The Written Life

Moving Day- a poem by ToryLynn

2011-12-19T16:26:00.000-08:00

Backsore and armtired
And this empty room echoes
With a tinny vibration
How did it get this far?

Love loomed in these rooms
And now the silence sings
A different tale.
One of loss and hurt.

Close the door
And let the hum die down
Of a marriage lost to time
Leaving behind only

Two golden bands,
together on the counter
And two hearts
Going seperate ways.

Through the Screen

2011-12-13T20:29:00.000-08:00

We use Skype. It's a comfort thing for us and sometimes we will talk into the night, or just sit and watch videos. Most of the time, we don't use the webcam, but sometimes we do, and we did, last night. He laid down, and I laid down, and we talked, our heads sideways on our screens, matching eye for eye, lip for lip. He reached out his hand as if to touch me, and I reached my hand is if to touch his, touching my screen, which was enlarged to full size so that he was nearly life size. I sat like that, my hand on his, through the screen, wishing it could be our lips pressed together, our skin touching each other, when suddenly... I felt a give.

It wasn't anything that I could truly describe. I remember wishing that I could touch him, and then there was a push and my hand slid forward, as if through the thin plastic barrier of my screen. It almost felt a little bit like pushing through a really cold wall of butter. A lot of resistance, but once my fingers first went through, I knew that I could get through. There was no flash, no light, no sound of trumpets. Just a slight pop, and my hand was through the screen, and my fingers were met with warm, soft flesh. His eyes got big and his mouth formed a surprised O at this, but then he simply smiled, and tangled his fingers into mine, dragging them to his lips and kissing the tips of each finger. My forearm gave a funny jolt and I could feel this though he was nearly three thousand miles away.

I gave a tug, not separating our fingers, and there were two pops, one as my my hand returned to California, and one as his hand crossed over from New Jersey. It was my turn to kiss fingertips and I suckled on one. His smile widened and his eyes became dreamy and peaceful. I tugged a little bit more, and his arm to the shoulder pulled through the screen. I rewarded this with a kiss to his elbow and, though his face was obscured from me, I could hear a happy little noise escape him on the other side. He pulled back against me, and, while keeping our hand still connected, contemplated me through the screen.

"Can you fit?" he asked.

I contemplated my wide hips and my large breasts and my expanse of shoulders and shook my head sadly. "Can you?"

He pushed me back, our fingers still laced, and pressed his shoulder into the screen. My monitor had always been pretty big. I liked to watch movies and it was the best thing for it, but his was small, just a tiny little netbook. He pressed his whole body forward and into the screen, up to his shoulder and stopped, releasing my hand and trailing his fingers up to my elbow to give a little squeeze. I backed up and wrapped my fingers around his forearm (he was a little taller than me) and began to pull. His scapula fit through, and the he pressed his head to his chest and I watched the top of his head crown through the screen, his face becoming distorted with the pressure. I continued to pull and his arm wrapped around my waist as his head popped through and he looked a little bit dazed, but he was smiling, parts of him stuck through my screen. One arm in Jersey, the other in California, wrapped around my waist. I kissed him, testing out the feel of lips on lips, and smiled when I found him warm and willing. It only took a moment, and it was blissful, and then I was backing up again, pulling now with all of my might, as the other shoulder popped through and now his whole upper torso was in California. Both hands grasped my waist, and I was afraid to let go of the physical connection, worried that if I did not anchor him here, he would slip back through the screen again. So, with his hands on my waist, I began to push the monitor away from him, pulling through stomach, and back, wiggling the space around his hips, which stuck a bit and had to be forced, like a fat girl getting into years-old jeans, pushing flesh through the screen, pulling on the bits. Once the hips were through, and he was laying on my keyboard, it was just a tug and a matter of slide as he his knees and feet popped through my screen, and he laid, face down, across my bed.

I pulled him to a sitting position, still not wanting skin to release skin, and kissed him full and hard on the lips, even as we smiled around this sudden coupling. He was here... and I was happy.

I was worried that he would disappear if I let him go, that he would pop back to Jersey or just pop into non-existence, so many laws of physics and space and time had been broken. He sat in front of me and he was here. His hands on my waist. I wrapped my arms around his neck and pressed my whole body into him, and then slowly, incrementally, backed away, until my fingers were touching his and no other contact. I took away one hand first, my left from his right, and then looked into his eyes and quickly, only for a fraction of a second, broke the contact between. He was still there. I closed my eyes, and counted to three, not willing to believe in this good fortune, and when I opened them, he was still there. I threw myself into his arms with a laugh, and his surprised, happy face met mine at lips and smile. He was here.

