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Sunflower's Blog |
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I am Sunflower, and this is my blog--for what it's worth. The philosophical beachbum journals to public. |
| With a new week comes a new list of projects. I always make a list. I get extreme satisfaction crossing accomplished tasks off. Thursday, I'm going to attempt to break in a new psychiatrist again. The last two didn't work out so well. Once I'm established with someone, I'll feel better. I need to have a doctor who knows how to counter my mood swings without robbing me of my personality. I feel like they always overprescribe. I often land in the 2% reaction category with meds. I've had to go to the ER over having a reaction to meds. So, now I question and debate before I start a new med. Not all doctors take that sort of patient discussion well. But if I'm not comfortable talking to a psychiatrist honestly, he's not the doctor for me. Other weekly tasks are housekeeping, bookkeeping, and reading and writing. Once I get caught up, I give myself permission to make a new mess with whatever creative project strikes me. I have a sofa-sized canvas gessoed, and the paints are calling to me. |
| I'm as confused as the weather about the seasons. It was cold last night. It was 77 this afternoon. It may be cold and wet before the night is over. I'm thankful to have shelter, blankets, groceries, car with gas, and 4 pets who love me. If you don't acknowledge the basics, and be grateful, it's easy to let commercials and "the Jones" set your pace. I've had two very negative experiences with people this week. Not fights. Just interactions that leave me feeling bad for the other person. But I know I can best help myself, so I'm not going to focus on the negative past. Another day, another opportunity. Weeds are knee high in the back yard, and landscape all over the city is sprouting its variety of color. This is a great time of year to drive around and observe other people's yards, so you can see what plants look like in their pristeen state. I've put wisteria on my want list. The light purple flowers, standing upside down in many cases, really appeals to me. There was a beautiful patch growing alongside of my stepfather's driveway. His grandson plowed the whole yard over when he inherited the property. One year we took family Easter pictures with the wisteria and tulips in the background. It's funny how pictures can take you back to that day in your head. Close your eyes, and there you are again, with20/20 hindsight. . . if I'd only known then. I enjoy gardening, and now is the time to start. The weeds are doing well. The sage, chrysathemum, and a rose bush are coming back. The box wood never dies. Four of the red tip photenia I planted last year are still alive. They are presently in the dog's path, and I ought to dig them up and put them in a better place. Perhaps I'll start a fence hedge. I planted a pecan tree, for the benefit of the neighborhood squirrels, and some more trees are on the way from the National Arbor Foundation. With membership, you get free trees! They come tiny, but trees grow. The sunflowers got an early start this year. When I feed the birds, the sunflower seeds fall into the ground along the path to my front door. Every year, my front walk is lined with 6 foot tall sunflowers, full of bees and life. I'm going to mix the striped and black sunflower oil types this year. After four years, I'm learning how to enjoy them. Somehow, last year, I had an actual sunflower forest in my back yard. Great shade for dogs and people. So, the next step is to make my list of seeds to buy, and landscape to plan. I had a naturalist friendly certified yard last year. I need to look up that company name. It was some sort of naturalist group. The sunflowers all died before I realized I didn't get a picture of the flush of summer. I love to work in the flower beds, get dirt under my nails. I always find God in my garden. |
| People die in the previously tsunami struck area. Terri Shaivo fights for life and her organs cease their functions. My former roommate is on the streets. One day is much like another. We mark time by passing friendships as much as we do passing years. When you don't have things in common anymore, there's nothing to hold the friendship together. For ten days, a 19 year-old neighbor and friend stayed with me. He needed a place to stay. He's been looking for a job for a year and a half. He had said he was saving my offer to help him out as a last resort. All his friends and family members have tried to help him, with no results. I guess I'm not really surprised that he's gone. I'm surprised about the way our relationship ended. With the end of the friendship comes the end of sa story I've been working on for awhile. "Ghetto Gandhi" has two more chapters to be written. It would be difficult to write it now, because I'm so disappointed in the way things turned out. The story is fiction based on many things I shared with "Gabriel" from the time he was 13 until now. They say that you write best what you know, and putting it off will only cause me to lose the details. So another life of potential becomes a black and white story. It's much easier to deal with facts than feelings, but it's the balance of those two things that set us to our own destiny. Maybe that's the message I need to focus on in the story. One can never give up hope. |
