I choose....

IN response to today's prompt for "And Now You Write"

Today I choose joy, I choose openness, I choose to write.


I choose to write into this moment, whether I am writing my Artist statement for La Femme or a tweet at the Poet Party or a musing essay about the days to come - the "all's aboard energy" of writing creativity.

I choose to write into this moment in text messages and micropoetry, in framing my life and my visual poetry, in my moments of transcendent love, I choose to remember through writing. I choose to take my writing and make it into tangible soul. I choose joy when I giggle with my children, when I share of prayers for Katherine, when I recollect in gratitude lists and accomplishment lists and review my goals - my intentions - my possibilities.

I choose to be open, to let the words pour forth. I will be doing a lot of word pouring in these next days. I elect to check the mark of "Sure! I'll do it!" I choose to bare first fruit of creation. Daily. Hourly. In-the-moment-ly.

I choose to write for you. For me. For those to come.

I choose.

I choose.

I choose.

I will live the question now when I write this....

This writing came from participating in "And Now You Write" - you may visit and write along on the blog. There is an audio prompt and community waiting for you to participate. Click here to connect there.

My contour drawing from "And Now You Write" looks like this:

I see bruises the tree bears/bares in my drawing: they look like targets. Her natural growth, cut off. Is this where my fear is stillborn? No heart beat, no healing, no breath? Unable to be expressed?

The hearts on parade, a person - a metaphor.

Silence fills the room as I lose myself in the image.

What do I need to do, who do I need to be as I move beyond wandering in the desert of how?

I vocalize the desire - I make a list. I complete unfinished business. I know I can, believe I can. I love the wrinkles.

I know I reach into communities beyond thir core. I know I am able to seek like hearted and sole/soul spaces. Use contacts. Make requests.

Accept the world as friendly.

Let go of being a burden.

Embrace the vulnerability of sap leakage... it is sticky sometimes, it just is... not bad, not good, just us...

Rumbling under my skin....

(Hot off the tip of my pen from the prompt at "And Now You Write): 

I will write what is rumbling under my skin - writing on an angle, outside the lines because that is what works today. It isn't the prescribed way, it isn't "because Julia Cameron said," it is because this is the way my arm fits as I hold the pen, the phone, the chimes. The wind blows outside my window. It is chilly. I hear the leaves applaud. I take a drink of coffee. A lusty gulp. I listen to the leaves. I break my own rule (and it is JUST fine...)

I will write what is rumbling under my skin... it is and will be just fine....

I am inspired by......

This writing was prompted by "And Now You Write". If you have never been there, check it out - and feel free to join the community there.

I am inspired by the light as it slanted just so, calling me to write. It is as if it waves hello to me, flirts with me, invites me to sit and drink tea. "What do you think, Julie?" or "What does this awaken to you?" or "What song plays when you see me, looking at you like this." Sometimes I grab my camera to capture how my skin looks in this very flattering light.

I am inspired by him, the one whose voice echoes on the phone stuck between my shoulder and my ear. He is just waking up, stressed a bit, and I am encouraging him. Possibly. We discuss means of inspiration and giggle. He is suddenly thinking of new methods and means as am I. This is what happens when two creative people get together early in the morning.

I am inspired by the pencil sharpener on my desk. It reminds me to sharpen a supply of pencils so I may be ready whenever the lightning strikes and moves my pencil across the page, almost involuntarily.

I am inspired by the coldness of my feet. They feel strange and I hear their invitation to put on some slippers. I will walk, when I am done, into the bedroom and grab the fuzzy pinkness. They remind me of times when I was caught out in the rain, which makes me think of Katherine. I hope she is warm enough. I hope she has warm socks and scarves and all the gear New England requires.

I am inspired by Constance the throw away Cat who I see through my window. She is sitting on my desk, outside, while I write, inside. She surveys the scene which includes me. I fed her earlier but lately none of the food I put out delights her or brings her much satisfaction. I think she is bored with her companion, Bob-the-Tomcat who has adopted our porch alongside Constance. He may be holding on too tightly, like many human males do. And some human females. Constance must be the quintessential feminist cat. This thought makes me laugh. I think a poem about Constance the Feminist Cat would be humorous.