We looked at the monitor, and the empty room on the other side, and laughed. He pressed his fingers against the plastic screen and there was a resistance there that was normal, the screen laid back. He couldn't get through it now, and my laptop laid there like a laptop does.

He asked "How am I going to get back?"

"Who cares?" I answered, and kissed him again.

We would worry about that in the morning.

The bitch queen of the Universe

2011-06-18T05:00:00.001-07:00

This is Calliope Jones. Don't let her adorable little Caliconess give you the idea that she is sweet. This precious exterior houses the spawn of Satan himself.

It took a while after Kabal Alexander, the Wonder cat, died for Kevin to warm to the idea of getting another cat, but Puck was lonely and his constant meowing in search for his big brother was driving us crazy. So, we went to the pet store to look at the shelter cats, and there she was. She pawed at the window and made baby cries. Her tag said she was 6 months old, but she looked smaller, younger. Her mewling baby cries were adorable and we decided to give her a shot.

When she peed on me while I was sleeping that first night, we forgave her due to the fact that she was so young and probably wasn't well box trained. (She has repeated this act a few times, and usually when her litterbox isn't up to standard.) Her predilection for suckling on fingers led us to believe she had been taken from her mother at a very young age.

After a terse period with Puck, they soon were sharing beds and food dishes. She fit in well, but was shy around strangers and indifferent to me. She loves Kevin. He is her human.

Because she is long haired, we find ourselves cleaning up hairballs nearly daily. Gross, but we can handle it. She barely eats anything and thumbs her nose at almost every wet food we offer.

The main reason she is a bitch is her attention whoriness. Attention is on her terms and if you don't pay attention when she wants it, she lashes out with vampire fangs that tear into your skin. I am sure she is only trying to emulate Puck's habit of a gentle nip to get my hand to pet him, but she doesn't understand his restraint.

Her favorite place to seek love is at the foot of the bed. In fact that is pretty much where she lives. Usually, when I am getting ready for work, and she will pace back and forth. If I offer a pet and then turn my back, if she is desparate, she will lunge and sink her fangs into the nearest body part. So far my elbows, hands and wrists bear the mark of her insanity.

But, she is ours. We know how to live with her. I guess people get used to crazy. After all, Kevin has been with me for 17 years.

posted from Bloggeroid

Panera and Not Reading

2011-06-03T13:13:00.001-07:00

This is where I work in the morning. I have a bagel and a coffee and read an article (usually about pedagogy) as I eat and when I'm done, I will open up my laptop and look at curriculum options.

I read an interesting article in the English journal about students not reading. It discusses how through comprehension questions and common essay tests, teachers give their students permission to not read the materials and instead use the internet and study guides like SparkNotes or Cliffs Notes. The article, by Robert Broz, says that to combat not reading that teachers need to focus on reading journals and small group discussion where students negotiate meaning for themselves, rather than study guides with binary answers and teacher led discussions that let students glean information from the teacher rather than think for themselves and then regurgitate that information back on tests and in essays. This article inspires me and scares me at the same time. I think this is a great idea, but I can just imagine the student resistance to the idea that they actually have to read. It will also require that I move away from the publisher provided ancillary materials and make my students responsible for their own learning. I know that I will return to my table at Panera this summer. I will take my textbook, my lesson plan book and a new outlook on teaching. Watch this space for updates on my journey.Tory

LOOK!!! I made my bed.

2011-05-24T08:44:00.001-07:00

Spent a long night not sleeping well, so I cleaned most of my bedroom and made my bed this morning. My mom would be so proud.

I hate to clean. Not my strongest point. My family, specifically my mom and sister, are nearly OCD neat freaks. I missed that genetic defect. I love them both dearly and they have excellent taste in decorating, but in my opinion, nobody is going to think less of me if there is dust on my furniture. If they do judge me by my dust, then they really don't need to be in my house. I hate chores and never developed those time consuming habits that take me away from writing the great American novel or throwing myself into great literature (... or hanging out in Second Life or watching Mythbusters or killing orcs in LOTRO). I have better things to do than clean.

My darling wonderful husband usually point out that I only clean when I am upset. He has a point. When I need to think things over, a good load of dishes or making the bed really helps to clear my mind. That means I either stay in a thoughtful upset mood if want a clean house, or deal with a messy house. I like being happy. I will live with the mess.

Incidentally, studies show that making your bed actually encourages dust mites and bed bugs who like the warm pockets of air that a good made bed offers. So... discourage bugs.. and don't make your bed.

