Tweet 15 The Writer’s Magic

I read the last page of Starhawk’s The Fifth Sacred Thing, brimming with hope. I cradle the book, both arms against my chest, kiss the cover, cry grateful tears. Nonviolent resistance wins. Bird, Maya, Madrone—all safe. I’m awake with longing. Oh, to move people!

[15 of 30 in November, re-posted from today’s tweet @tryingmywings]

Survey for writing events!

[I’m not sure how many of you—my dear readers!—might be interested in my online writing sessions and workshops, but I thought I’d share this survey with all of you just in case. Note below, too, I am looking for someone to help with my November writing retreat. Please email me at riba11@earthlink.net if you are available.]

Please take this survey to provide feedback on upcoming writing events!
https://www.surveymonkey.com/r/BPF6FQP

There are only 10 questions, and the survey is anonymous. I want to find out the best times to offer the new online writing sessions, find out about the cost, gather ideas for upcoming sessions on the writing process and the craft of writing and hear your ideas and dreams about possible future events.

I took the survey VERY slowly, including extra comments and not just checking the boxes, and spent close to 7 minutes, so I know it can be completed in 5 minutes or less. I would really appreciate it if you can take the time to weigh in on these things to help me plan future sessions, especially the online sessions.

Once you submit, it will show you the current results. I’ll plan to report the final results, as well. The survey closes at midnight on Halloween.

Thanks very much in advance!

Riba

P.S. I am also looking for someone who may be interested in helping out at the November writing retreat for a reduced rate. Please contact me as soon as possible for more details.

_________________________________

Riba Taylor
https://noholdsbarred.blog/
https://499words.org/

You Say Tomato (3)

orange umbrella against blue sky with white puffy clouds

I say the sky, the orange umbrella, deep autumn blue, bluest back as far as I can remember, the scalloped edges of the umbrella a work of art, a silkscreen printed across the clouds.

You say oh. No. It has been this blue all week. It began Monday. You must not have noticed. Today is Saturday. Six days in a row now of this striking blue, like the sky in postcards, Switzerland sky. Where have you been?

I say I have been right here, lying on my back every day but Thursday, doing my yoga, looking up at the sky. Today is different, deeper, more vivid. Yes, I say, it’s been beautiful all week. But today the sky, the umbrella, they are like the Mediterranean. Today they speak Greek.

You say oh. Yes. Maybe I forgot who I was talking to. It is impossible for you to be wrong, even in this.

I say yes. Maybe you forgot. Maybe you forgot who the artist is, who the lover of light, of color, of texture. You forgot why I might have seen this, why I might have noticed this difference, and you did not.

[Editor’s note: Although the umbrella and the deep blue sky are real, this was a spontaneous writing I did in my Meetup group based on a prompt from Two Sylvias Press for April’s poetry month. It feels like a real conversation to me, but it is an imaginary one.]

The Second Flood (2)

My new piece doesn’t win the Fish Flash Fiction contest. I am stunned. I thought I was going to win. I thought “The Second Flood” was that good. (Did I know I thought I would win? Have I ever thought I would win before?) I scan the short list and then the long list. My piece is not on either one. If I needed to right now, I would be unable to speak, to push out words that make sense. I scan the short list and the long list two more times in case I missed my name. It is not there. There were more than 900 entries, but I can’t believe my story wasn’t even in the top ten percent. I plunge. I wonder how I could have been so delusional. How could I think my piece was any good at all? I know I am a terrible writer. I am underwater, deep in the cold sea where no light lives. I don’t know how long I stay submerged. Maybe work drags me back up, makes be break the surface, breathe air, answer helpdesk questions, grade summaries. Days pass. I am lying on my back in the courtyard in chavasanah. I dream up ways my livelihood might move even more toward my writing. I picture percussive instruments at my writing retreat, and my feet bounce on the yoga mat. I think of a new way of structuring, “When I Was a Dog.” My fingers itch for the pen. “Commit more deeply to your No. 1 focus,” this week’s horoscope says, “and throw yourself into the daring adventure of it.” I leap. This water is warm, strewn with sunlight. I roll over and float on my back, let the tide take me. I remember I can swim.

