A Writer's Card File

I realize I've been out of the loop lately. I apologize. I had a couple of personal issues I had to attend to and it kept me away from my writing. But, until I get caught up on all of other things I need to attend to, I thought you might like this little piece I wrote and posted on ladypens.com and on ezinearticles.com. You may reprint this piece with my permission, but please make sure to give me credit. In fact, you can get the html code for this article from those websites if you wish to post it on a blog or online newsletter.

http://www.ladypens.com/Article/Becoming-a-Better-Writer---A-Gentle-Approach/7333

http://ezinearticles.com/?Becoming-A-Better-Writer:--A-Gentle-Approach&id=453375

Happy Writing!


Becoming a Better Writer: A Gentle Approach

Writing is a joy for me, but that wasn’t always the case. I used to suffer from debilitating writer’s anxiety. With the help of wise teachers (both live and in print), I was able to overcome (most) of my writer’s anxiety. I am forever grateful for their gentle wisdom. What follows are a few of the tools and attitudes that helped me to reshape my outlook on writing, so that I could develop into the writer I’ve always wanted to be.

Writer, Know Thyself

Who are you? As a writer, I mean. What do you like most about writing? What do you like least? What is your favorite genre? Why? What are your favorite memories about writing? What are your least favorite? Are you a procrastinator where writing is concerned? Why? Do you prefer to write by hand? Or, do you prefer to write using a keyboard? Do you journal? If not, why not? Who was your favorite writing teacher, live or in print? What did he or she do that made you respond the way you have? Do you prefer to write in the quiet, with no errant sounds distracting you or breaking your concentration? What are your favorite places to write? Have you tried writing in a coffee house or coffee shop? What about writing in a park (charge your laptop’s battery if you do), or in the public library? What about writing on your front porch, where a light breeze caresses the wind chimes into song?

Reflect on who you are as a writer. Allow the above questions to guide you. Discover your needs and allow those discoveries to guide your choices for developing a gentler writing practice.

Write by Hand

Write by hand. Everything. Outline, draft, and edit by hand. Writing by hand slows you down long enough to think, to mull over your ideas, and to give you time to decide whether things will work out. Writing by hand allows you to feel your pen or pencil scratch along the surface of what you’re writing on. There is an immediate sensual connection to your writing when you write by hand. Feel the pen in your hand. Is it hard? Or, does it have a soft rubberized barrel? How does your writing instrument feel? What does the paper feel like as your pen moves along its surface? Is your paper smooth, lined loose leaf? Or, is it recycled newspaper print? Allow yourself to take in these sensations. Feel them. Enjoy them and allow your words to flow.

Free Writing

When I was first introduced to free writing, I didn’t trust it. I was in college, a junior, and had years and years of traditional writing method under my belt. So, when my professor said to write without worrying about writing mechanics, punctuation, or grammar, I didn’t know what to think. By that time, I had received lots of feedback that focused less on the content of my writing and more on the mechanics that shaped and secured my essays to a particular style sheet. At the time, my professor didn’t tell me that free writing was an opportunity to write past the inner critic—that horrid internal voice that rattles off personal barbs meant to deflate self esteem—or that it was an opportunity to produce text. More than anything, free writing is really about free writing, writing that doesn’t cost a thing emotionally. There are no evaluations of free writing. No grades. No expectations, other than to write nonstop for 5-10 minutes. Usually free writing is directed by a writing prompt, a topic, that helps you face a direction, but by no means is it supposed to tell you how to walk down the path.

Free writing is an excellent way to warm up prior to a strenuous writing workout. It gets the juices flowing; it helps the brain and hand get into sync. Free writing is unencumbered, weightless, lightened by removed constraints. It is a good way to help you figure out what you think about things. Free writing is permission to be you without having to apologize for not yet knowing all of the dance steps.