Smart phone?

2011-05-23T20:35:00.001-07:00

Hehe.. so, my loving husband caved and finally bought me a smart phone and now I have a blogger app. So maybe now that I have a blogger app and a really fun camera app, Maybe I will start actually blogging again. So, for my newfound narcissism, I offer this fun picture of my living room. I love black and white photography, so I may offer a new photo every time I post a new blog. Seems like a good idea anyway.

I really don't have anything witty or important to say. I don't expect anybody to really read this. It will just be random stuff that I find amusing or whatever. Maybe I will write about amusing news. Maybe I will post funny YouTube videos. Maybe I will even write about my writing. One never knows.... but I will always try to add a picture.

If you're still reading... thank you. I hope I can keep up with this better.

Tory

15 books in 15 minutes

2010-07-21T08:38:00.000-07:00

http://jseliger.com/2009/06/18/fifteen-books-in-fifteen-minutes/

The goal is to come up with 15 book titles of books that have influenced your life in less than 15 minutes. ...

Here goes. Starting at 8:30

1. Little Women - Louisa May Alcott
2. Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance by Robert Pirsig
3. The Complete Works of Shakespeare
4. Lamb by Christopher Moore
5. Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
6. On Writing - Stephen King
7. Dubliners by James Joyce
8. On Chesil Beach- Ian McEwan
9. Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban - J.K. Rowling
10. The Joy of Sex
11. The English Teacher's Companion- Jim Burke
12. 9 Rights of Every Writer - Vicky Spandel
13. Ariel by Sylvia Plath
14. Where the Sidewalk Ends by Shel Silverstein
15. 'Salem's Lot by Stephen King

8:37

It got hard near the end because I had to consider what books changed my life, or influenced me to become who I am. There aren't many that I can remember or that I would carry around with me everywhere. These are some of my favorites, some that made me a better writer, a better teacher... a better me.

What are yours? Have you read any of mine?

And yay! Posted!

Good blog

2010-06-16T18:36:00.000-07:00

Saw this on a blog and it made me laugh:

Hopkins: Ah, Ben! I want you to see some cards I'd gone and had printed up. Oughta save everybody here a lot of time and effort, considering the epidemic of bad disposition that's been going on around here lately. "Dear Sir, you are without any doubt, a rogue, a rascal, a villain, a thief, a scoundrel, and a mean, dirty, stinking, sniveling, sneaking, pimping, pocket-picking, thrice double-damned no-good son of a bitch." and you sign your name -- what do you think?

Dr. Benjamin Franklin: I'll take a dozen, right now.

~1776 Musical~

It comes from here http://www.ambrosiasinkrack.com/2010/02/ink-review-noodlers-tiananmen.html

I will update someday soon. I am trying. Problem is.. Life keeps getting in the way. I have this whole thing working in my head about the theater I recently inherited.

Post Secret Secret

2010-04-17T21:55:00.000-07:00

I saw this and wished that it had been my secret. Sometimes, I hate myself.

It hurts.

Lagging behind

2010-03-14T08:12:00.000-07:00

Ok.. I know.. I'm running late. I PROMISE... I will post here soon. I have so much to talk about... here's a short list:

My novel and how it's going
The Great Valley Writing Project
How much I hate grading
Why I hate frozen bananas (hint: it's the texture)
Things I have to do research on
The vampire romance novel I'm just about finished with
My quest to read James Joyce's Ulysses, and how I'm NOT ready yet.

Read you later!

This made me cry

2010-02-11T06:22:00.000-08:00

Just a little, but it's been years.. or something.. I'm such a wierdo.

Review: A Gate at the Stairs by Lorrie Moore

2010-01-08T23:36:00.000-08:00

Lorrie Moore's newest novel, the first that I have read, wasn't as wonderful as I had hoped it would be.

The novel follows a year in the life of Tassie Kjeltin, the daughter of a Wisconsin potato farmer who is in her freshman year of college a few months after the attacks on 9/11. She seeks employment and finds it, becoming a nanny for the Brink-Thornwoods who are adopting a child and want her to be a part of the process. The first child doesn't go well, but they finally find a match with a young mixed race girl named Mary, who the mother dubs Emma and soon becomes Mary-Emma, or Emmie. Tassie becomes deeply involved in the life of the child, the politics of the parents, and the strange mystery of their past. A romance develops with a fellow student, who also is strangely mysterious, and her brother, Robert, has decided to join the military. To round out the cast is her aloof roommate, Murph.

