Diane,

I wrote something tonight, a little tribute to you. It goes:

What is space, or time, but chalked lines taught to us in our childhoods? Because over all the hours and footsteps that have separated us, you are ever near to me, ever accessible, ever Diane-like, ever the same. And that particular sameness is all one needs to be reminded that life is texture and angles and creativeness tempered by practicality. You remind me of doll-boxes: delightful in their whole form, ever more delightful when opened. I thank the lovely doll-boxes and the Dianes of the world for all the little truths and reminders that comfort a nervous soul: jobs are JOBS, kids are worth the work, books transplant us…and mostly, that we are never as far away from one another as we’d at first believe.

Thank you.

It has been a very long time since I’ve written. But that’s not really true. I write everyday, but the things I write lately are not fit for public consumption. They are all about the private triumphs and disappointments one experiences in their inner life.

I have thought seriously of deleting this entire blog. It feels…not relevant, a chore, frivolous. It feels like something “other” or apart from real life.

Are you like me, you blogger, you? Do you read sitemeter like I do, searching for clues on who’s searching for you. Who’s that faceless person in Baltimore trying, day after day (though you don’t post every day–not even nearly!) for you. All when the ONE you want, that particular someone, ignores you–their longs&lats never showing up on sitemeter–an insult and a rebuke by their daily absence.

Are you like me?

Do you believe one has to suffer in order to write well? I guess I subscribe to that particular theory. It makes me feel okay about screwing up, really. I think, “Well, it’ll make me a better writer, anyway.” Probably not true…but one has to comfort oneself somehow, right?

A few readers have emailed me, wondering what’s happened to several recent posts. It’s nice to know people are paying attention…as one wonders at times if the words are simply going out into the ether.

Some of my recent posts explored matters of the heart: the hope, exhilaration, disappointment, frustration, confusion, vulnerability, hurt, butterflies, giddiness, inspiration, et cetera, et cetera, etc. And some of you found it interesting, and some of you found it worrisome: where’s the commentary on our girl’s daily life? Did our friend go out to LaLa Land? (Yes.) Did she ever get to Limantour? (No.)

So I’ve deleted some things for the time being. Those posts may show up again, when I release my Greatest Hits collection, but for now…they collect dust.

So I am, what now? On a scale of 1 to 10, what?

I’m a seven in prettiness,

a six in brains,

a two in articulation,

an eight in presence,

four in emotional brattiness,

five in the ability to be realistic,

three as compared to your peers,

nine when compared to my peers,

a one in confidence.

Come on. Come on, multiply me. Make me more than the sum of my parts.

Here’s what you’ll need:

• Angst
• Put someone up on a pedestal. Now watch him fall off. Re-play that image in your mind as you write.
• A bottle of cheap wine
• Breaking (not broken) heart
• A romantic predisposition
• A dash of real eccentricity
• A feeling that you don’t quite belong
• A hesitancy to speak. A propensity to collect scaps of paper and scribble on them
• A love/hate relationship with food. Strong opinions about flavors and textures
• Strong tendecies toward apathy regarding politics
• Guns N’ Roses, or if not that…Coldplay can work, but if that isn’t for you, try Getz/Gilberto
• Feelings of inadequacy, or feelings of grandeur. Pick one
• Did I mention angst? It’s the writer’s best friend.

Writers,

Go here: http://www.duotrope.com

Publish, publish, publish…then sell, sell, sell. This is a proven strategy for new (and not-so-new) writers. Publish in the smaller periodicals, get established, then start in on the paying markets.

Just a thought.

Use your words.

Take heart, broken sad heart. Autumn is on its piper way, and with it, orange-red something somethings

no no no

(Deep breaths, girl.

Okay, try again. And a one, a two.)

Take heart, sad heart. Autumn is on its way, marching forth, and with it, fire-crossed embers that seal off pain. Isn’t that what they did? Sear the skin with molten coals to prevent bleeding? And didn’t they

… tttttt

Didn’t they—

Um, didn’t they used to (something poetic and profound to be written here)

(Deep breaths, honey)

Oh God. I cannot write.

Do you keep a journal, or does it keep you? I often wonder about this, the systematic recording of one’s thoughts, feelings, wishes, fears, desires, episodes, et cetera. I mean, why? Why do it?

Because it’s cathartic, it reminds us of where we’ve been, it shows us how strong we are when we see how far we’ve come.

In college, I was enchanted with author and libertine Peter McWilliams. He wrote a couple of books that were absolutely critical to me. One of them was Come Love With Me and Be My Life. In it, he records the beginning, middle, and end of a romantic love experience. It’s almost voyeuristic to read, because it’s journalistic in nature, and no doubt anyone who’s been through a heartbreak (or two) could relate. One of my favorite entries:

I write only
until I cry,
which is why
so few poems
this month
have been
completed.
It’s just
that
I…

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