Timed Writings

How long is 5 minutes? What can you do in 5 minutes time? Brush teeth. Sort mail. Microwave a frozen meal. Light a candle and say a prayer. There are so many things that can be done in 5 minutes. You can write in five minutes, get the beginnings of a story, poem, or essay down. You can fill up the front of a 3x5 index card—the backside, too. You can set your timer if you’re anxious about time. Set it for five minute and go! Don’t stop writing until the timer chimes.

Timed writings are a blessing. They truly are. If you have a hectic schedule, you can rest easy that, at minimum, only 5 minutes a day is all it takes to start writing your next project, or to get some writing practice in, or to jot down an image that you don’t want to forget. And, if you have more than 5 minutes, say 10, then you are even more blessed, because with 10 minutes, you can sink deeper into your writing. You can change your world. Set your timer, every day, portioning out your writing time. Once you set your timer, you are obligated for only those few minutes. Feel the urgency of the timer and let it compel you to write, write, write without worrying about punctuation or grammar. Just get those thoughts down on paper! Remember, there is time later on (at least 5 minutes) to revise them to your liking.

Early Bird Writing

I’ve found that if I don’t start my day with writing, I most likely won’t do any writing for the day. While not everyone is necessarily a morning writer, I encourage you to find that time of day when you feel it is the best time to haven yourself from the world and fall into your writing. Make it a habit. Write a little bit every day. Start with 5 minutes. Then, the very next day, write for 10 minutes. Then, the day after that, write for 15 minutes. Continue each day, adding 5 minutes more until you get to 30 minutes a day. Write for thirty minutes each day for a month. Then slowly increase your writing time by 5 minutes a day until you reach 60 minutes. Then, write everyday for 60 minutes. Every day for 60 minutes, forever.


Denise Menchaca holds a doctorate in speech communication with an emphasis in performance studies. She is a writer of creative nonfiction, family narratives, and essays on culture and society. She also coaches writing for both seasoned and novice writers. Her blog, “A Writer’s Card File,” features brief essays on ideas, tools, and notes that nurture the writing life. http://phatballet1.livejournal.com

Last night, my best friend from high school called me. He’s a writer and, thus, has an interest in “A Writer’s Card File.” He tells me, “Denise, when I read your blog, I get visions of deer, bunnies, and butterflies. It almost feels as if you’re writing to a high school audience.” Ouch! But, then again…

I quickly began to defend my tone for this blog. I gently argued that given all of my years of teaching writing and performance, I have noticed, particularly with young actors and writers, that people don’t think the feedback has merit unless it slices, dices, and bloodies the work, and, by extension, the artist. In my experience, this form of criticism, more often than not, shuts down the creative process. I’ve seen too many young artists steel themselves for critical onslaught. And, I ask, why does it have to be this way? Why must artists suffer the critical bullying and abuse of others?

Well, quite frankly, it was critical bullying that sent me straight into writing anxiousness for about 20 years. I kept writing throughout that time, but the process was painful. I quickly became a “bleeder,” agonizing every time I sat down to write. I felt I was facing a firing squad, and, I was; first, in my head, and, second, in the form of “constructive criticism.” Apparently, I was a sensitive child, and despite all of the positive, encouraging feedback I got for my writing, I chose to listen to the abusive comments instead. Now, as a seasoned writer and thinker, I reflect on those crucial experiences, unpack them, and appropriately hold accountable all of the players contributing to my writing anxiety, myself included. I’ve worked hard over the last ten years to make whole the self esteem necessary for making creative art.

The critical process is necessary for improving a creative work. I firmly believe this. By no means am I advocating that acceptable feedback is only that which coats the artist with praise. In essence, this sort of feedback is just as useless as the hypercritical kind. Therefore, an artist seeking feedback must be responsible for building relationships with other artists they trust. Once a creative piece goes public, has its coming out party, it is much harder to control the flow of criticism and the tone with which it is delivered. So, having feedback from trusted fellows is necessary to survive the opinions of those whose job it is to deign approval.

Judy Reeves provides excellent guidance in her book, A Writer’s Book of Days, for how to develop a community of artists whose feedback you trust. She explains that “A good read-and-critique group where you are a regular participant is best. Find one made up of writers at your same level of experience and just beyond, either a peer group or with an instructor with whom you are comfortable. If you can’t find listings for such groups via local publications or on the Internet, start your own.”