This novel left me cold. I found that I often could not get into the characters and there seemed a constant disconnectedness with the character's emotions. With very little conflict in the novel, it merely seems like a year in the life of a college student. The apathy the character displays towards nearly everything, with perhaps the exception of her brother, makes it difficult to really climb into her story. Some points were very well written, and I found myself in love with the language, but very often, the narration slips into an almost comatose rambling that made me often want to scream "Get on with it", since none of it seemed overly important.

There seemed to be little character development, though the most interesting character was the mother herself, Sarah Thornwood-Brink, who has secrets in her past. A restaurant owner, she and her husband Edward, are nearing middle age and want a child, and look to adopt. But even she seems obsessed with her own snobbery as a restaurant owner and is difficult to connect to as a character.

The most memorable part of the novel for me was a funeral, where Tassie climbs into the casket and describes the smell of the body as "a chemical one, like the field fertilizer used by the agrabiz farms" (298). The body in the case isn't buried whole, one hand left behind, unable to be retrieved, and is stuffed with cardboard and newspaper and legless. The image is disturbing, but also one of sadness and loss. I only wish the connection to the deceased had been greater in the novel during life.

Altogether, I felt that this novel was a bit disappointing. I had been introduced to the novel through the short story discussion group that I help run in Second Life. The story that we gleaned from the recent pages of the New Yorker, called "Childcare", received a decent response, and so I had hopes for this novel, which I received as a Christmas present. The best part of this novel for me was the thought of the friend who sent it to me. Because of that, I will always cherish this novel, though I doubt I will read it again.

On to Confederates by Thomas Keneally!

Books

2009-12-31T10:21:00.000-08:00

As we are about to get very poor, my book budget is going to take a serious dive. However, upon review of my bookshelves, I have at least a year's worth of reading to do just in books that I have bought and forgotten, mostly because I get distracted by something else and forget to read. With this list of books, I sort of wonder where all the room is for the books that I have read.. but.. they're there too. I'm thinking of sorting these into their own bookshelf in my writing room and then slowly emptying these out.

Anyways, here is my list

Self-Esteem - McKay/Fanning
Words in Air -correspondence of Elizabeth Bishop and Robert Lowell
Succulent Wild Woman- SARK
Spunk and Bite
SARK's new creative companion
The Right to Write- Cameron
Erotic Myths and Legends
A Year of Ritual
You can be a Super Quilter
The Teaching of Buddha
Burning down the House- Charles Baxter
Zuckerman Unbound- Philip Roth
Elements of Style- Strunk and White
The Jungle- Upton Sinclair
Peony in Love- Lisa Sec
Mythology- Edith Hamilton
Inferno- Dante
Odyssey- Homer
Haunted - Chuck Palahnuik
Lost Horizon- Hilton
For Whom the Bell Tolls- Hemingway
Life of Pi- Martel
Because They Wanted To- Mary Gaitskill
The Woman Warrior- Hong Kingston
Demonic Mnemonics- Suid
Mere Christianity- CS Lewis
The curious incident of the Dog in the Night-time
Blithe Spirit/Hay Fever/ Private Lives- Noel Coward
Mansfield Park - Jane Austen
Ulysses - James Joyce (oddly, I just bought this, thinking I didn't have it, but I did!)
Walden- Thoreau (one more try and then I'm chucking it)
Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norell
The Best American Erotica of 2004
Love in the Time of Cholera - Marquez
The Oedipus Cycle
Stories by Katherine Mansfield
Middlesex -Eugenides
Sophie's World
The Sot-Weed Factor
Blink
Possession: A Romance - Byatt
Best American Short Stories of 2007
Measure of a Man - Portier
Dawn- Wiesel
The Accident - Wiesel
The Bluest Eye -Morrison
Short Stories of Ernest Hemingway
Everyman - Philip Roth
Paradise Lost
The Dark Tower Series - King
Best American Short Stories 2009
Light in August - Faulkner
The Mammary Plays - Vogel
Tom Sawyer- Twain
Mrs. Dalloway - Woolf
Uncle Tom's Cabin - Stowe
Moby Dick - Melville
Plays and Poetry by Yeats
Doubletakes
Bodacious Book of Succulence by SARK
Tales of Beedle the Bard - Rowling
History of Love - Krauss
Confederates - Thomas Keneally
A Room with a View/ Howards End / Maurice - Forster
Revolutionary Road / Easter Parade - Yates
Dear John - Nicholas Sparks

I'm currently nearing the end of A Gate at the Stairs by Lorrie Moore. Good book. Once that's done.. I'll start making a dent in all of these. Whatever powers there are.. please help me. :)

The Lithium triplets and a bag of pyrite

2009-11-07T19:02:00.001-08:00

This is, I fear, going to be a fairly whiny post. You can stop now, if you want. I don't mind. I'm writing this mostly for myself.