I remember, then, that there is a poetry prompt - two, actually, which I have yet to answer, so I am inspired to end this free write and head over there. To a different prompt, a different form, a different space.

Today, I am compelled to write....

At "And Now You Write" today I gave this prompt...Today I am compelled to write...

and the following is what came off my pen:

what's next, what is right in front of me. My cell phone, a tall cool drink, my glasses. Two textbooks, including one that wears tiny wire rimmed glasses and peers down a bumpy nose, sneering. Ugly.

At that observation, my pen surrenders. Gives up, stops being able to be used as it is normally used. as a pen.

I am unperturbed. I listen to smooth jazz and watch the woman next to me, her foot bouncing in its black hush puppy shoe. I finagle the pen so I hold only the thin ink reservoir and continue to write albeit precariously.

Never say there is not devotion present here.

Today I am compelled to write where I did go rather than where I didn't.

I recognize a favorite James Taylor song morphed into muzak. It frightens me, slightly. I heart ice clunking into a cup. No voice croons, "don't let me be lonely tonight" but I hear lyrics, longing, only heard inside my head.

I am compelled to write of legacy. What will I leave behind? Notebooks some would rather seen burned. I keep writing. I think of my photos and pray if I were to leave before October 31, someone would save my Flickr photos, all getting close to 10,000 or some outrageous number like that.

I keep writing. I will always, always, always keep writing.

I will buy stencil letters, Furniture. brooms, pages upon pages and turn frustrated junkmail into art. I will paint my chairs, turn them into art, sculpture, inspired places for sitting. I hear a long ago self-talk thread, "You'll never amount to anything" which if I admit it, I love hearing. I secretly love the romanticism of gauntlets being tossed at my feet. Maybe I was a knight's helper in a past life (if I believed in past lives) and loved the ceremony of it. The poetry of it. Tossing the gauntlet down, staring the opponent in the eyes.

Brad tossed a gauntlet at my feet, I rose 44 feet in the air in a monumental FUCK YOU to pick up the gauntlet and jauntily toss it over my shoulder.

Ginn tossed a gauntlet, "I invited you because you are such a great storyteller" and underneath that, between the lines of that, "You suck as a poet." I picked up that gauntlet and threw it so far and so long and so hard, there was no room on that stage for any other poets. Not for a long shot and then some extra shot or twelve or eighty seven.

"I know, I know, I know what you're thinking. I look like your Mom. Well, get ready to discover the things your mom, YES YOURS thinks about and perhaps, sometimes even writes poetry about when YOU are not looking."

I command a room, a page.

Before I committed suicide I called, was it, my Mom? I called my sister at some point, something I have hardly done since. We've never been back there since that time in 2001. Crazy. 9 years. I am compelled to write of grief and loss and creating family where there once was none.

I read "Sorry greets me at my front door."

I am compelled to write the confession, "I want to be someplace urban!" I want catalogs of grit and grime unsurpassed, unsupressed. Today, I will practice more. Gratefully woo myself.

And today, I am compelled to write drivel.

Yes, beloved, nonsensical, whimsical and at times what is the word? Sentimental drivel. Gonna make, some sentimental drivel...

Today I felt my belly, my ever strengthening core. Literally felt it with my left palm against my abdomen. It is getting tougher. It hurts well. Tomorrow it should hurt even more nicely after yoga. It hurts, in fact, just as I might hope.

Today I will write backgrounds. Paint backgrounds, add to my pile of stuff for Art Everyday month. I will allow myself to fritter away some moments, on purpose. Dangle my hand in the water, allowing myself to get cold and wet and continue to write, even when the pen is broken for any words, any words I write here are NOT broken. My words, my love, my vision is alive.

I am compelled, today, to write "I want my missing notebooks back!"

I read Susan Glaspell's name. She wrote plays.

I long for conversations with women. I long to connect women with their stories, going backward and moving forward, like Sam's query into whether or not I have written our story of "the scent of popcorn hung in the air."