Many of my students were concerned about asking their peers for feedback because “everyone is so busy.” I told them to offer the same service, to set up a feedback cooperative, of sorts. This way, there is an exchange and no one feels taken advantage of or guilty for asking.

I also encourage writers to seek out a good writing coach. Most coaches charge a fee. But, in the long run, it’s like having a good counselor: priceless.

The tone for “A Writer’s Card File” is nurturing. I chose this rhetoric specifically for those who prefer a gentle approach. If you want blood and guts, you won’t find it here.

Today, I will practice giving useful feedback. I will be specific and concrete. But, first, I will ask what the artist wants from me. I will ask him or her to be clear about what specific feedback will be most helpful in further developing the work.

What about you? What sort of approach to feedback do you prefer and why? Please leave your comments.

Why is it that so many folks believe they have to get their writing perfect the first time around? Why do we put so much pressure on ourselves to get it right with just one shot? What's at stake if we don't? What hangs in the balance? Are we somehow inadequate as writers (or as human beings) if our first attempt at composing a written work fails? Exactly what does it fail at? Why are so many unwilling to give their work the time it needs?

I'm shocked by how many of my students consider revision to be a bother, a waste of time. They turn into tired children when I tell them that revision is one of the basic elements of good writing.

Regardless of how one views the writing process, I am here to proclaim that there is grace in revision. If it were not for revision, writers would, no doubt, have a constant case of the anxious-crazies. Rethink your writing process, what it means, and what it can accomplish. Now consider whether or not you allow yourself the grace of revision: the necessary time plus effort to develop, deepen, and polish your writing. No one gets it perfect the first time around. No one. Start sooner rather than later and remember that there is no harm done because you have to rework your ideas or words or images or metaphors. Writing is where we have an opportunity to "take back" what we say before we say it in an effort to make our communication clearer.

Today, I will revise a writing piece I'm working on. I'll allow myself to wince at all of the awkward phrases and mixed metaphors. Then I will breathe deeply, exhale, and get back to work, allowing myself the grace of revision. What about you? Happy writing!

It's essential to start with your absolute favorite paper, pen, pencil, or notebook for writing. I firmly believe that writing is a direct function of the senses. Without relying on your senses, writing tends to fall flat, never quite manifesting into the sort of interesting experience you hope to create for your readers. However, creating a sensual experience for your readers is only half of the equation: writers need to pay attention to their own senses during the process, even to the point of fashioning the writing process into a sensory event. To begin with, keep in mind that simple is best. Pick a sense and focus only on it. For example, touch. I love to write on newspaper print. When searching for writing supplies, I usually look for pads of recycled paper at art supply stores or hobby craft shops. Of course, nothing feels better in my hand than a medium ballpoint pen. When writing, there is nothing more sensual than to scrawl precious language across a broad sheet of newspaper print with such a pen. The flow is smooth and uninterrupted. Since newspaper print is a bit thicker than most papers, there is little friction between the pen and the hard surface of the table or the notebook. Nice. It is a luscious experience in simplicity.

Today, I will write about touch. I'll focus only on touch, isolating an experience and describing it with rich detail that evokes that sense for readers. And, of course, I will write using my favorite pen and paper. Happy writing!

"Texas"