I'm sitting here eating what may possibly be the last chinese dinner I eat ever in my life (sweet and sour pork, chow mein and beijing beef, in case you were wondering). As I slowly masticate, I wonder about, I guess, the meaning of life, writing, dieting, and medication... we'll start with the last and go backwards.

A friend confided in me today that he thinks I am insane. I'm afraid he may be right. I stare now at three very small white pills, lined up on a box from a pen I got recently (Red Pelikano Jr, which is in my pocket with Passion Red ink in it - good for grading). They sit there, taunting me, each with the tiny numbered faces talking to me, telling me that I'm just too insane to love. The Lithium triplets, ladies and gentleman, whisper to me in their small, salty voices (I hate the taste of these pills), in the voices of my father, my sister...and sometimes my mother... and they tell me that I'm not good enough, I'm not smart enough. That I have to depend on them, or I will be nothing. I hate these pills. I want to crush them beneath the heel of my birkenstocks, which, I might point out, aren't really all that made for crushing. My only recourse is to swallow them with my Beijing Beef, and hope that they drown in the stomach acid. It makes me feel a little better.

Dieting next, right? (as I munch on my high sodium and high calorie chinese food, the repast of a dying stomach).

I decided to start the sign up process for weight loss surgery. To say I'm frightened is an understatement. My whole.. everything.. is frightened. There are a few reasons I'm afraid. First, is the extra skin. I realize this is incredibly vain of me, but I want to be beautiful. This goes back to the whole "not loved" thing. I want to be so beautiful that men will stop to look at me... that men will notice me and maybe even wonder who I am. I am invisible as I am, or worse, the subject of ridicule and derision. Because I look like this, people sneer and don't even bother to get to know my mind... and not more than once, when they have gotten to know my mind first, through some internet experience, perhaps, once they do see me, who I really am... they back off, or back away and tell me they want to slow down.... or I never hear from them again. So, when I worry that I may look like a sharpei after the surgery because my skin's elasticity has been affected, this is a major fear of mine.

I guess the other concerns would be minor to that, though major to some. Not being able to eat the foods I like, gaining back the weight despite the surgery, having to buy all new clothes, the risk of infection or possible death (a .02% chance). However weighing all of those options against a longer life span, and maybe the ability to move freely again without very serious pain... even my vanity loses out. I have to do something. My willpower won't let me. Maybe surgery will.

Writing... I'm getting to a place where I'm at the "what's the point" of writing. I'm not very good at it. I definitely know I could be better, but when I sit down to write, typing or otherwise, nothing spectacular comes out. Funnily enough, when I pick up a fountain pen, the first thing I scrawl isn't a poem, or a bit of prose, but my signature - every time I put pen to paper. I love my fountain pens, they are gorgeous, and fun to play with, but.. well.. a wise man once told me that the pen in my hand is merely a fetish. I believe that it can cause magic because of of what it is. I believe a nice fountain pen can make a better writer, but.. it can't. Nothing really can. I write how I write. I can edit, which I hate doing, as I don't feel that it's creation. I have been negative about my writing for over a year now, tying it into a heartbreak that should have never occurred in the first place. I tied my writing life into that relationship and because of that, once the relationship ended, my writing became stunted. It wasn't his fault; it was mine for tying it to anybody else in the first place.

If I want to be a writer, I have to write for myself, and not worry about whether or not it's crap at first, but be happy that I am at least writing something. If my writing group tells me it's crap.. I just won't think about publishing it and put it in the "nice try" pile. When you're mining for gold in a river full of iron pyrite, you're bound, once in a while, to find a nugget of something good there. (and I've seen a lot of iron pyrite published too!)

So.. life will sort itself out. I'm done whining now. The Lithium triplets are safely tucked away for the evening... and I have about 5000 words to write to catch up to my fellow Nanoers.

ToryLynn

Review: Idiot Girl and the Flaming Tantrum of Death by Laurie Notaro

2009-10-15T05:46:00.000-07:00

I had high hopes for this book when I bought it. I had read a review in the New York Times, thought it sounded at least amusing, and so I decided to get it for my Sony Reader. It was convenient, and I thought it would be a quick funny read. The Times assured me so. There were parts where I found myself laughing out loud as I read, things that made me giggle, but I didn't really enjoy this book. The author comes off as a paranoid hypochondriac, someone I would sit with and talk to a while if I were stuck next to them at a really boring sports game, but I wouldn't want to hang out with on a regular basis. I almost put this book down and didn't finish it, but then decided that I was better than that and needed to finish what I had started. I found a few redeeming qualities, but not enough to make me pick up another Notaro book any time soon.

