Survived the Writer's Conference

I told myself I would write everyday. So here I am-- although this is not exactly what I meant.
It was an intense week. And as you can see by my words... draining.
Incredible though.
I only experienced two major melt downs... and several smaller ones.
But it was worth it. Who would have known?
What do I want to do now? I want to hole up in my tent, which is set up out in the woods and read and write and read and write until my hearts content. Until my heart figures out, what, exactly it wants to say. I want to listen to the breeze blowing through leaves. I want to hear my own thoughts... then I want to write it.

Leave me alone.
I love you, but leave me alone. I need solitude.

So why am I traveling all the way to the Cities tomorrow for a wedding? Then back to work. Distractions.

All I want to do is write. Fall asleep and dream. Wake up and write some more.

Thank you Judith Ortiz Cofer and Robin Hemley... for giving me back this desire.

Sunday Things

Well, tomorrow begins the writer's conference. My husband has been hounding me to have something ready-- something that will wow our workshop teacher into submission of letting us into his school-- Iowa... The top. What I really think he means is that he needs to have something. I'm not worried about me. I'm doing this for fun. Or at least until there is enough pressure put on me and I can't remember why I am doing it... or for that matter, why I even write. Oh yeah-- because I love it. Because it is my passion. But I am going through painting withdrawals and am disappointed that life has not offered me enough time to do both.

Today my dad and I built a deck for a gazebo. It is Father's Day. And not to get all sentimental or anything-- but sometimes I am amazed at how well we get along, how good we work together. It wasn't always that way. But today was good-- remembering the times we had building my house. There is a confidence when we work together-- not needed to be proven. Oops, I'm getting sentimental. But really-- I love my dad. I really do.

As for writing... well, one thing at a time. It makes me appreciate the simplicity of Sunday construction. I don't know what to expect in the coming week-- and to be honest, I am a little scared. I've been away from it all. Off painting. Writing is a different way of explaining the world. And I am out of practice.

The brain of a painter-writer.

Three days until the writing conference and still no writing. I have forgotten how to use that side of the brain, having worked with paint brush and the visual for so long. It is proving difficult to turn that side of myself back on. Re-wire. Life is easier painting the faces of far away places. I'm a sentimental writer grown hard towards sentimentality. I just want the stuff underneath-- the guts. The real. Reluctant to enter the insides of what words I have not yet found.

What if I actually did all the things I promised myself I'd do?

A painting a day.
Yoga.
Long walks in the woods.
Three pages of journaling every morning.
15 minutes of Spanish.
Healthy eating.
Quit smoking.
No complaining.

...if only it stopped there.