1. The Alamo
2. River Walk--San Antonio
3. The Hill Country
4. The Astrodome
5. The Aggies
6. The Longhorns
7. The Texas Rangers
8. The Spurs
9. Amarillo
10. South Padre Island
11. The US/Mexico Border
12. The International Seashore
13. Summer's heat!
14. Drought
15. The pleasure of mild winters
16. Christmas in shorts
17. July in Christmas
18. Lackland Air Force Base
19. Kelly USA
20. Randolph Air Force Base
21. Tex-Mex!
22. NASA
23. "They eyes of Texas are upon you..."
24. "The Yellow Rose of Texas"
25. "All my ex's live in Texas..."
26. Pecans
27. Blue Bonnets
28. Salt Lick BBQ
29. Texas BBQ
30. The Mission Trail
31. Bastrop State Park
32. Perdenales Falls State Park
33. Lost Maples Preserve
34. Frio River
35. Red River
36. Guadalupe River
37. Comal River
38. Colorado River
39. Dallas
40. Houston
41. Austin
42. El Paso
43. Waco
44. San Antonio
45. Corpus Christi
46. Laredo
47. Brownsville
48. Fredericksburg
49. Seguin
50. San Marcos
51. New Braunfels
52. Gonzales
53. Lubbock
54. Amarillo
55. Ft. Worth
56. Southern Methodist University
57. Baylor University
58. North Texas State University
59. Texas Women's University
60. Texas Christian University
61. Texas A&M University
62. University of Houston
63. San Antonio College
64. St. Phillip's College
65. I-35
66. I-10
67. I-40
68. floods
69. Canyon Lake
70. Lake McQueeny
71. Lake Austin
72. Lake Placid
73. Round Rock
74. Georgetown
75. Pflugerville
76. hurricanes
77. tornadoes
78. blue skies
79. mesas
80. The Panhandle
81. "The Lone Star State"
82. Molly Ivans
83. Permian basin
84. Judson Rockets
85. cowboy boots
86. cowboys
87. country music
88. Kerrville Folk Music Festival
89. Texas Folklife Festival
90. Fiesta
91. Sea World
92. Kiddie Park (San Antonio)
93. Playland Park (San Antonio)
94. Schlitterbahn Water Park (New Braunfels)
95. wildflowers
96. Austin music scene
97. Ann Richards
98. Starke Park (Seguin)
99. Our Lady of Guadalupe Church (San Antonio)
100. The Texas Revolution
101. San Antonio Livestock Show and Rodeo

Today, I will choose a topic from this list and write about it. The "101 List" is one way to generate writing topics and ideas. When I'm stuck and don't know what to write about, I set my timer for 15 minutes, pick a broad subject area (narrow it down if I need to), and challenge myself to develop a list of 101 things/ideas/possibilities about that area. Works every time. Happy writing!

I've neglected my writing ritual lately. But, I have spent some time writing, in class, with my students. That act has helped me to get refocused again. I get knocked off kilter so easily. I wonder why that is. What is it that allows me to allow myself off the hook so easily? Is it laziness? Is it fear? Is it avoidance, hoping something else will come along, something less complex? Forcing my body to sit and write with pen to paper is an act of discipline and I've discovered over the years that I tend to have more discipline when I'm with others. There's an energy that a group of writers all writing at the same time exudes. I lap up that energy like a cat sipping milk. It is nourishing, comforting. I need others to be able to do my own writing. Stephen King describes in his memoir about the craft of writing, On Writing, that writing doesn't support life. Instead, life supports writing, or something to that effect. Living my life will ultimately support my writing life.

There is a tension in my life where writing is concerned. I love writing. I love coaching writing. I love the feel of my pen scratching across loose leaf sheets. I love it. But, I've never been good about a daily habit, a ritual practice. Yet, I know that when I do write, I have to have things in just the right way. I have to have a pen that feels good in my hand. I have to have paper that allows my pen to flow over it (recycled paper is really good for this). I have to have a cup of coffee or a glass of ice water with a squeeze of lemon (I love to watch the sweat run down the glass). Writing prompts are vital--they get me going in a direction so I don't have to think of one. A timer is also good since I won't have to watch the clock. If I don't have a timer, I anticipate my stopping point too much and I start to tighten up. Sometimes, I write a certain number of pages--I don't abandon the task until my page quota is filled. This can be frustrating--every letter is painful to script--and fabulous--deeply satisfied at completing my task. But, some days, I'm doing well if I scrawl a sentence or two on the page. Some days that's as far as I get.

