When I moved blogs from my dot net to this domain, I deleted more blog posts than I imported back in.  At the time, I had felt I was making the right decision as the man I was seeing was jealous of the men in my past, some of which (The Pilot Guy specifically).   I went a little crazy after the initial export last year and deleted over 80% of my past posts.

Earlier this week, I ran across the Wordpress file from the move and decided to take a leap of faith about lessons learned: you cannot erase the past.  In fact, the events and actions of our past is what we learn from.  Tonight, though I should be in bed, I imported the old posts and the only deletions I made from the import were the duplicates.

So, if you are the type to go through a persons archives, you will find some things there today that weren’t there yesterday.  There is still some clean-up that needs to be done, like the restoration of some photos and the cleaning up of categories.  But it feels good.

The photo, by the way, was taken on a dear friend’s back porch.  On a day when I needed comfort and an escape.  A part of my past – a part of my growth as a woman – a part of my evolution.  Because we cannot erase the past, but we can certainly learn from it….

Instead, I am up and sipping on my second cup of coffee.

I’ve fed the animals, have spent some time in mediation and have caught up on my email and the overnight Twitter feed.    I am making some mental lists of tasks to accomplish this week.   I am determined that this week will be productive.

I mentioned the WayBack machine recently, and in reviewing some almost decade-old posts, I was amazed at the sheer volume I was writing.  I was traveling this past week and though I didn’t have much time to write, I did have some quiet time to think and in questioning myself as to how I was able to be so prolific, I realized that I was doing the bulk of my writing early in the morning.    It was also a time before Social Media sights, like Twitter and Facebook.    All this thinking led me to a few points to ponder.

• When is my mind the freshest?  Mornings.  In order to accomplish this, I need to get to bed earlier and get up earlier.   My second freshest time is right before I go to bed.
• What is my true goal:  to be a better Social Media person or be a better Writer?  To be a better writer.  To take these ever-flowing, copious thoughts and put them to paper.
• What’s the point of getting up earlier if I’m going to linger?  That’s the point.  I can’t linger and surf and play.  I need to spend a dedicated 15 to 30 minutes writing.
• How can I stay caught up on things?  Discipline.  Focus.  Goal Setting.  List Making.   A trusty egg-timer.

I know I shouldn’t try to add too many habits into my days at one time if I hope for them to stick, but I believe I have a plan.

• I need to return to spending an hour on Sundays to review my schedule, updating my task list, and setting mini-goals for the week.  If you must know, I still believe in many of the habits I began when I was subscribing to the Covey methods for organization.
• I need to spend a small out of time meditating each day.
• I need to utilize my mornings better, and spend 15 to 30 minutes doing personal writing.
• I need to trade Scrubs re-runs at bedtime for another 30-minutes of writing.
• I need to turn distractions off during my writing time, including Tweetdeck and my email window.

The last several months have been more difficult than I could ever express, though I finally wrote a little in my column for All Things Girl.   Besides rebuilding my faith in myself, I also need to embrace some other principals, like courage and passion.  I am a strong woman with some solid goals. Thing is, there is only one person who  can accomplish my goals, and that is me.

I am also a smart woman and know that the best way to help myself is to also allow myself to lean on my friends.   I cannot continue to hide the good, the bad, and the ugly from those people who love me.  If I allow my friends to hold me to my goals, so if you see that I miss more than a day or two here, please feel free to call me on it.  Comment.  Email me.  It’s all part of me trusting that other people honestly care about me as ME instead of pretending to care because they want something from me.

I am a creative being and know that Life is a journey.   I know that my spirit wants to grow and achieve.  I know that with each day, I have a little more faith.  And it feels right.

Much love to you and yours.

“My muse is angry at me,” she said.

Then we began to discuss why she felt that way and, better yet, how to remedy it. For some writers, there is a ritual, routine, and rhythm associated to their writing.  She is one of those writers.  When she finds her rhythm, though, it’s magical.

I’ve been having problems connecting with my muse myself.  It’s why I understood what she was trying to tell me.  Lately, when I sit to write, all I see before me is a blank canvas that I’m afraid to paint upon.  Now to figure out how the hell to overcome the fear and reconnect myself.

(bolded words are my magnetic words for the last three days)

How does a story unfold?  How did a character get through a sticky situation?  Why is my grandmother crying in the only family photo of her family when she was a child? Why does this person have an obession?  Where are we in the world?

I think it’s my innate curiosity.

I want to know.

Maybe it’s time I dabble back in poetry a bit.

Several months back, I was suffering from a severe case of writer’s block.  When The Boy asked why I hadn’t written in weeks, I told him I couldn’t think of a thing to say.  He suggested I baby step back into writing and describe my morning walk.  The sky that day was a beautiful Robin Egg Blue.  I baby stepped into writing again after that.

And Cerulean.  I love the way the word rolls off my tongue when I say it.

