Saturday, November 17, 2012

Meet My Editor

Thanks to my writing mentor and teacher - GiGi New, I am back to writing a lot and near completion of a project I've been thinking about for a few years.
It's wonderful to be writing plays again, in the manner that I do it. Which I'm not sharing, otherwise medication will appear on the doorstep.

I am moving into my editing phase on a fourth draft, which is like knowing you are going to have a root canal and yet looking forward to it because of the drugs.

Editing is all about trust.

Which is my bridge to the point of this blog; my latest discovery that I need a personal in real life editor.
I've never been one for stumbling over what I want to say. My words are generally carefully thought out. I consider the other persons ears. I think before I speak. Unless anger is involved then it's out with the cockney wrestler that spits the bitterness, loudly.
Previously I was so busy with work and life that I rarely had the time to not get things wrong. My eyes were focused to my desk with my feelings beating from a drawer.

So, it's a shock to me that I am now saying; "what on earth did I say that for?" Or worse, "what on earth did I text/email that for?" This is where I add the ??????? and the !!!!!!!!!!
Don't you dislike that agony? It seems a good idea at the time, until you hit send, and a chewing teenage gremlin appears screeching; "you did not just do that!"

In addition, my emotions are gerbils in a wheel, at the water, at the sawdust, at the wheel again, look at me, don't even find me! Wheel, sleeping, water, climbing a wall, climbing the wheel, needing water, sleeping, sawdust, water. You get the point. Busy feelings create a muddied mind.

Now I find myself saying; "what on earth did you feel that for!" Or "what on earth are you feeling now and where did that come from?" It's like you try something new to eat, and then wonder if you really do have food poisoning or if you are convincing yourself that you do.

I publicly declare, that I'm driving myself mad in thinking too much. I must find my personal in real life editor. If only I can trust that they like me! As I said it's all about trust.
I said that before, there's no need to repeat.                  Should I really hit publish? Shut up.


                                                                Max The Editor

Thursday, November 15, 2012

How to Heal

It's ten am in Massachusetts and I am incredibly fortunate to have time to recognize that I am smiling.

Wrapped in a blanket, still in pajamas I am drinking a good cup of tea and Frasier is playing on the television. The pain in my shoulder is fast asleep, there is no headache, there are no tears.
I remain bereaved and concerned, no to be honest scared about my future. I need to look for work, a new home and to focus on a dream. It all takes tremendous courage and energy to continue and yet right now I am loving just smiling.

Taking a blind stab at it, I am guessing this is how to heal.
To notice everything and then forget everything.
To stop and breathe.
To let go.
To let go of heart, mind and spirit.
To then embrace them all again, welcoming them and saying all will be OK.

I am ignoring the inner voice, who says bitterly, that's easy for you to say.
Because actually it can't be easy - as this is the first time I have had this recognition for years.
Even if the feelings have been here, I have not considered myself enough to notice.
It's wonderful to care enough to notice and pay tribute.

It's ten am, do you know where your heart, mind and spirit are?





Monday, November 12, 2012

Veterans Day 2012

It is Veterans Day today in the USA. Armistice Day coincided with Remembrance Sunday in the UK yesterday.
I shamefully admit this is the only time I have truly considered the day.

Obviously I know about war. I was at school in London when The Falklands war begun and it was a real threat that older school friends may be enlisted.
My parents were children when they were evacuated in the Second World War. My Mum went to Somerset and she remembers the gas mask in its box held over her shoulder and the fact that her older sister demanded that they stay together. My Dad was sent to Northampton where he promptly returned home on the train by himself. In London, he was forced into a shelter after the house disintegrated underneath a bomb.

This morning I think about the families who visit stones instead of faces and hugs.
I think of those who continue; with their right side focused on regularity while the left side is numb with an ache for loved ones serving overseas. I wonder about the men and women with their dusty boots, their finger on a trigger and a family photograph in their pocket.
These are spouses. Siblings. Friends. Relatives. These are parents. These are children.
I simply cannot imagine.

My own bereavement at least has a story I witnessed. The control that I lost haunts me, so not to have had any control nor great reason for a death is something I can only use as a personal tool to be strong in order to send out healing messages for others.

I send out my desire for peace, collectively and individually. That sounds grand from just one woman sitting in her pajamas with a cup of English tea on a sunny morning in Massachusetts. Would the same message of peace mean more coming from a monk sitting in robes on a misty morning from a Mountain in the Himalayas?
It all counts doesn't it.
I hope so.