Maybe that will be one of his Christmas presents!

I am compelled to write love. I am compelled, today, to write.

There are so many writing seedlets here. How grateful am I? So grateful.

The Secret of My Life: today's ANYW entry

The secret of my life is I hang out a lot with divinity. Perhaps this is why I rarely get lonely.


I started practicing this early, maybe in my languageless companionship with John. Like today "go under the bridge" I "hear" like I had earlier "heard" to turn the car around and fetch a chair before I left home so that I would be comfortable once I went under the bridge. Once I agreed, "ok, I am going all ready!"

It is relentless, sometimes, the divine nudging, cajoling, nagging so most of the time I just walk alongside it and follow what it says.

Today the divine brought me into one of my favorite spots to write. A loud silent place, under a bridge, graffiti on the walls. I love it. I can't hear a thing there except the sound of flow. I see in my notebook where I wrote, "Come write with me you crazy person, write!" I suppose that was divinity saying, "Write this into an essay, Julie! Write it I dare you!" so here, I sit and I do.

When I was under the bridge with the water flowing I realized some people would label this little slice of heaven "smelly." Never, I say. Interesting smell. Sort of like decomposition and nature, changing form from one to another. I watch the trees sway above me and I realize I can't hear the leaves with all this flow around me. I call the sound of leaves in the wind 'God sounds' since so often I hear the divine in the rustling leaves.

Today I exchanged one version of God sounds for another. Sometimes we hear divinity differently.

Under this bridge I can't hear the Sheriff's firing range that was bothering me while I was above this spot. I watch as a leaf offers itself to the river and a blue dragonfly investigates the trees and settles on a large grey rock so I can see the dragonfly actually has a red body and its wings are blue. I look up and see some of last year's leaves freckling the green leaves and branches of a large tree above me.

I see a spider web bridging the river, too, echoing this spot where I am sitting.

Later, the web seems to have disappeared, playing a silent game of peek-a-boo with my pen.

I thought I was seeing destruction. I wasn't. I just needed to perceive from a different angle.

I stop to pause, noting my fingers first wrote a wrong word: angel. They meant ANGLE, as in moved differently to see a different perception.

"Now you see me, now you don't!" giggles the angelic spider web, so delicate yet so hardy.

The secret of my life is I can write volumes without noticing, without needing to converse with any humans, just me and the insects, the water, the leaves and that grand blue heron (or perhaps some family of egret) gracefully outstretching her wings and gliding up river from me when my arms lifted too fast and she lost trust in me.

I wrote that line and felt, when I noticed I started to hear cars on the bridge, its time to turn. Time to go home. Time to see what is next, there.

Collaborative Writing from the Prompt - When I Forget to Be Afraid, I...

This morning a group of writers gathered on a telephone bridge line and wrote a poem together during the "And Now You Write" community of writers session. 
 

This poem isn't finished, though - and your contribution would be received with open arms, as well as flowing pencils and fingers on the keyboard. This is a free flowing process, so don't think too hard, simply write your response via comment and become a part of this collaborative poem - 

When I forget to be afraid I...  

have courage to be me
make mistakes
I laugh, when I forget to be afraid...


I step into my bigger self
I find power
I love intensely when I forget to be afraid....


I love intensely
I go for my dreams
I surprise myself when I forget to be afraid


I become sand paper
flow freely
stand in my wisdom when I forget to be afraid

I feel the wind at my back
can be the best me
encourage others when I forget to be afraid


I begin to grow
when I forget
to be afraid...

And Now, YOU write - (please add your sentence or phrase)

When I forget to be afraid, I....

Writing from "And Now You Write" - Ann Flesberg - September 15 and 16

Note from Julie: I would love to post any of your writing here. Any one writing for "And Now You Write" is welcome to send your words to me and I will post them on this blog which I have set aside, now, for your words.

As I was adding Ann's words to the blog this morning I was thinking what a fantastic opportunity this program may be for us to capture and witness our lives in our first person voices so that those behind us will know what our lives were like and for ourselves, so that we will remember what our lives are now.