Wet Stones and Hidden Pockets (32)

Alfalfa shook her head as if she could shake out the demons with the raindrops in her hair. She’d been angry three times today already, and it wasn’t even afternoon. They were all stupid reasons, she thought, and now I can’t stop being grumpy. She was angry with herself. She thought she rooted out the worst of her self-hatred, decades of peeling that particular onion, layer after layer, until–she’d thought–there were only small pockets of it wedged in hidden places, sparked on rare occasions. Until now those remaining pockets felt like tiny eruptions, small squalls only, not the deadly storms that used to make her want to die. In recent days, though, these crazy short-fused bursts of anger were chased by strange backlashes of self-loathing, akin to what she weathered long ago and thought she’d left behind. Left behind like the cottage on the lake she and her father used to visit in the summers, her nose pressed up against the car window each time they had to leave, the cottage growing smaller and smaller as they drove away. She shook her head again, a softer gesture now, sadness deep inside her. She missed her father. Not his compulsive need for order, never that, but the kind of dance he did with life, the part of him that loved every inch of that lake and showed her why. He gave her her name one summer there all those years ago, and she let it stick, goofy as it was. She let people think it was some crazy hippie choice, some commune-loving naiveté. She didn’t say it was the magic whimsy of the man who showed her faces in weathered bits of wood, who made her fall in love with wet stones at the edge of the lake, the man who always let her feel like a person, who never treated her like a child.

[Editor’s note: timed writing, the prompt to include the words grumpy, dance, compulsive and raindrops.]

Catching Up—or Not Giving Up (29)

I hope this flurry of posts isn’t annoying anyone. It’s only that I don’t want to give up on meeting my goal of 59 posts while I’m 59. Now I’m only eight posts behind where I should be (instead of 15 behind, which sounded much more daunting). I have every hope that my days ahead will return me to my self and the kind of writing I love. That I will find ways to weave my dreams or my daydreams into my daily life (and into my blog posts again) in a way that feels right and satisfying to me. I have a hunch I might be getting close to a kind of return to that, to making room for my writing, room for things to unfold as they will. But I’m not certain. So, in the meantime, I’m going to see if I can’t just post things anyway. Here you had a smattering of short timed writings from prompts. Oh, and I decided I can even claim that fiction is a kind of dream, yes? Or maybe I’m just using poetic license here. But claiming I am. (It makes me feel like I am still sticking to the intention of this year’s blog.) And I’m hoping you’ll be glad to see something from me, too, even if it comes in a mad flurry, even if it’s mostly short, odd bursts of imagination. Because I notice I’m missing feeling connected to you here, so I’m glad to be back. And I’ll hope to keep it up, accepting what comes. Wishing you all good things as we near this ending of our year. And thank you for still being here reading.

Hiding (28)

She crumpled up the paper and tossed it over her shoulder. She refused to look behind her, certain the sight of the heap of wadded up paper would make her want to crawl under the straw to hide like she and Devin used to do up in the hayloft of the big old barn when they were kids at their grandparents farm. She didn’t even turn around when she heard a small crash. The Buddha statue, she figured, the small pink one made of resin, the one where he’s the jolly traveler, knapsack on his hobo stick. At least, she thought, that one wouldn’t break. But she aimed the subsequent balls of paper lower and put a little less punch behind them. The truth was, she didn’t know why she was doing this. Why was she putting so much pressure on herself? Since when did she tear pages out of her notebook, begin again and again, rejecting her work like this? What was wrong with her? She heard the sound of a car on gravel, and her pen froze. Henry couldn’t be home already. Could he? In spite of herself, she got up and walked to the window. Who the hell was here, and what was she going to do with her big pile of evidence? She saw the orange Fiat in the driveway. Fuck. Worse than Henry interrupting her. It was Marge. No way was she letting Marge in. She ducked when she saw her getting out of the car. Ducking, squatting there beneath the windowsill, made her feel insane. She giggled. I’ll just crawl away, right? More hysterical laughing. She backed up, inched her way over to the other wall, hands and knees wading through the mountain of crumpled paper. How was she ever going to be able to explain this?

[Editor’s note: written from a prompt from Creative Writing Prompts.]