For example, today. While I've written more than a sentence, I've been distracted most of the morning while I write this. My mind is elsewhere, but where? It doesn't seem to be here, present with my pen and paper. Instead, it has astral projected to another plane, an alternate existence. It's gone off to discover distant lands, new people. I hope it shares its experiences when it gets back! In the meanwhile, I'm here struggling to get through, to focus, to get something worthwhile onto the page. I'm faithful, though. I'm faithful to writing practice and its tennets. I keep my pen moving, refusing to give in to empty headedness, to vacuous luxury. Instead, I force my pen in an effort to capture something, anything, that suggests the space inside my head--deep space, a black hole, vortex--is nothing more than a well needing to be filled. All in all, it is ritual that brings me back to faith in the process. It is the trust in the actual doing that makes it sacred, holy, a commitment to the movement that, hopefully, will transform. This ritual of spilling words onto the page helps me to keep focused, to keep on target, to do what I am supposed to do for 15 minutes a day.

15 minutes. Is that all? 15 short minutes. 15 minutes is not very long. And, yet, it can be forever.

Today, I will write about time and what I do in the span of minutes, hours, days, weeks, or years. I will portion off my reflection to consider what I do incrementally. What do I manage to do in 1 minute? 10 minutes? 2 hours? 1 week? I will set my timer for 15 minutes and write about time. Happy writing!

In fall of 2006, I, along with three other lovely scholars, presented a keynote address for the 27th Annual Krost Symposium at Texas Lutheran University. The symposium's theme: A Journey of the Heart: Hate, Forgiveness, Tolerance, Hope. My presentation, "Opportunities for Recognition: A Story About Encounters with Hate and Healing in South Central Texas," focused on issues of machismo, marianismo, sexism, and domestic abuse. Given I was the only Latina presenting a keynote address, as well as they only woman, I found it imperative to speak to issues that continue to plague our culture with a definitive gender component. Texas has one of the highest teenage pregnancy rates for teenage girls aged 15-17 in the United States. It's a complicated issue and one that I believe is a type of domestic abuse: keeping young women ignorant of how their bodies work reproductively, and refusing to hold young men accountable for how their bodies work reproductively. This, in combination, encourages young boys to be "dogs," to be sexually promiscuous and irresponsible. In south Texas, additional layers are added to this sexism: racism and classism. Now, how do I talk to a mostly genteel, white, audience about cultural issues that no doubt stem from bigoted ideals? This was a dilemma, particularly since I wanted my audience to walk away thinking about the issues rather than shutting down and ignoring them.

While I was preparing my manuscript, I wrote about my struggles for determining who I really wanted to address in that audience. In addition to the demographics I mentioned above, also in that audience would be college women-- Hispanic, White, African-American. In the end, I realized I needed to reach out most to them.

Here is what I wrote when I answered the prompt "Who is your audience?"

For this piece, my audience is varied. I have students. I have faculty. I have alumni. I have staff. I have all sorts of people that will be in my audience. My problem is this: who do I write for? Do I write for all of them? Do I write for none of them? Do I write for some of them? Do I write for me? Do I ignore everyone in the room and only write for me? Indulge myself with language and ideas, paint spectacular picture backdrops for only me? Make it come alive for only me? What happens if I do this? Will I send a message that I don't care about others? Will I irritate them with my selfish disregard? Will I be at fault for sending the wrong message? Will they be angry? Will I be angry because they didn't get it? Will we all walk away frustrated and mad, feeling cheated or robbed? "I could have spent that time doing other things!" blah, blah, blah...

What's the big deal? Why do I need to know my audience? What do they--he, she, it--matter to me? What do they care about me?

Or, do I sell them too short? Do I cut them off too quickly, never giving them a chance to attempt to meet me half way? The writer works, the reader works. No one gets off easy here. No one gets to ignore the other as if he or she or it doesn't exist. Meaning is only possible when we are willing to stretch, to risk, to make sense and take the words, thoughts, and ideas into our own system and figure out how it can become a part of us. It is an opportunity for recognition, all of the things that are possible and all of the things that are probable. It is a moment to recognize ourselves, to see ourselves as givers and takers, as plausible members of a community.