Very potent - thank you, Ann, for offering me this awareness today.

September 16, 2010 Ann Flesberg

My hand holds love and friendship as I grasp others in greeting. It holds friendship. It holds worship as I fold it to pray. It holds energy as I wash my dishes and write my stories and poems. My hand dusts and cleans my home, scrubs my floors and cooks and bakes for my family.

September 15, 2010 Ann Flesberg

I write because...

I write because it clears my head so that I can view any problem with a positive attitude. When my thoughts are down on paper I can rationally view several sides of a problem without prejudice. Seeing my thoughts down in black and white works better than just thinking or talking about them. Writing helps me be calm and practical so that I can enjoy a satisfying life with my family and friends.

Writing from "And Now You Write" - Ann Flesberg

I open myself to passionate wonder when I let go and let God.

This morning I was fussing to my son about the present economy and had myself in a small tizzy. When my son called me to look at our birdfeeder my whole outlook changed. A handsome father cardinal was tasting the birdie goodies while his patient hen perched on my deck railing. My whole outlook changed to gratitude for the beauty of nature which we enjoy. 

Ann Flesberg  ~September 15, 2010

Paradox at Writing Camp: 3:30 Writing Campfire on August 2

While I was leading the live writing session at 3:30 I realized it might be valuable to have more reading on this concept of paradox, of heaven AND earth... etc... so I am posting a couple past Daily Passion Activator Articles for you to read below.

Love, Rather
© 2009
Julie Jordan Scott

I will admit it: my attitude in this moment borders on annoying. Yes, I am annoying
myself.

You see, today bears the feeling of a "to-do"
list day. I lot to do, so I create a list of
"I must do this, I must do that" and imagine
the satisfaction of saying and yes, even the
feeling of satisfaction as I check check check
the inconsequential tasks from my list.

I see a sort of "Zorro" meets "Mrs. Doubtfire"
meets "Hazel" all on a simple task oriented list.
I find it populates itself in post-it notes
and journal entries scattered on my kitchen
table and home-office desk.

I sit down with my notebook.

"Am I ready for the longer-term-to-do's?" I
ask myself.

"In what sense?" I answer my own question
with a question.

My Other Self says: "I mean, you are a leap
in, no worries, minimalist in pre-planning,
knit-the-net-as-you-fly kinda gal right?" I
feel the pause crackle through the air. "Right?"

Myself Says: "Yes and No."

My Other Self says, dismissively yet with
an edge: "Wishy-washy"

Myself says: "Yes and No! I appreciate and
inject strategy. My mindfulness has increased
and ironically, my fear at times (cloaked in
hesitation) joins with that."

I pause again, less cracking, more calm air
comes in. "I am finding I am a master
of avoidance."

"Like right now."

My Other Self whispers, "What if you loved your
avoidance rather than judged it?"

I think: "How can I love avoidance?!" (I almost
lit my journal on fire with a cute snowman
candle as I wrote that, nudging the paper
with a stronger intensity than I imagined.)

My other self says: "How can you love your
`unique' child, your nice way of saying
`autistic child'?"

Me: "Not even child with autism?"

Other me: "Is that avoiding?

Me: "I want to say `I don't know' but since
I won't let my coaching clients say that...

Other Me: "What else can you say?"

Me: I don't think it is avoidance. It is what
I believe. I believe autism is uniqueness. I
don't see atypical neurology as bad. Its
just unique.

Other Me: "So its not avoiding to call
Sam `unique'."

Other Me: "And you love it, all of it,
Sam and his uniqueness."

Me: "Yes. And I hate it, too."

Other Me: "That makes sense in what way?"

Me: "It makes sense because I just know it. I
know I hate it because of what he may have
to endure because of it – what he has had to
endure because of the way he processes
language and the way he experiences life
in general when life doesn't upset `normal'
kids it upsets him. It makes me mad that he
(and all of us) have to learn to negotiate
differently yet I love that we have to do
it, too. It is a paradox. It just is, and I
just know it is and I am ok with it. I am
not avoiding it. I love it. And even when
I avoid it, I love it."