Review of March by Geraldine Brooks

2009-10-12T03:04:00.000-07:00

One of the best written historical novels that I have ever read. Historical fiction has never really been my forte, but a recent interest in the Civil War has caught my attention, and this book was recommended during a short story discussion, so I thought to pick it up on my Reader and take a look. Lately, I haven't been reading very quickly (a vampire romance novel goes fast, but anything else creeps), however this novel went quickly for me. The pace and the story had me up at night wanting to know what happened to Mr. March next. The story takes one of the classic books written by a superb American writer, Louisa May Alcott, and pulls an absent character, the father, out into a fully realized person, who comes with his own guilt, his own background, and his own moral and mental wounds. Definitely a wonderful book and highly recommended! I know why it won the Pulitzer. It is great.

The value of a journal

2009-09-15T06:31:00.000-07:00

I wonder if having a more expensive notebook is better for me in the long run...

I used to own a Moleskine softcover Extra Large notebook. I actually have several of these, but I would use the one at a time. They cost about $20 and the soft oilskin cover felt really good in my hand, making me think of someone finding it, years later, and it's bent back corners and a few modifications I make to my notebooks. (one is to put a wax seal on a finished one with the dates on the inside cover of when the notebook was used. It's easier for cataloguing and finding older journals. A vague index may sometimes be made in the back). But these notebooks would hold everything.

Recently, I switched to the cheaper, but just as well made, Piccadilly Notebooks. They have the same oilskin cover, though so far.. only in hardbound.. they recently came out with softcovers, but I haven't found them yet. I may order offline... but then again.. I may not. So the purchase ratio from Moleskine to Piccadilly is about 1 Moleskine for every 3 Piccadilly's. I thought.. great! I can buy my journals cheaper.

I actually now have 4 Piccadilly notebooks floating around. Contents of these notebooks: one is used for notes on teaching; one is used for notes on the Civil War novel I'm writing; one is used for the Foster Care novel I recently abandoned; and the last one was just general scribblings that is currently defunct. I think that is all, but who knows where the others are. I currently cannot find the one with my Civil War novel in it, once again proving that if I have too many of one thing.. I tend to misplace them.

With the more expensive (and thus more precious) Moleskine, all of thse novel notes and writings and school notes would be kept in once place. True, it would run out faster, but then I would start a new journal. I have one short story that spans 3 different journals, in dribs and drabs and edits and notes. Most of what I write (other than SL poetry) starts out written by hand in these journals. Even if I moved on to a new journal, I could always go back and find the other journal that I used and glean the (mostly chronological and somewhat indexed) information from the hand numbered pages.

So does having a more expensive notebook make me keep things in a more orderly fashion. It's possible.. and in fact it is probable. I miss keeping all of my notes and novel picking, short story ideas and dribs and drabs of poetry in a single edition that continues. Since college, I have used many notebooks in my quest to find the perfect journal. I wonder if I will ever find the right one.. or if I already have.

(Also posted to my blog: the WW ning http://writtenword.ning.com)

Researching to Write

2009-09-01T22:15:00.001-07:00

Overwhelmingly enough, I have decided to start writing a Civil War novel... so I am eyeball deep in artillery and armies decked out in blue and grey and.. butternut? I am learning all sorts of new things lately.

Anyway.. here is a new poem that I wrote for the Blue Angel.

Love Song to Autumn
by ToryLynn

The first tinge of gold
At the edges of the willow tree
Bring the idea of autumn
And the crisp apples
Blush, dropping from the tree
Languishing for the harvest.

The autumn of life
Is the best season
The fruit so ripe and willing;
Knowledge dripping
Off the vine

Truth lives in this golden time
When lies are no longer necessary
Free to love what lives
Looking towards death.

Sitting back, sipping the cool tea
Commenting on the winter
we bathe in life.

And don't look towards
The death

That is coming.

Which Art?

2009-07-12T07:58:00.001-07:00

I took this picture while camping with Kevin last month. It was a peaceful Tuesday morning, and the sun came through the trees just right. This is from our own campsite, so what you see there is my neighbors for the three days we were camping.