I had wondered what a simple color would say to me when it came to writing and I immediately knew when the simple blue appeared on my refrigerator door.   Words are another form of art, and getting a reader to see through a writer’s eyes depends upon descriptive words.  Blue is the parent to a whole rainbow of blues.  It’s an angel’s azure eyes, an officer’s navy uniform, a teenager’s teal prom dress, and my cotton cornflower nightgown.

From  Breena Clarke author of River, Cross My Heart and Stand the Storm:

There is balance as a writer. It is a solitary profession in many respects. One thing that has been fortunate for me is that before my first book was published, I worked full time in an office and part time at my writing. After River, Cross My Heart, I was able to write full time. I do have a lot of buddies and friends, I’m married and I have my dogs. I have a nice little social circle, and when I was working full time, I used public transportation. Having contact with people, just looking at them and watching them, is a great asset. It’s interesting to try and read what they are thinking, seeing their faces and bodies and attitudes and being sketch out them as characters. I have continued to do that when I can. Now that writing full time, one thing that was most difficult was (took an early retirement) was the thought I could write all day. I thought how fabulous it would be, but it doesn’t work that way. No one works twenty-four-hours a day. It took me quite awhile to achieve a schedule. For the first time, I was in charge of my whole schedule.

From an interview with author, screenwriter, and television producer George Pelecanos:

It was at a point that many hardboiled detective novels were more about the WHY rather than the WHO. I had gone down there (with the police) and hung out and done the street work, and I saw a different possibility and changed direction. I look at it as a form of reporting and you have to feel the dirt between your fingers. I talk to people, and I listen. An afternoon of work can consist of walking into a bar and ordering a beer and listening to people talk, riding the bus down the avenue, or just getting outside and hanging out with people. What I try to do is to front load all my research – spend a couple of months being out there – with police, prison, parole officer, humane society officers. It’s part of the job. You have to get enough ammunition to write a book, then come home and lock yourself in for five or six months – day and night – and everything (due to my research) is there at my feet.

When you are researching, I keep it all in my head. It intimidates people when you pull out a pad or a tape recorder. Then, when you get home, you make your notes.

The trick now, is to take those observations and write them down into something substantial and cohesive.

I held them in my hand. I could feel the heat of the words; it was as if they would burn through my fingers if I didn’t look at them. But I couldn’t. Look, that is. It was against the rules of the game as the word of the day cannot be seen until the morning when it is placed on the refrigerator door do the right of the handle. And even though I am the one making the rules, I can’t break them.

At least not yet.

The kitchen still dark, I open my hand and gently place the words – one by one – on the side. These would be my words for the work week. My hand was still warm from the words as I climbed into bed for the night. I could hear them whispering to me in my dreams, begging me to “pick me” in the morning.

***********************************************

Pre-coffee, I reached around the side of the fridge and chose a word. I could feel the heat emanating from all of them, but I can only choose one. I slide it into its space for the day and allow myself to finally gaze upon it. Today, the word is from The Boy.

I could hear this word roll off his tongue and into my ear. It’s whispered to me with his growly bear voice, the one reserved for mornings and intimate moments. When I try the word upon my own tongue, it sounds foreign. So I will keep it in my ear all day. And when I think it or type it, it it comes out only in his voice, a gift to me.

“Glorious,” he says to me. “You, my baby, are glorious. Now be a good girl, and write.”

I look at the word and listen to my heart as the voice whispers in my ear my word for today: “Compose.”

“Create,” says the voice. “And while you are at it, pull yourself together.”

This morning, I found a single word on the refrigerator door: GRACE

From Webster’s:

2 a: approval, favor barchaic : mercy, pardon c: a special favor : privilege d: disposition to or an act or instance of kindness, courtesy, or clemency e: a temporary exemption : reprieve

I took “grace” to heart this morning as the words played through my head: mercy – kindness – pardon – reprieve. It was the perfect word to find as I struggled to wake and began to prepare my first cup of coffee.

I’ve been off the last month or so. Nothing most of you around here would notice, unless you knew me pre-Tumblr. Know on days when I am reblogging a photo someone posted or sending you to interesting news pieces from around the globe, I am doing it because I care about the world around me and I care about what you care about – because it’s important enough to you to make you laugh or make you cry.

When asked what I am, for years I have said I am a writer. It isn’t about a want, it is a need. Words play in my head from the moment I wake and often haunt me when I sleep. One of my biggest problems is that I allow reality to creep in too much and lose sight of my inner child. Needing to be in touch with that inner child is critical, but you cannot behave as a child when it comes to craft. I am too undisciplined and too emotional – and that has got to change. I must find the way to corral the child’s enthusiasm and love into a disciplined practice.

I know that it may start slowly. Discipline isn’t something you can just strap on and wear as you would a new pair of shoes. It is something that has to be cultivated and tended. And in some ways, it begins with grace.