I pause. "I don't know if I am doing this right.
I need the how-to book to double check."

See what I mean about annoying myself?

That "conversation" I had with myself was
actually one of my "to-do's" and quite an
enlightening one.

This writing is also one of my "to-do's" and
one I enjoy quite a lot. Writing here is
like hanging out with you over a cup of
coffee at Dagny's. I love doing that.

The question that arose in my conversation
with myself was such a valuable one: "What
if you loved _________ rather than judged it?"

I was talking about avoidance but it could
be anything you have marked as "wrong" whether
it is on your to-do list or any aspect
of your life or the world at all.

Let me show you what I mean.

"What if you loved your partner's way of
doing laundry rather than judged it as being
wrong because it is different than how you do it?"

"What if you loved the way your neighbor
decorated their house for the holidays rather
than judged it?"

"What if you loved your own perceived
weaknesses rather than judged them?"

Before you dismiss any of these as frivolous,
please take time with them.

Add yours in here, as they percolate
in the pondering process:

"What if you loved _________ rather than
judged it?" (change the exact wording
to fit for you.)

"What if you loved _________ rather than judged it?"

"What if you loved _________ rather than judged it?"

What if?

What if?

What if?

Ask yourself these simple questions throughout the
next few days.

Add the question to your "to-do" lists, in whatever form
they might take.

Allow the responses to dribble forward in your mind.

Don't push them, don't nay-say them, just give them
space to come forward and meet you.

These words from Alice Walker say it just right:

"I have learned not to worry about love;
but to honor its coming with all my heart."

Honor the love wanting to come to you by asking
and living the questions posed here... What if?


= = = = = =
How to Tap Into The Joy of Passionate Paradox
© 2007
Julie Jordan Scott

Paradoxes melt in my heart and soul almost the same
way chocolate melts in my mouth – rich, deeply invigorating
and often times filled with surprises.

What sounds impossible I know is absolutely true – that
being still in the midst of a maelstrom and pulsating with
energy while simply gazing at the stars – this is where
passion most truly lives.

Passion lives the vividly in the center of the paradox, in
the place where the truth dances – with life, with vigor,
with silence, with harmony and with cacophony.

I was raised in a large, busy family where noise was the
status quo. I learned early to work and focus no matter
how much of a hubbub surrounded me. I discovered that
sometimes the most sacred experiences of sanctuary actually
came from being immersed in the hubbub, completely – and
being in awe of the life force that quietly flowed even in
what seemed like chaos.

At Disneyland recently I stood, waiting patiently in a
crowd to get on board Rockin' Space Mountain. I quietly
sent love, sent kindness, sent peace to the others as they
waited. Ironic? Yes. Perfect? Yes – absolutely.

It was in a moment with my Muse when I felt the most
springy inside, the most vulnerable, the most perplexed
and bewildered. I reclined on a tarp spread across the
soil, looking up at the stars, quiet on the outside and
reflective yet pulsing wildly on the inside. The fire
warmed one side of my body and the other side
of my body was shivering against the cold, December
air. "You look so beautiful, lying there in repose" My
Muse said to me.

You can practice your own version of this paradox,
as Indira Gandhi reminds us "You must learn to be
still in the midst of activity and to be vibrantly
alive in repose."

Yes – your passionate embrace of life is worth
exploring now.

Consider a time when you felt extra busy – what might
you have focused on to bring your heart to center
amidst the outer appearance of chaos?

Consider a time of deep relaxation – what might you do
to stay fully awake and alert amidst this sacred
time of quiet?

Now – be on the look out for times to practice this
passionate paradox – and let me know how it goes.

Wednesday Inspiration for Writing Campers

When I open my eyes to writing camp, I see the spaces and places writing campers have started exploring. I see a writing-zip-line, where writers learned to just let go and not worry about the “hows” or “wait, does this make sense?” that the sometimes the “normal” writing workshop filters cause. I giggle because I can see the new word combinations bubbling up through me and recognize this is what happens when we write, separately together, around the campfire.