So, how do we actively engage that community, a community of scholars, of students, of lifelong learners? How do we engage? Do we sit idle, passive and unyielding? Or, do we sit passive and yielding? Do we give up our critical cognition for a few lovely words, barely missing, or completely missing, the ideas? How do we engage? How do we recognize our opportunities? Do we idle past our opportunities for recognition? Ignore them, telling ourselves that it has nothing to do with me? But, guess what? It has everything to do with you. And, it has everything to do with me. So, where do we go from here? What is our next move? How do we take our next step?

When I get to places such as this, I usually turn to an old companion that has always helped me to reason forth my next action. I turn to narrative. I tell a story. What is the story of love and hate in south central Texas? But, I remind myself that there I many stories of love and hate in south central Texas. Because I only have an hour to present, and because there is no possible way to tell every story, I will only tell two that day. Two stories that matter to me. My hope is that they will matter to you, too.

These stories are about people you don't know, but who lived in south central Texas, not too far from here. Both stories are about women and their burdens with various social stigmas. These women occupy the margins of our mainstream reality, of our diverse community. And, because of this, their stories come to us as whispers, as quite hope that begs us to take the opportunity to consider how we are all effected by the hate and the love that is alive and well, pulsing with hot breath in south central Texas. Sit back, listen, think, and wonder: what is the hope? And, even ask yourself, what is hope? Then ask yourself: What does it mean for these women and what does it mean for you?

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Only a piece of one of the stories:

He was a beautiful man, wealthy (now), handsome, in a dapper, well-dressed sort of way. He came to town not always knowing what he wanted. He devoted his time and energy to making his mark in the world. He worked and worked and one day his labor paid off. He finally owned a business, a small business, but a business with potential to grow into something robust.

She was a lovely young woman, skin the color of coffee with just the right amount of cream--cafe con leche. Skin soft, but hands firm, made strong from all of the dresses she cut hour after hour, day after day. Beautiful dresses. Dresses of fine cottons and silk taffeta. Little girls' dresses, crisp with lace and shiny with pearls. The dresses that only well-to-do children could ever afford to wear.

She worked hard, labored, but in a man's world, she would also only work for "the man." Because, in the 1920s, women only worked for men if they were poor and undereducated. Working for a man wasn't so bad, even if it meant being chased around the cutting tables, suffering his ill placed hands on her firm rear end. If she ignored that and only focused on what mattered: work, hard work, then a check at the end of the week; paying the bills; caring for her children; then, for a little while, it didn't seem so bad.

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Today, I will write about rhetoric and words and why they matter. Why do some words work for some people and not for others? What is it about words that compels some to action, while others remain stone-cold, stuck, and unmoving? Words. Audience. What's the connection? Happy Writing!

I can't function without its seduction slinking though the air. There is something about its full, rich aroma that fills my head and makes me smile with the crookedness of an addict. I stumble through the kitchen, put on the kettle. I then fumble to the freezer and pull out the cool bag of joyous scent. The bag is folded closed at the top, over three times, and held in place by the wire close-ties attached to the bag. I release the ties and slowly unfold the top and the smell that I crave every morning presses it's way into the kitchen with delight.

The beans are already ground. I used to grind my own until the grinder went on the fritz. I've been too busy or too lazy or too cheap to go out and get another one. Then I remember that I have friends who did away with fresh grinding their coffee, preferring, instead, to save the time, making them that much closer to sipping their morning brew. I realize through my morning fog that this is also, most likely, the reason I did it too. So, I'm lazy, cheap, busy, and a junkie in need of my fix as soon as is humanly possible.

The water kettle whistles, and I realize that I've been standing at the counter breathing in the essence of all that is right and good with the world this entire time.

I rinse out the French press, the previous day's grounds compacted at the bottom, and ready the vessel for fresh, hot wonder. The grounds, heavy and wet, wash down the drain in a swirl and disappear to who knows where, on ward toward a journey through the underground. I heap mounds of deep, rich brown gold into the carafe and pour the boiling water over it. The plunger goes on top, waiting patiently before I get to make the satisfying press.

