I’m going to stay protected for a while I think.

Huge progress, HUGE.  And, again, Ellen said it best:  “I need to separate out THAT kind of writing from THIS kind of writing.”  I just did my first three pages of longhand for the book, in my new writing room.  And I moved in a chair and ottoman and read a couple chapters from Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil.  I am used to making myself do at least 1000 words at a time but I thought I’d stick to the three-page thing, just to make it more doable at first.  Maybe that is 1000 but I doubt it.

I got up and turned the light out.  Standing in the hallway, looking back at my new room, it’s no bigger than a bed, and since I gave that to the middle daughter when she moved back to Portland it has sat empty.  I originally intended to knock out some walls and make it a dressing room off the bathroom.  That was lofty thinking and for the purpose of resale.  After I decided to stay here I went to the Street of Dreams and noticed they weren’t adjoining dressing rooms so much now.  They were keeping the option of a fourth bedroom and just lining the walls with built-in closets.  I still need to figure out where to put a bathtub but it’s not going to be in my writing room.

There’s a sanctity about it; like great things could happen up there.  Because it’s small and there’s nothing else up there but the secretary and little chair, along with the bigger chair and ottoman, there are no distractions.  Also, it’s the cleanest room in this house and I’m going to keep it that way.

This is going to sound really obvious but I figured out the reason I’ve been dragging my feet is that the book is getting close to when I was diagnosed the second time.  I talk about it every Tuesday so it didn’t even occur to me that I might be putting on the breaks.  But when I tried to figure out why I might not feel as good about what I’d been writing lately I sensed that it felt more cut and dried, pure plot and less emotion.  I think I used the word flat.  I have this nervousness about it, like when I was going to have sex (when I was married) but didn’t feel close enough for the kissing.  There might be other reasons like maybe I’m stalling now that I know how I’m going to end it.  You’d think that would make it more of a go.  I’m not quite sure what all’s going on but I’m going to find out.  And I’m going to do everything humanly possible to get this book sold.  And the previous one, too.  I can’t wait to get back to that, it was so much more fun to work on.

In response to Myki’s comment, regarding Julia Cameron’s “The Artist’s Way,” the morning pages are not meant for other’s eyes.  In fact, the author says you don’t need to ever see them again.  The whole point is to whip off three pages of whatever you wake up with; a very private look at your unedited self. 

Because I have such a problem writing and not getting on Xanga or my Dain Rauscher account, I have decided to turn one of the bedrooms into a writing room and finish the book in longhand.  After doing my morning pages up there I found I was much more focused when the dog wasn’t bouncing around trying to get my attention and I wasn’t watching the tape on Bloomberg.  Plus, there’s no phone upstairs.  So even though I wasn’t able to commit to anything I have a desk set up now and the intention of working up there.  Any second.

So much going on but I just wanted to say something about these morning pages I’ve been doing for the Artist’s Way.  I had to leave for the hospital in the middle of the them and it was like having to hang up on a really good conversation.  I can’t wait to pick up where I left off, tomorrow morning.  Ever day it’s like I have some new breakthrough, some insight about myself.  I feel like I met a new friend.  The other just as exciting thing is that I can see the opportunities these pages will provide, with regard to motivation, unveiling some of the faulty ways I think, and accountability.  I was talking to Ellen last night and she said a brilliant thing.  It was something to the effect that when you write in a journal or blog, it’s typically about what went on.  But the morning pages tend to be more about what could go on.  The weight of that possibility just makes me soar.

The graduation party was so much fun.  I outdid myself with the food and the kids really appreciated it.  It was great to see them all together again.  These kids have been friends forever so they had lots of memories.  Her oldest sister came and hung out with them while I stayed in the kitchen.  Watching them on lawn chairs in the sun, I could overhear summer plans, the new directions they were going in.  They were leaving their group and going out into the world.  This would be one of their last high school memories together.  They were all headed to summer jobs in the morning and as they said their good-byes out in the driveway it felt like the end of an era.