I also see the women naturalists and explorers I have been discovering myself. I feel their urging and presence beside me, pointing the way and allowing me to make the discoveries. They don’t fill every nook and cranny of my mind with their fillings, they allow me to find things for myself and return to them with curiosity. In doing so, they help ignite my fire for life, the “Zest” as Annie Alexander said, which I then return to Writing Campers.

This delights me.

I come to writing camp today to discover, how I can be of best service to the Writing Campers. This is all about them – there processes, their discoveries. I hope when we come back I will discover more writing on blog posts or facebook so I may see some of the moments, resting on pillows in their individual writing tents and cabins. What is happening, there, away from the campfire when the sparks are still fresh. This is something I miss, the energy of “after” the campfire where I know some of the words which have the most oomph and the most lasting triumphs finally make it through.

Beauty Quote:

"These hours of beauty have meant so much to me, somewhat in the writing,

but much more in the long incalculable hours and days out of which the

writing has risen like the blue smoke out of woods, that I want to

share them with others." --Fiona Macleod

Sunset Writing Camp Comes to Bakersfield, August 5, 2010

Details will be forthcoming - the time to mark your calendars is NOW for Sunset Writing Camp in Bakersfield.

When: Thursday, August 5
6:30 until 30 minutes post Sunset/complete dark (whichever comes first)

Where: A top secret location within the Metro Bakersfield area. Once you register, you'll find out our secret location. :-)
Cost: $7

What to bring: Yourself, Your notebook and pens... pencils, crayons, cameras, musical instruments, folding chairs, water bottles, and good humor are welcome, too.

Camp Writing: Inside My Personal Campfire from Sunday morning

I started writing today at a little bit after 7 AM. I was in the Dana Point habitat conservation area and will write, now, directly from my notebook so I am not sure if it is in first person or what person.

There is a slate grey wall of fog and tumbleweeds like I remember from 1977 when we first moved here. I hear a fog horn. I see a buoy and boats. It is chillier here than my dress looks. We don't match. I don't care.

A train whistle sounds as two women (more appropriately dressed than me) amble up and peer into the windows at the interpretive center. They are runners. One of them sounds British. Carol Carter floats into my mind. "We'll figure it out" says an American voice. I wonder what is to figure. I scope out WritingCamp locations. That is what I am to figure. Anything else sort of drops away.

They built a spot here for sitting which I use to sit and write. It is perfect for that - I love writing amidst the shrubs and bunnies and birds. They are restoring the habitat which, for today, is still grey and not quite awakened. I scan for spots to sit and write and perhaps get a photo of myself sitting and writing. As so often happens, I wish I had a remote control so I could get comfortable and then set the timer. (Some day.) There amidst the black eyed susans I attempt to take a photo but only my knees are victorious.

I hear a bird or a rodent, very staccato rat a tat tat and a sea lion calls. People talk along the path. A sole runner moves. A man tells the trail story to three friends who listen, attentively. They discuss knee surgery. Perhaps two generations, both women with sensible ponytails refusing to give their different shades of brown over to grey. The elder man continues to offer head land narrative.

A muscular woman in pink tank top puffs and pants as she jogs uphill, her devotion to running apparent by the triangular patch of sweat on the small of her back. I want to move forward but find I enjoy it too much when people fall out of my direct line of view and I have the momentary delusion that it is only I, the fog horn, and the sea lion enjoying this sanctuary this early on this final Sunday morning in July.

Still more voices come and then don't. I hear car doors open, and close. I wish the staccato rodent voice would speak again and only another runner's feet respond. I find myself admiring this runner. Silver toned long hair, pulled back, burnished skin. Quite lovely. Maybe a year from now I will be brave enough to look like that, like her.

Campfire Writing: Summer Session 12:30 Campfire

I offer you two related writings of the same and different vein.

One of starting and stopping and critiquing and starting and oh-so vulnerable to stopping-and-thank-goodness-I-didn’t.
 
Please read along.

I have the privilege of leading the Summer Session of WritingCamp right now – and oftentimes when I have such a blessing I land in a funk – it is the oddest phenomenon.