I grab a cup from the cabinet. My husband has neatly, but precariously, stacked the mugs in a delicate balance. He often indirectly comments about my habit, "Could we store some of them away?" I wince when he asks since he's requested this more than once, and I tell him I'll pack away the ugly ones soon, but I've yet to do so. He's patient with me, no doubt since he has his vices, too.

While the coffee steeps, I ready the necessary sugar--brown turbinado--and the creamer--organic half and half--in anticipation of the first sip, that glorious moment when my tongue prickles from the heat, and my throat cries out, "Please, stop the torture!" But, my mind is satisfied despite the pain.

It's been five minutes already, more than five minutes, and the time has come to plunge to my joyful death.

I start most mornings this way. If not, the haze of morning hangs thick for half the day. I often have only one cup of coffee at home--it tastes so good, it's rich and thick; the French press never allows bitterness to develop. But, when I'm out for breakfast with friends, our shared conversation and lively talk forces my attention away from the carmel brown liquid and I drink indiscriminantely until my nerves do the jitter bug. However, the best coffee is the sort that's shared with friends--coffee house coffee, a fresh pot divided over several cups sitting on a coffee table. The coffee is a jumping off point for the social to engage and to emerge in full presence. There is nothing so important to intellectual stimulation as a place to sit down, sip some java, and fire up conversation. A coffee house, or coffee shop, is the cornerstone of the meeting house for cultural and intellectual stimulation. I once suggested that meeting at the local coffee house wasn't always about the coffee and my friend jerked up and screeched, "Well, of course it is!" Yes, certainly, coffee houses are about the coffee, but they're also about the vibe--the vibe of curiosity, creativity, and laughter. In a sense, it is about the click-click of the student's lap top computer; the shuffle of newsprint; the sound of the latest, cool tunes; and, of course, the smell of coffee beans freshly ground, a sacred moment when your nose alerts you to how alive you really are.

I love coffee houses for the sounds, too--the steaming that froths milk--the grinding of roasted beans, the dark beauty of Colombian roast--rich and full bodied--whirling with pleasure; it's almost sexual (and, most definately, it's sensual).

I now live in a town in south central Texas that only has one coffee house. Chirojava is opened everyday except for Sunday. It closes most days at 5:30 PM except for Thursday when it stays open until 10:00 PM. This local coffee house has all the potential of the coffee houses of the Midwest--the ones I truly love in those college towns I lived in for 13 years. But, this coffee house is unique. It's a hybrid--a chiropractic office is housed smack-dab in the middle. No joke. When I first came across this shop, I thought the "chiro" in Chirojava was some sort of new exotic blend of coffee I had never heard of. I grew excited by the possibility of a new thing to try in this rather dusty town. When I walked in for the first time, I was confused, "Chiro wha? Practor?" The realization moved over me slowly, disappointment replaced excitement. At least they're thinking outside the box.

Today, I will write about things I've convinced myself I need in order to function. What are those things? Are they harmless? Harmful? Why do I need them? What would life be like without them? Happy Writing!

She made beautiful dresses, but she was known, in particular, for her wedding gowns. Young, giggling brides-to-be would come from miles away just to have Catalina make their nuptial clothing. The garments were floating concoctions of sugar and cream, whipped light with air and spun shiny with sweetness into silk satin and lace. The girls would often greet Catalina with shy excitement. Later, they left her home with the plumpness of dreams fulfilled. The young women were pius, pure, virgins to life and what it had to offer. Their naivete painful to witness from Catalina's knowing point of view. They never once stopped to think about Catalina and what life meant for her, other than to name her their "very favorite dressmaker in the whole world!" None wondered about her beautiful daughters, Velia and Emma. None wondered why they never saw "the man of the house." They assumed he'd died in the war, of course. How tragic! Poor Catalina. They didn't stop to speculate about Catalina's life, to give her the time of day outside their needs for her services. She was a ghost to them: hollow, thin,invisible; a specter with skill.