Posting this picture today comes from a conversation with my best friend, where he and I were discussing art. His favorite artist is Edward Hopper because he likes the stillness of the paintings. I don't really have a favorite artist, probably because I don't know much about art or photography.

We were sitting there, discussing the work of Edward Hopper. He immediately begins to think of stories of the characters or the places. These paintings speak to him of a quiteness, or a loss (my favorite being "NY Movie"..that one speaks to me a story), but what I noticed first wasn't the story in the picture, but the composition. I noticed the colors, and how they blended, and how, especially in "NY Movie", there is a barrier between the focal point of a young usherette, and the rest of the movie goers. I notice the primary colors around her, and in her uniform. I notice the color tension and flow, but the first thing I see isn't the story. As a writer, shouldn't that be what I see?

As a writer, I feel I should automatically look at these pictures and wonder what these people are thinking, or what could have gone on here. Just as I am walking around a field, I should be able to see the Native American encampments that were there 200 years ago. I don't though. I see the waving of the tall grasses, and how the grasses begin to brown, feathering on top of the shaft. I notice how they bend in the wind, creating a brilliant ripple effect which reminisces of the ocean, and I rejoice in the ocean of the field.

I do not have any "artistic" talent, as far as drawing or painting goes. I took a class once, produced two paintings, and never really painted again, except for paint by number. Photography or cinematography may be my strong suit (as I may point out in the picture above, my favorite from the camping trip... so far.. I have to fiddle with some of the others). I took Photography in high school. I used to know how to create black and white photos with an old 35mm camera and process the film and develop the paintings.

I have been a poet and a fiction writer for as long as I can remember. I have been telling stories, albeit simplistic, since I was four, and my grandmother transcribed my very first story (about a black unicorn living in a white unicorn world). I write poetry quickly, but I don't think I'm superb at it, and most of mine could use some polish.

Photography speaks to me as a beautiful art, because the composition is there.

So, which art do I choose? I still don't know. I'll keep plugging away at my novels, dashing off my poetry... and admiring nature and life in my photography.

Living beyond

2009-06-21T21:47:00.000-07:00

Living beyond.
Written at the Blue Angel, Windermere

Sylvia, why do you speak to me
Forever 31, while I am 33.
Is it that plane where

we live, together,
you and I
In sisterhood?

What becomes of me
Because you left,
Afraid

Of what life was
Or what life had become?
We never lived

together, for you
were 13 years
In Mother earth

before my tender feet
hit terra firma
But our kindred

ship is close
And I reach out
Through time

And grasp your hand
Wishing you had
Dared to live.

I feel I would be
better
If you were alive

As a guide
To this illness
And though the

napkin is removed
we still see the
beauty

That was your words.
And now Nick
joins you,

Not escaping your
genetic generosity.
No longer chasing

Dreams of a place
Where we find
Home.

Bipolar

2009-05-24T18:00:00.001-07:00

Sometimes, it's like a wave
Where the highs are up and the tide breaks
And you can see the water nourishing
All of the little landscape around
But try to ignore
The life it is drowning beneath.

And when the tide goes down,
you see things differently
And have time to look and feel
But ignore the bloody footprints
Where the rocks cut your feet.

An Apology to my friends...

2009-03-26T22:09:00.001-07:00

As I grow and learn, I find that my attention wanes from people. I have lost many friends due to this waning, though I am sure that I could walk back into their midst (and I have several times) and feel welcomed. However, no matter how many times I do that, I have noticed that I can never go back to these people and exist in the same capacity that I have previously. I find often that we have all moved on, that our lives are not the same, or I feel out of place. I hate the thought that comes that says that perhaps I have outgrown them, or the usefulness of that time and place has been spent. It makes me feel that I have used these people, but like a reunion, these people are strangers who you learn to make small talk with. It is unfortunate.

Many times, especially in my life, these friends have been summarily dropped as I chased after a boy. This happened many times in high school, in college, and even in my Second Life. I would make friends with a group of people, and as soon as one was singled out as "soul mate" material, the rest would become background noise as I focus in on the one voice, the one note that burns my heart.. until it is cast aside, as it inevitably is (and was). Then I look at my old friends and realize that they don't fit anymore because they were "his" friends.

I regret this deeply.

So, I have decided not to do that anymore. I can't begin to make up to my old friends who I have neglected in yet another chase after someone who I thought would be my soul mate again (who ended up being a really good friend instead, so at least I have that). However, I can start looking at myself and figuring out what I need to do to make sure that I maintain stability.

First, I need to not talk about "the boy" constantly. A really great friend said that this made me one dimensional, and I don't want to be one dimensional. I am the most important person in my life, and my friends are important too. I need to learn about them again and take pride in their works.

