I got a cat, oh yes, and I teach ESL. What's that? You're saying that's more than three words? Smart alecs. I know. But the point is that that's all there is. BORING.


I just want to get out of here.