I feel completely pumped up and then, c-r-a-s-h… and something I wouldn’t have admitted in the past.

I write, though, always, and from mid-day writing camp session camp session prompt I got this:
 

When I touch this treasure from the Earth I understand how tokens of love offer themselves up for love’s sake alone. They offer themselves up, shouting a silent, “Here – here I am!” and those who are aware lift them up and out of their homes.

Sometimes a photo is taken, sometimes a poem is written and the token is returned.

 Other times, like this time, the token is plucked from its home and brought in Coryn’s baby-faced purse across the dry desert to Dagny’s and set on an outdoor table to my purse to the lip of this potted plant, another treasure from earth that I, unfortunately, neglected.

Does the earth know, when she offers up her treasures, that someday I will write her gift into an entirely different life?

 I witness creation: I write it down. I would tell people I lead that is enough, more than enough, but what I tell myself is different. Is it enough? Is it?

 Later today I wrote a poem that started its life to be about the plant.
 
WITHERED

Today I have failed

I wipe away the ethereal spider webs

I pull away the withered leaves that

Once thrived and held their greenness high

My work is to love the world and

I failed at loving a plant

How on Earth can I love

The world when I forget

To water a plant, how did

God dare trust me with a child

A dog a home a lawn a poem?

 


 

Last night I got almost through the entire day without writing my 750words. I freaked out at nearly 11:00.  I rambled on spewing words such as “I haven’t written my 750words! I need to write them, oh my gosh! I am on an 86 day streak, I can’t miss a day now, oh my gosh”.

 

Cameron looked at me and said, “Why do you have to write. For bragging rights?”

 

The NO burst from my mouth before I even thought about it. I sat at the keyboard and wrote like a tornado of language.

“I can't believe I almost forgot about 750words. That is almost crazy but my mind was so fried, I am half way not surprised.

And Cameron doesn't get it. Bragging rights, he said, you want bragging rights. No, its a matter of discipline. I have done this for 86 consecutive days because I am disciplined and love to write. Period.

Enough said except for when it isn't.”

It is interesting. Cameron's bragging rights comment last night almost stopped me from writing today as I questioned myself, "Why do I write on 750words? Is it to brag about how consistently I write? Is it to compare and come out favorably?"

 

Is it to feel shitty about myself because I declare to be recovering from competitiveness but lo and behold, I am the queen of competition?

 

I am lost and I think about taking an aspirin, even as I am trying to minimize my aspirin or tylenol intake and cure my aches with exercise and diet. It is so interesting to watch my spirit tumble, kind of like when I was suffering (I almost said wallowing!) in depression and I would go to appointments with blow by blow clinical accounts of my own symptomology, interested in self study.

 

Am I a self-indulgent twit or interested in life self observer?

 

I get up from the keyboard to consider.

 

I putter about and no brilliant answer shows up on my page. No pithy phrase or interesting poetic aside appears.

 

I write because I write. Having goals to step into with my writing help me show up at the page, not because I will make money from writing those 750words, but because I know consistency and discipline continue to hone my skills.

 

To me it is like saying, “Do you breathe for bragging rights?” I write because I write. Period. And I love challenging myself. It feels good to challenge myself and then reach to the challenge.

Cameron knew as soon as he said those words he had struck a chord. I don’t think either of us knew how deep the strike went.

I can feel, though, the power of such a critique. Words like this are words that stop the fragile among us from continuing to write or sing or dance or sew or think in a “different than most others” sort of way.

Campfire Writing: July 22, 2010 8:30 AM

Sometimes I will write alongside the campers at the campfire. Today was one of those days. I feel compelled to take this writing someplace deeper - which I may do today or I may choose to do over the next several days. Read along here, at the blog, to see what I discover here at this session #WritingCamp.

Please note these are free writing samples - unedited, uncut, fresh off the pencil. They are not meant to be literary masterpieces. :)

When I open my eyes to writing camp, I see pine. I see height and weight and brown and green. I see these trees which long for my touch as much as I long for their shade in the Bakersfield heat. I feel the smile on my face stretch.

