Sunday Afternoon Writing Club

Note cards. Pencil. Laptop. Reference books. Knitting. Check, check, check, check, and check. Procrastination. Check. Must be time for some writing.

When I was younger, and by younger I mean tween and teenager, I was a Writer. I wrote constantly. I filled notebooks and reams of loose-leaf paper with sketches and scribbles and endless epics about subjects I had no experience with or knew anything about. I spent hours laying on my floor (comfortable, right?), on my stomach, pen in hand, just writing. I loved it. I wrote and rewrote the same stories over and over. I especially loved revising, and rewrote scenes from every perspective possible. I kept those stacks of hand written pages in shoe boxes tucked under the bed or up on the shelf in my closet, and hoped that my grandmother wouldn’t take a peek at my teenage dramas while I was away at school during the day.

And it was all crap. Of course it was crap. Reflecting upon (and cringing at) what I wrote about for all those lost hours, I can see now that it was a form of therapy. I was exorcising all of the jumbled and terrifying feelings of being a teenager, and a clinically depressed teenager at that, getting it all out on the page where I had control. Where I could change the past if I wasn’t satisfied. Where I could change my characters, who were all some extension of myself, I can admit now, at will. Where I could make life what I wanted it to be. Writing every day in that room upstairs and down the hall was the glue that kept me together. And it was all utter crap.

In typical dramatic eighteen year old fashion, I destroyed all of my juvenilia the week before I left for college. I ran every page through a paper shredder, stuffed all of the ribbons into a trash bag, and away it went. Gone forever. I felt light. It was a time for moving on and growing up and becoming my own person, and I didn’t want to drag the fruits of my teenage depression with me into my new life. Some writers keep every word, even the utter crap, and enjoy looking back or just knowing that their hours of labor still exists in tangible form. Not me. I prefer not to think in specifics. What did you write about, Stacey? Just tons of crap, thanks. Over a decade later, I don’t regret shredding every bit of what I had commit to paper. One problem.

I stopped writing in college.

I went from a summer of filling page after page with my Doppelgangers and their ridiculous circumstances, to an autumn of nothing. No writing whatsoever. I had a notebook set aside for the flood of words that had spent the past decade flowing out of me, but the tap had turned off. There was nothing coming out.

I don’t know if it was just growing up in general, or the lack of free time, or that once I did start creating my own life away from parents and prescribed schooling that I didn’t need that god-like control in some capacity as I had before, but for whatever reason I just couldn’t get my thoughts down on paper. And I tried. How I tried. I took writing classes and pretended to still write in my spare time, demurring whenever someone asked to see my work. Naturally, I was just too shy to share. That was it. Shyness.

But I always missed writing. Writing was my long-lost friend I always regretted losing touch with.

And now, years later, I’m at a high school all day long, talking about writing to teenagers. How to improve writing, how to say what you want to say, how to be an effective writer. And I want it back. Maybe I’ve grown up past the idea that writing has to entertain anyone but myself, or simply come to the conclusion that being published might not be for me, or the internal editor has finally been silenced, but I want it back. I want to have a project in the works.

Last night I brainstormed a barely coherent plot line (and no, I’m not telling because, surprise surprise, it’s crap and I really can’t be concerned about that right now), downloaded the free trail of Scrivener, and carded out my scenes. I cast my characters and their basic roles. I scouted locations via Google Maps. I cracked open those old dusty writing guides that have been mocking me for years. (I’ve harbored secret resentment towards those books, as nowhere in any guide were plot ideas. Tell me what to write about, damnit!) I was up until three a.m. And woke up at nine to get back at it.

I should be planning lessons, but there will be time for that later. I’m spending the afternoon getting to know my new main character. I don’t know her yet, because she’s not me.

“Unicorns, Dad. They’re unicorns.”

It may be the cabin fever induced by the foot of snow that has driven me inside for the past 10 days, or possibly the natural winding down of the year bringing on unwanted self reflection, but I’ve been in a funk lately. Saturday was a pity party, and everyone was invited. My thought process mainly operated along this line: “Stacey is the saddest girl in the world and everyone should feel bad for her. Is everyone feeling bad for her yet? It’s highly recommended that you do. Stacey is considering wearing too much eyeliner and listening to Morrisey so everyone will know she is to be pitied when they see her.” Blern.

As a result, I’ve been breaking out the big guns of happiness and surrounding myself with things that give me a smile, like The Neverending Story and the cast recording of Cabaret. Strange German puppetry and showtunes really are a sure way to cheer me up at any time. I was beginning to meditate before I moved from Las Vegas and wasn’t able to carry on my practice while living at my brothers house, due to the infestation of screaming babies, so now that I have my own wee space, I think I’ll make it a point to set aside some time to think about nothing. Meditating calmed my rampant anxiety at that time, and although I’m not an insomniac like I was in April, I can only see the benefit of clearing my head now. I think a steady cocktail of weird movies, zingy tunes and OM will straighten me right up.

Sharp left turn.

I’m not able to get my little nephews their Christmas presents before Thursday, due to the piles of snow on the roads between Portland and Oregon City, so the little dudes will have to wait for a bit to get their gifts. And we all know that what every little boy wants this year is a gingerbread man ornament. I hope they aren’t damaged by the disappointment.

I improved my earlier design with the same eyes I used on the nesting dolls and the little red cheeks, so I’m much happier with the faces. And the letters represent the name of the little boy each gingerbread man belongs to, L for Lil L and D for Baby D. Wouldn’t want any fist fights over these. Sorry, boys, Auntie Stacey is broke sauce this year.

I whipped up some more nesting dolls, for C’s mom and aunt. They’ve pretty much been surrogate family since I’ve been up here, buying me enormous wooden fork and spoons and food when I moved, along with kidnapping me for major holidays. In my world, that earns you a felt ornament.

Well, it earns you a felt ornament if you live in the Northwest. Anyone residing out of driving distance (which is about a 3 block radius as of now) gets my love. And what did C get? ::tapping fingertips together in a suspicious manner:: You’ll just have to wait.