My Writing Life: MeeeeeOwwwwww!

 waking up 2
Days ago, I lost the file of Her Widow that I was editing. l highlighted the file and dragged it to the back-up on my desktop, but instead of the file being saved, it was converted back to an earlier version and all the changes I had made were lost—gone into the ethers.
Apple could not find the file that was lost.  After an extensive, three hour search for it on my hard drive and in my back-up files, Apple pronounced it gone forever, permanently lost.  Nor could the computer geek I enlisted restore my work.  No one can explain why my MacBook Air, on command to save, erased the file and all previous versions, saving only an old version that did not have 40 hours of rewriting in it.  I’m not the first to lose an important file and feel sick.
I have started over, knowing a brush stroke can’t be duplicated any more than a batter can strike the ball again, exactly as he did when he hit the homer.  No moment in life with all its magic can be repeated.  It is disastrous to try to perform the ballet as danced when everything seemed to come together.  No concert is the same the second time around.  I mourn the loss but I must move on with confidence that I have the stuff to find new language, and, of course, I have learned the lesson.  I am printing out my corrections each day, not just saving the file and backing it up.

My Writing Life: Choices

 

 

blanket

No life has all the lovely things.  Each choice we make moves us toward one thing and away from another.  I chose to spend my time fully writing stories and walked away from a career that could have brought me riches.  I chose to write about the love of two women and left others to woo the larger market.  I chose to live out as a lesbian and  associations and opportunities were lost. I have never wanted a different life although from time to time not having this and that has brought tears to my eyes on a quiet night.  No life has all the lovely things.

 

 

My Writing Life: Writing It Down

river

 

I had a near melt-down the other night and wrote an angry letter to my deceased mother and father in my journal. I have spent a lifetime trying to heal my anger toward them.

Spiritual work and psychotherapy have helped but haven’t been the miracle I probably need.  Most days I feel I have rooted out my anger and forgiven Mother’s insistence that I be other than I am and Dad’s cowardliness, letting her speak for him.  But too many days, I get lost in the pain of the past and return to the darkness of the victim.  I marvel at the people who have suffered far greater than I and seem to be living without bitterness, with light hearts.

When I am drawn back into the drama of the past that apparently I have not finished arguing over, I use my wild energy to do something productive, outdoor work, back-braking work, pulling weeds from the white shell that surrounds the house where I live.  Or I release my anger in my journal, or through a character in a story, or in a letter to a friend,

It is a rare occasion when I am able to sit or stand in the anger and let it, like a river, run through me.

I am sure I became a writer to save my soul, declaring who I am, what I feel, and how I see things on a sheet of paper.

I wonder will I ever be able to transcend, rise above, center myself so that nothing at all is needed from me, for me?

In the meantime I write it down and writing it down becomes the river to the sea.