| Short stories consist of a beginning, middle, and end. My short stories historically consist of only a beginning and a middle. I hope to rectify that condition soon. If you're interested in this contest, go to www.glimmertrain.com. The deadline I need to meet is April 5th. I thought it would be March 31, but I found out I still have almost two weeks. For two years I missed the Writer's Digest May deadlines for short story entries. I wait until the last week, and can't think straight enough to finish whatever I'm working on. I have several short stories in the can to be finished. The Glimmer Train contest has a 12,000 word limit. I need to check the total in "A Cultural Crevice" so far. It's almost finished, but needs some re-working. I'll either submit that one or "Butch." I feel like "Butch" doesn't contain much literary value, but the topic is acceptable these days. Give the public what they want. Of course, that one's not finshed yet either. If anyone who reads this has an opinion about any or my short stories, please let me know. I hear my potatoes calling on this cold Saturday afternoon. A potato salad waits its creation. |
| I've had a roommate for three days now. I don't think we've irritated each other too much yet. Wait. Don't get the wrong idea. It's not like that. He's 19, and I'm an older neighbor, kind of like an older sister. He's fallen on very hard times. I thought when he got his GED that things would go more smoothly. No such luck for him. I watched him struggle through middle school, and a year or so of high school classes at the Can Academy, an alternative school. He went to school for thirteen years, and he's out, and he's job hunting. He's been job hunting for two years. His parents kicked him out again last weekend. He's not sure why--maybe he let a family secret out. I never got to know his parents at all. They live around the corner, and aren't particularly friendly to me. I have extra compassion for him, because he's bipolar too. Nobody ever cared enough to see that he got medication. I don't have the money to take him to a private doctor, but I can make sure he eats properly, and that he's got some sort of agenda for job hunting. Since I've got more to say on this, I think I'll turn it into an article. Read more in my port. |
| My depression is dragging on, and I'm glad I have a doctor's appointment tomorrow. Antidepressants help, when you're as low as I am. I can't swing myself out of it, and I'm avoiding people because my attitude is so negative. My mom, in her stange but loving way, hinted that I should consider looking into another type of career other than teaching. If the school district calls me for fall of 2005, I might do it. It's been nine years since I've been in the classroom. I miss the kids, but not the problems and pressures. My life used to be grading papers. Now I'm creating stories instead of editing others grammar skills Mom doesn't consider writing a career, I guess. It's true that I haven't made any money from it. I wanted to blow up at her and say, "What do you think I've been doing for the last five years???" I didn't. She never gets me. She never has. She doesn't mean to hurt my feelings, and I know my ego is pretty bruised in my current depressed state. In order to not take it out on others, I'm staying away from my friends. It's a strange logic that rules my world. I picked a group for the "Going Pro Group." I chose short stories--drama (romance/erotica). I don't feel like I've been as successful on completing short stories so I can use the help. It's easier for me to write poetry, just because I can usually finish a poem in one sitting. I think my short stories are more of a novella size. I have trouble keeping my word count down. I need to go back and do lots of editing by deleting a lot of what I've written. I have trouble finding the self-discipline, but I feel like that's where I need to put my focus now. In five years, I've gone through all sorts of stages. The most costly was the vanity publishing stage. Now when I get mail from Poetry.com, et al, I'm tearing it up. It's a way to get published, but it doesn't count toward a writing fellowship or grant. I've sworn off junk contests. I want to write something that I can get paid money for. I feel like I could write magazine articles, and that might be the easiest market to get in to. I have only a couple of articles, and most of them are op-ed pieces. If I had some help, I might be able to write a column. I can write anything. I almost feel like I need a boss to tell me exactly what to write. But I value my open creativity. Yesterday, I watched an HBO movie on Lenny Bruce. That sparked an idea for writing, but I haven't followed through on it yet. I guess I'm fortunate to have confidence that I could write anything from fiction to non-fiction to poetry to maybe even a play. Steve Odenthall of www.stageashow.com sends me empty e-mails often, and I feel like he's encouraging me to write a play. I think I could, even though I haven't tried the format before. It's just a matter of deciding on a plot for the story, and then dealing with the new type of formatting. It would be exciting to have my story dramatized on stage. However, I'm not finding I have the focus to even start a writing project in my current mental outlook. I need to do something just to keep the creative juices flowing. I did pick up the book I've been reading on for two months. The Da Vinci Code is a very interesting read. Set in Europe, starting out with a murder in the Louve, all the references to such classic paintings, and the conflicts that become more complex as the story goes on--it's a really good book. If the Catholic Church wants to excommunicat e me for reading it, it won't be the first time I've gone against the roots of my youth. I don't like that the Roman Catholic Church dictates what you should think, instead of encouraging individual thought. I never liked that about the church. My version of God allows me to think freely. My cat's 19th birthday is tomorrow. I bought my Mom a purse and scarf, and I'm delivering it to her this afternoon, wrapped in birthday paper--saying I bought it for "Nell," and "Nell" said to give it to Grandmommy. Since I don't have kids, my Mom have critters for grandchildren. I'll agree that I've set myself in an unusual situation in the world. |