I see light, dappled and holy not unlike the light in a cathedral. These pines are my stained glass, tiffany inspired windows.

I come to writing camp today to discover what is next for me. The more I mention camp and just flow with it, the more it grows. This last writing camp with Kat in the home feels freeing and sad, holy and frustrating. I long to walk alongside people on hikes, exploring rocks and nooks and crannies of the wilderness of camp and the wilderness of their souls. I want more of this….

Coming Up: Bakersfield Writing Camp: Experiencing the Sunset

During this unique writing camp experience, we will gather and write for the 90 minutes preceding the sunset and then watch, witness and record the powerful transition from day to night.
 

What happens at Writing Camp?

There are similarities to other writing workshops. Everyone writes at least a little something. People share their writing with at least one other person during the session. Each Writing Camper is expected to support the others who are in attendance through thoughtful attention, listening and witness.

When: July 15. Gather at 7 PM, Write until 9:30 PM

Where:   We will gather at a Bakersfield location which you will receive when you pre-register by either emailing me at juliejordanscott@hotmail.com or calling me at 661.444.2735
Please pre-register before 5 PM on July 14 so I may adequately plan for everyone.
 
 Camp Tuition is only $10. Camperships may be available, simply ask.

What to bring: A notebook or paper along with pencils or pens. Since this is a camp experience, no computers, please. You may also bring a sketch pad, watercolor pencils, your camera - any sort of creative tool you use to gather images for writing and creativity are welcomed.

If you think you may need insect repellent, please bring that. Some campers like to bring blankets or chairs to sit on in addition to the human made or natural seating at Camp. Since this is an evening camp, you may not need sunscreen and since we will be actively watching the sunset, you may want to bring sunglasses.

I look forward to writing alongside you!

Bakersfield Friends: Let's Write Together Saturday by the River

Note: This camp was held on June 24. Watch for upcoming Bakersfield Writing Camp experiences.

Finally, a chance for the people in Bakersfield who would like a different brand of writing workshop experience to come together and write – in a phenomenal space with great people – and tune into your writing muse.

I’ve been doing the Writing Camp thing for well over a year now with Online Communities and Campers and I’ve been leading Writing Workshops for writers worldwide since 2003. I figured it was about time to make it local.

No matter what form or genre your writing normally takes (or maybe you haven't written in years, but something is sparking you to pick up your pen and write again) this Writing Camp experience will fill your writing with something new and different.

This isn't your ninth grade English class, this is your chance to write alongside a group of cool people who, like you, are attracted to being in a natural setting and getting away from town for a few hours while being so close to town, it will be like a mini-vacation in the middle of your weekend.

Here's what Karen Caterson, of my Campers at this week's virtual Writing Camp said about her experience: "Julie, Writing Camp rocked! AGAIN! Freaks me out how you get pens moving -- gotta be magic (honestly - I'm in awe!!!)"

Is it time to get your pen moving? No matter whether you write daily or would like to improve your daily writing or you just want to experience a creative community here locally, be bold and join us.

How will this work?

Step 1: Call me, Julie Jordan Scott, at 661.444.2735 and ask me to count you in.

Step 2: I will give you directions (and possibly set up some car pools) to our oh-so-secret destination... just know it is not far away and writing alongside the Kern River is involved.

Step 3: Grab your notebook, some pencils and pens and your writing dreams and join in the fun - This Saturday, from 10 am to 1 pm.

See? You'll even have plenty of time to sleep in and plenty of time to get ready for any evening festivities you've got planned.

And if you are not able to join us, you may still participate in the Teleclass Version of a Writer's Playdate - a Virtual Version of Writing Camp.

Listen and play along by clicking here.




Looking forward to Writing with You Along the River!

Our Private Playplace

I love each and all of my Writing Campers. Today I had an a-ha that I ought to create a space just for us and I thought, for today, I would try it out here. First: I am scheduling a follow up Wednesday Writing Camp Extravaganza - I hope you are able to come and bring some friends along....