I should be cleaning, not blogging — Geez, when have you ever seen me say that? — as I’m having a party for the youngest tomorrow at 2:00.  But I don’t feel like I can settle into the plodding mode cleaning requires until I give thanks for — I’m thinking — splendor comes to mind but that’s not a good fit.  Yes, it is.  I’ve had a splendid, last 24 hours. 

Friday night, after finally cracking open The Artist’s Way, I decided to begin.  My first morning pages were more than I’d hoped for, and, between the leaps my mind made and the circles my hips made, I came home from church in a very different place from where I left you last.

My friend, from the hospital, and I went to hear the sax player last night, and I believe we have been formally adopted as groupies.  The guitar player came over to say hi and I introduced him.  Then the sax player stopped by during a break and gave me his card, suggesting I email him.  I had asked about other blues bands in Portland.  Score. 

I kind of mean that but I kinda don’t.  First of all, I think he’s way younger than I thought, out-of-the-question young.  Besides, I’m done messing around with men.  If I can’t see living with them, I’m not going to kiss them.  Second of all, he’s a dork who takes himself seriously.  But I still lust after him.  He had a suit on with the perfect hat and elegant shoes.  He has to be one of the sexiest men I’ve laid eyes on since I’ve been divorced.  And he’s a nice man with a good heart.  I don’t really know about his heart, of course, but I watched him showing the bass player how he wanted it and the drummer what rhythm was next.  He put his hand on his heart and pounded out the beat.  Oh, yeah.

The reason the night was so fun was that these two young men have discovered how to play together.  I hadn’t realized the first time I saw them together was about the first time they’d been together.  Before, they took turns with the lead but over the month since I’ve heard them they have married well.  They were darling, grinning at each other, getting in close, feeding off each other.  They hired a new bass player, maybe just for the night, and he was good but they weren’t letting him close.  The venue was along the lines of the biker bar but a popular place with an interesting mix.  Some guy came out of nowhere and asked me to dance.  Usually, there is no one even remotely appropriate, and here he came, amidst the rubble.  I wouldn’t use that term unless it were accurate.

Church was splendid, too.  I got to witness my first Baptism.  The babies and toddlers were precious but not as cute as their parents.  And, at the coffee afterwards, a woman and I connected.  She was maybe 59 and similar to the previous week’s chat in that she, too, had come recently to the church, was married to an older man, and probably had been a beatnik. 

I’ve stalled long enough, and the tea is cold.  But I want to thank those of you who have mentioned the Artist’s Way for finally getting me to my morning pages.  Today I discovered the importance of community.  I have begun to see myself differently, as I reflect on and against people and places, new and old.  When they called me by name at the coffee shop and sought me out at church, a sense of belonging came over me.  Whether it is midnight and smokey with sirens blaring or standing in heels beneath stained glass, I can find a way to fit.

I just saw the movie Break-up.  I see a lot of movies, they don’t have to be good for me to pick up something I should be thinking about as I write.  I’m not sure how much I was bringing with me but, damn, what a somber movie.  It adds to my feeling that the person we are attracted to and the person who will appreciate us may never be the same.  Finding someone when you’re old and have all this singular history compounds the odds. 

The other thing I’m depressed about is the conversation I had with my broker today.  He was horrified that I had been under the impression I could eke out a living trading stocks.  He about made me promise I would get a job.  It reminded me of watching that show fashioned after American Idol, the new one where they audition to be a dancer in Las Vegas.  All those people thought they were good enough dancers to audition.  I poured over my portfolio, grading myself.  It’s true I’ve lost a fair amount of money in the last two weeks but so has everyone.  But maybe not as much as I. 

I don’t even want to think about what kind of dancer I am.  I’ve seen videos of myself, which I was okay with.  That was before I started slouching over the computer all day.  Bad posture can turn a good dancer ugly.  Just a fact. 

So I will work harder.  I bought three stocks today, two my choice and one, his.  The one he talked me into I probably should have waited on but it might not go down again.  I still have this idea that I’m good at it for some reason.  Just like those dancers.

Ellen, I made it protected.