Second, I need to start taking pride in my own work and my own world! I've started taking classes at NCI to learn things, and I am actually learning! I've learned how to make jewelry and a flag... I'm thinking I may start raising some money... or at least designing some kick ass jewelry.

Third, my life has to be about more than Second Life. I don't live there (though, God, I wish I could sometimes. My house is gorgeous!) I have lesson plans, students, a wonderful, incredibly doting husband and a great many things to do that I can do in my real life. It's time I start focusing there once in a while (not that I'm gonna be there all the time. SL is wonderful!)

Ok.. so.. a few steps... I miss my friends and I want them back badly. It's time for me to become, at least two dimensional. There is life out there, and I'm going to grab it. I hope I get the golden ring.

Resolved to Write

2008-12-31T09:15:00.000-08:00

I have participated, before, in Nanowrimo. I have 4 novels, none of them completely finished, with at least 50,000 words each written in them, but, as I said, none of them are completely finished. I would find myself getting to that last 5000 words and then realize that I wouldn't be able to make it to the ending that I had planned, and instead write the ending with my last 5000 or so words, leaving a big gap where the rest of the writing should have been. So, while I have completed Nanowrimo 4 times, I have not yet written a novel.

I am resolving myself to write. New Year's resolutions are often broken so quickly, and me without my deadline nor my chatroom full of cheerleaders, I fear I am setting myself up for disappointment. But what I do have is my own resolve, and a very close knit bunch of friends who are also writers, who are willing to help me in this endeavor.

This is how I'm going to do it:

1. I resolve to wake up every morning and write three pages of drivel just to get it out of me. During these three pages I will a) plan out my day b) vent about yesterday c) plan and plot. These three pages (also known as Morning Pages thanks to Julia Cameron) will be the small petty child that I am inside letting it all out, so that she doesn't bother me for the rest of the day while I attempt to be an adult.

2. I resolve to work my hardest at my job, and let that be a joy to me again, not an obligation, but a responsibility that I continue with pride. My students deserve better than I have been. I will not rush out the door to be on the computer unless I have a class that evening, but that is only on Mondays and Fridays (for now).

3. I resolve to be offline completely by 6pm every night so that I can have dinner in a timely manner and be upstairs and writing by 8pm. From 6-8 is Kevin's time. My friends will understand that my husband comes first in all things... and won't feed my addictions.

4. I resolve to write from 8-1o every night, not stopping to gaze out the window or day dream. I have a desk upstairs and a reason to use it. I will create worlds and characters that I truly can fall in love with and write every day.

5. I resolve to write one poem every day during my healthy lunch, which will be packed and ready to eat. This will keep my mind healthy.

6. I resolve to walk for half of my prep period, and spend extra time after school if I need it to grade and lesson plan. I will not waste this time, but instead check in on other teachers and visit my department chair and the library daily, as well as check my mail and talk to counselors and the psychiatrist about students that need help. (I may possibly get to know the office staff a bit better, as well as our new principal.)

7. For the other half of my prep, I resolve to read good literature, not Harlequin romances which do nothing more than give me a reason to escape my life. I need to use my gift for literary analysis to make my world better, not leave it.

So, this will be my resolutions, starting tomorrow... for now. I'm going to go eat chinese food and chocolate cake.

Lollipops and kisses!
TLW

Tabula Rasa

2008-12-05T11:47:00.000-08:00

I start today not as the English teacher that I once was, but as the writer I am becoming. I am clearing away the debris of a past lifetime, looking not at the broken and twisted path that has led me to the place I have come to, but instead look forward to that golden shining valley of what I can become. I am, of course, going to pull my friends along with me and make them start publishing thier works too, because it's no fun to be in the limelight all by yourself.

Maybe it is time to really blog, really work on what I want to write, post passages of really well written stuff, and talk about what I am learning as a writer. I learn something every day, I think of new things every day. The only thing you won't find here is my work, but you may find links.

Speaking of links, I got confirmation today that I am going to be published in the online erotica magazine "Clean Sheets" (and if I knew how to do one of those nifty little HTML things where I could put a link in here, I totally would), but just google search Clean Sheets and go check them out. They were one of my favorite places to go when I was interested in having something fun to read. They asked me if I wanted a link for my bio, and so I created this blog to give them something to link to. I'm still not sure how often I'll use it, but it does seem to be a good place to put my ramblings about writing... and maybe some poetry I don't think I will ever attempt to get published.

Hope to see you around!