| I haven't been very successful at applying myself to the tasks at hand. I need to finish a long short story to send in to a contest before the end of the month. As far as I can tell, Glimmertrain.com is not a vanity publishing outfit, and "A Cultural Crevice" fits into their guidelines. I need to re-write two chapters, and come up with a big finish. I'm having trouble concentrating on anything. I was supposed to be teaching myself Photoshop this month--I got a book and signed up for a course. Unfortunately, I'm not finding the discipline to sit myself down at the computer and concentrate. On the positive side, I've given up waiting for the spring sunshine to enlighten my mood. I know I'm clinically depressed, and I finally made an appointment with a new psychiatirst so that I can get meds to help. In less than a week I'll have antidepressants, and a week or so later I know I'll be feeling better. I don't like being dependent on meds to maintain my mental health, but not taking meds leaves me as less than myself. I haven't been able to concentrate for months. I given in to not being productive because it's such a struggle to even get out of bed. I'm tired of the struggle, and not being able to accomplish anything. I just hope my new doctor isn't into medicating heavily. After ten years of living with a bipolar diagnosis, I've discovered there's usually some anti psychotic cocktail that a doctor will prescribe that will improve my outlook on life. The good Lord helps those who help themselves. It's just frustrating to be taking such tiny steps towards my goals. |
| It's difficult to see into the future, and picture all my half-heartd efforts coming to fruition. That's about as productive as I'm able to be now. My muse is gone. I feel like every thought and every feeling I have is bound by some kind of shackles that won't let it break free. Nothing is original. Nothing is worth repeating. Nothing is worth putting effort into. Ideas that might be stories aren't making it to a page. Re-writing that I gave myself an end of the month deadline for, is still just sitting. If I can't get excited about writing, nobody is going to be excited about reading it. This is a phase, and I've been through it many times before. I still don't know what to do with myself in times of non-productivity. I'm waiting for inspiration, a sunny day, something to give me a different perspective. And while I'm waiting, days continue to pass and with them many opportunities. If I can get just a little past my health drudgeries, maybe tomorrow can be the day my muse returns. |
| I received my "Certificate of Publication" from Voicesnet.com today. "The Grandfather You'll Never Know" is included in the Voicesnet Anthology 10, which should soon be printed and available. Signed by Jeff Humphrey, I have another fluff of parchement from a vanity press publishing company. I have seen the light of reality, and am leaving their poetry contests alone. For the price I've paid, I've gotten all I can from this venue for publication. I knew they were a scam, and bought into the thing anyway. I have my papers, I'll soon have my books. In the meantime I need to complete my "Cultural Crevice" manuscript and submit it to the Glimmer Train" contest. |
| I really want to be a published writer. I love writing, but I need to be making money from my efforts. I'm trying to nudge my way into the field, and I'm continuously making valient efforts. You never can tell when the long shot will pay off. I'm not marketing aggressively, and it seems you HAVE to. Three days ago I was estatic because my phone rang, the machine took the message, and one of Oprah's 38 producers wanted to talk to me. On the negative side, this was some sort of telemarketing ploy. The call came from a way-down-the-food-chain source, but on the positive side--her office got my number somehow. "Yes, I have a novel, short story, or book of poetry I'd like to promote on her show." It's not finished yet, but I was so excited. Three days later, the excitement of the balloon has burst. I had an idea that sparked and flared out. It had to do with a Poetry.com expose. I could have gone to the convention and acted like an investigative journalist. Just to get all those people's stories--what they think they're getting for exhorbitant fees is a story. It's such a scam, and they own all the expected web address. They have monopolized the .coms and .nets. Poetry.com is becoming wealthy through misrepresentation, but I'm not an attorney. I have documentation on two dozen broken-hearted stories. I got called to jury duty, so the fact that I didn't have all the funds to go to Orlando is a secondary aspect. I have a pattern of exhilleration and insight, but I can't get disciplined. This is a problem I hope to work on as well as other aspects of getting published in 2005. Another day is just a blown opportunity--not a blown dream. ** Image ID #922600 Unavailable ** |
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