Catalina sat for hours during the day behind her sewing machine thinking about a different sort of life. But, these thoughts were a luxury, too precious to consider for longer than a few moments. Because of this, she trained her thoughts to focus on the practicalities of life. Yet, her art for dressmaking always managed to betray this tacit dictum.

Catalina was a simple woman, or so it seemed. Since very few offered to dive into her depths, very few ever really new her complexity. A shame really. The haunting goes on.

Despite her complexity, Catalina sorted her life into predictable routine and ritual. Every morning she rose before the sun, perked coffee on the stove, rolled the day's tortillas, and prepared breakfast for her two daughters. After she readied them for school and sent them on their way, she sat at her sewing machine and stitched until the girls returned later than afternoon. After she fed them their dinner, bathed them, and tucked them into bed, she sat back at her sewing machine and stitched late into the night. After several hours of crafting garments, the night owl's greeting finally invited her to sleep.

Today, I will write about the unsung heroes of my family. For some, there are many. For others, the choice is limited and, thus, obvious. Select one and write about his or her bravery and dignity. What makes this person sublime? Happy writing!

When I graduated with my Bachelor's degree in Education over 10 years ago, I knew that I would go straight into graduate school because teaching in middle or secondary education wasn't for me. Schools mandated strict classroom management policies that seemed to be the purpose for these institutions rather than the growth and development of students. Of course, I believe we all need a little discipline and we all definitely need boundaries, but some folks lost sight of the forrest for the trees. It was disheartening, and I believe the stronger push for classroom management mandates are the result of our culture growing more and more fearful and out of touch with its youth.
Keeping this in mind, I walked into my first substitute teaching assignment fully convinced that middle schoolers are some of the most creative kids around. They're in the middle alright! They are the embodiment of the liminal. In the middle of elementary and high school. In the middle of childhood and adulthood. In the middle of emotional and hormonal transitions. Yes, they're stuck right in the middle.

I ignored others voiced concerns of my choosing a middle school to sub at. I stood strong by my convictions: middle school kids are definitely complex, and we should celebrate that complexity--along with its temporariness--not condemn it. After all, early adolescence is part of the journey. No way to circumvent it.

It comes as no surprise, then, that these middle kids handled the disruption of their routine by a stranger filling in for their familiar teacher with the grace and generosity of shoppers at Black Friday Christmas sales. They were ecstatic, concerned, worried, crazed, aggressive, defensive, relieved, and made cocky by the opportunity to break free of the norm. Every now and then worry crossed their middle minds over what this alien person might be capable of: Is she friend or foe? Oppressor or oppressed? No doubt I was never one of them, nor part of their world. My height alone must have convinced them of that. (I swear the tiniest among them could have been no taller than a pop can!)

After the day was done, I sent one kid to the office with a referral to the vice-principal and had a rather short list of names with first warnings. Could the list have been longer? Sure. But what purpose would it serve in the long run? None that I could see.

So I walked away from that experience thinking lots about what it means to be in the middle, or to be the middle. In their case, they aren't blended or average, they are more like bas-relief, shallow sculptures that mimic paintings, neither one nor the other, but both at the same time.

So, today I will write about the middle. What is the middle? Is it stuck? Pleasant or desirable? Describe a time when being in the middle mattered, or when it didn't. Happy writing!

Okay...so this is my first time blogging or live journaling or whatever it's actually called. I've primarily set up this account to muse about writing process and to offer myself and others opportunities to develop a daily writing practice. I really believe what writer Judy Reeves proposes in her book, A Writer's Book of Days: That writing practice is essentially an opportunity to get better at the craft of writing. It's practice. And practice means making mistakes, allowing grace for those mistakes, and picking up your pen or pencil and moving on. In my view, it's a more sane approach than bullying yourself for being human. What a concept. I know several of my former English professors and teachers are somersaulting in their graves. Well, a little exercise never hurt anyone! As for me, I'm off to practice writing. Care to join me? I think I'll write about sommersaults today. What about you? Happy Writing!