A Writer's Manifesto

A writer's life is a curious thing. Like any artist, a writer seeks truth and through fact or fiction, seeks to immortalize those truths into something tangible and leaves that work behind as a living, breathing embodiment of self.

A writer wrestles with himself within the lines of work, struggling to both embrace and detach himself from life in order to examine existence and form new appreciation of it. In the process, the lines of reality blur as the realms of the real, the possible and the ridiculous plot themselves out before us.

Curious minds are, by nature, creative and reality may skew accordingly, if not for balance. One needs a touchstone, an anchor, in order to land; come back down to earth after a flight of fancy.

I could very well become a hermit and resign myself to a life of literary solitude.

Like Dickinson, I could lock myself in an attic and pine away in pages. Or create a Walden for myself, a world away from the fray of the everyday. However, I refuse to become five flavors of mental anguish and one can only live within oneself for so long without losing touch with their purpose. In order to examine humanity and existence, we must walk among it. We must live ordinary lives before we can become extraordinary.

So how do we balance our lives in a way that allows us to make sense of the lives we are living and the lives we create? How do we move through the lives we plot out before us? I'm trying to make sense of that right now.

I feel like a character in a novel, facing an array of trials to test my endurance and constitution. Sometimes I feel like it is my novel and sometimes I feel like I'm not always the author. In all actuality, it is the story of us all.

Every great story begins with a journey, an adventure and characters that do not, at first, realize their full potential. In our own stories, we have our introductions to the world, our struggles, resolutions, and the conclusions we draw from these lessons. We choose to be either dynamic or stagnant. We choose to be either the hero or live quiet lives, but even if we are not the main character, we contribute to the story in the book of life.

We are all searching for meaning, even if our research methods vary. The things that we find meaningful are different and there are many red herrings; distractions that take us off our path.

So if you find yourself caught in a fairytale, or any story, write it down. Write it down so that other characters can learn from your story. Perhaps it's not Canterbury Tales or the brothers Grimm, but if you have a thought in your head, write it. Leave more than your carbon footprint behind you on this little blue planet.

The life that you live is some flavor of human struggle that is ancient as the stars. You, my love, are a unique component of this universe and part of how we make sense of ourselves. So write it! Or use what talent you have to leave your experience behind. Write it, sculpt it, film it, but tell your story, because it is the story of us all.

Perhaps people may not listen. Sometimes they don't hear us, but if we can find a way to tuck our message in pages, hide it within reels, or in lyrics, we can clue them in on what we know. Maybe we can help them seek beauty and truth, when all they find is confusion. Perhaps it is a hard task, but it is a labor of love for fellow man.

An artist's mission must be clearly stated, if ever so subtly, if that makes sense. We cannot scream it, because that is too obtrusive. We must slip it in through the back door, tiptoe through the hallways, find our audience, and whisper to them and sing lullabyes. Whisper words of comfort and truth because everyone feels alone and struggles to come to terms with their own story. If they hear our stories, which resound with universal commonality, they can cradle their own pain and sing them softly to sleep, like little children.

Instructions

http://http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bi2pBZGJqj8

Life can be pretty confusing. I'm a woman. Do you think I ever know exactly what I want? Sometimes. So how do we know where to go or what to do?

If someone gave us a specific set of instructions, do you think any of us would follow them?
I'd say, sadly, no. As humans, I believe we are rebels by nature...and it just doesn't work that way because it's not exactly the same for everyone.

So where are our instructions? Where do we look for truth?

Perhaps it is in the plot of a story...cleverly tucked in pages or hidden within reels...a surreptitious set of meanings for the audience...

..But we perceive and create meaning in different ways. It's like reading the "Little Prince." Two people could read it and get completely different meaning from the novel. Read it when you are ten, then again at 30. Your story is different and so the book itself means something different to you.

I believe that art is a component of several things--intent, creation, conveyance, and the evoking of thought, action, or emotion.

In that sense, life becomes pretty complicated, because by that definition, life is art. I guess that's why art imitates life and perhaps it's no imitation.

So maybe art is more like a mirror and the artist's intent gets lost in the whole process..unless it is clearly, clearly expressed. So how do we become a mirror to the world? My best solution is to tell stories. Aesop told fables, Jesus told parables and, perhaps I'm the least of the lowly, but I will tell stories. Stories spin a tale with a face that we can relate to on a more personal level, as humans.

So maybe when I'm elbow-deep in snot, watching "The Notebook," it is really a story of hope..hope that maybe one day I'll be loved in a lifelong sense..in a pee-my-pants-perfect kind of way...but maybe it won't be perfect and maybe it will be messy, but nothing will ever happen if I don't do anything.

Nothing happens in a stagnant pool, but if we can learn to ebb and flow and reflect the world in our waters and likewise, learn from the stories that WE tell and from those told before, maybe we can be hopeful and spread stories of hope. Maybe one day the world will see that it's all about our individual stories and how we understand and connect with each other. Because we are all in this together.

If you don't believe me, just listen to NPR. Every great news story has a face. Every great comedian adds a personal story to their act. Every cook has a personal touch to their recipe.

So when we live through this romantic comedy that we call life, what do we leave behind? It's our carbon footprint and our story...and hope.

Life is Knowing Your Ass From Your Apron Strings

The day you wake up and realize what really matters is an unusual day and a day of celebration. I speak as a changed woman; a woman who has not withstood the terrors of war or pestilence or anything so violent, but a woman who has stared her own worst fears in the face.

Fear is a curious thing, really, and nothing is ideally operable under it's circumstance. Fear is not a motivator, but a reactive agent. It is a blazing, fiery red flag. To face fear is to stare at it's flag, watch it as it marches into your life and look at it not as the enemy, but as an indicator of something else. Fear is internal. What makes us fearful? Is it ever rational and what is a healthy response to fear?

I'm not an expert and I'm not sure but I think that fear is never a rational thing because in a state of fear, no one can be rational. No one can be fearful and live a purposeful life.

So what are my fears? I guess it's time to come clean. My fears were many and my myriad of trepidation was completely ridiculous. Let's start with the most silly.

I was afraid of blowing up to ridiculous proportions and that no one would want to look at me, be my friend, or ever love me. So why did I feel that way? I have struggled with my weight my entire life. The fact of the matter; as a matter of fact, is that people love me and could care less what I look like, or if I had my own zip code.

I was the one who could not stand to look at myself. I was the one who hated myself and put myself..my own body..through years of torture and starvation to try to fade away..to shrink within myself. Years of diets, different flavors of the same denial of self, left me empty, hollow and weak. I've tried everything from popping pills, laxatives, starvation, regurgitation, and drowning it out with alcohol (which by the way, makes you hungry.) So what was I really thirsty for?

As I nearly faded away into myself..into a life less extraordinary..I was full of doubt. I never thought I could be anything remarkable and, moreover, I compensated for what I lacked with an exaggerated fascade of self. I was a woman hiding behind a mask of fake self-assurance.

I was an actor. I felt like a fraud.

To be quite honest, I'm not much of a bartender. I am also the worst waitress in the world. I am a complete idiot most of the time. I am clumsy and trip over my own feet. I have created new levels of dumbassery, really.

But why? How the hell did I manage to make it through college, facing even the mathematical nuances of calculus, and graduate with honors. I'm an idiot savant. I'm the rain man of Murray, KY.

That's enough for now. I have to go to work now and try to know my ass from my apron strings:-) Color me a little more perceptive.