Thursday, April 10, 2014

New Blog

I'm now blogging consistently at

Piecemeal

I promise I won't move again.

For a while.

Sunday, January 26, 2014

sharing

I thought about what I said, about the process being less and less enough. That isn't true. The writing process remains primary. But I don't think I'm alone as a writer, calling herself a writer because she writes, in wanting readers.

As long as I hold my essays and fictions close, I won't have many readers.

I started a new blog to share my essay pieces. I just deleted that blog. So you see where I am: wanting what I don't even try to get.

I deleted that new blog because I cannot post what I want to post. I live and work in Kuwait and do not feel as free to express my ideas because I do not post anonymously. I have a couple options for sharing then: I can create a password protected blog or start sending my work out to other online and print publications. Or both.

Or I could start a blog and share my easy and hard essays and leave it at that. I am not interested in curating my image at the expense of honesty. I think that comes out clearly in my work, especially as I wade into my faith, applied.

Let me think what to do.

Thursday, January 23, 2014

pieces

I have to be okay writing one piece at a time. When I decided (for the umpteenth time) I'd like to try putting together a book, I had a couple ideas about how that might look. I'm very interested in placing two or three genres side-by-side.

But when I scroll through the pieces I have drafted or in revision: there isn't a theme. None of it hangs together.

I wrote something about this to my editor (who I hope doesn't mind I call her "my editor" when I'm such a wannabe published author - minus the extreme hassle landing any publication will be) - anyway. I wrote something about how I don't have a clear vision for a whole collection and she wrote back the encouragement that I take my writing one piece at a time.

So maybe I quit fantasizing about a collection for awhile. Maybe I just get really good at revision. Maybe I quit thinking I've got it in me to put together a work anyone would read. My words might fall flat in print. I think about that.

So why do I keep on putting pen to paper? Why do I type the shit in my head and call it a personal essay? Why do I ask what any character wants?

The process should be enough. For years, I said it was. The process is less and less enough anymore. The process is an effort I enjoy, but with an end I'm hungry for: I want a dialogue with readers.

I don't think I'll get that for a long time yet. I'll keep writing. But lately I've felt really stupid for chasing this. Really, really stupid. Words matter. But if mine don't, and at the end of my life I learn I would have been as well off watching three hours of television a day instead of showing up at the page: God help me.