Posts Tagged ‘voice in my head’

I Can Do This

October 20, 2013

I can totally do this.

“You can do this,” the small, still voice in my head said.

Not the crazy chorus of naysayers that usually live up there, and suddenly I saw where and when and how.

Last night after I finished my blog I watched a badly pirated version of Project Runway, hey we all have our foibles shut up, and then regarded the message a friend of mine had sent me about November Novel Writing month.

Or whatever the acronym is.

Basically it is a call to arms, or words, if you would, to write a novel in one month.

It’s totally doable.

I have done it before.

I can do it again.

I will be doing it again.

As it turns out,  I signed up for the thing.

The last time I took a writing challenge it was to do a post-a-day blog back nearly four years ago.

And look at me now.

Blogging away, even at two a.m.

Soul Coughing cheerily singing away about the Chrysler Building, and a hot cup of Bengal Spice tea by my side.  I lit up some candles, ambience you know, and slipped into my yoga pants.

After taking a few amusing photographs of my larger than life hair.

The foggy ride home did a number on it, it is gigantic.

I mean really.

The last time I had hair this big was when I was in Paris and I went and saw LOUISAAAA performing at a club.

I was out until the wee small alcohol soaked hours of the literally underground music scene–the club was a gigantic cavernous underground space–and my hair was smashed with cigarette smoke, sweat, and the vodka fumed breath of thousands of early twenty something grinding away in a night club.

I walked home that night through the chilly mist and felt like my hair was expanding off my head and it certainly was.

I took photographs of myself in the kitchen of the apartment and posted them up.

Partially because I felt sexy for being in Paris and being up at five a.m. at an underground night club, and well, my hair looked freaking amaze balls.

It did not smell good, but that’s the magic of photographs, they’re not scratch and sniff.

I have Paris a lot on my mind.

Harking back to this time last year as the last few days were winding down to my inevitable leaving, because I was given a book tonight “Time Was Soft There” a memoir of a man who lived above the infamous Shakespeare & Company on the Left Bank of Paris, and because of the aforementioned novel-writing month thingy.

First, let me say that I have no plans on writing a memoir of my time in Paris.

Second, let me say that I will be using every single experience, taste, touch, smell, notebook and blog post that I wrote to help me write this novel.

I wrote the synopsis on the website last night after I registered to do it.

I have had this idea kicking around for a while and thought I would be writing a short story but, no.

I am writing a novel.

I am further writing a science fiction novel.

Despite the last science fiction novel I read was when….

No clue.

I don’t really read sci-fi or fantasy.

Although I do love a good bodice ripper sci-fi read once in a while.

And some of my favorite writers, especially short story, were science fiction writers.

H.G. Wells.

Phillip K. Dick.

Frank Herbert.

Ray Bradbury.

I feel the general style of the writing will be something akin to Dick or Bradbury.

I do not put myself at their level, nor will I ever label myself as such, I am however, going to explore writing this genre.

My setting will be Paris.

The Paris of a post-apocalyptic world and the Paris of the near recent past.

Like, oh, beginning a little over six months ago.

I have the opening line.

“The monkey is off my back, but the circus is still in town.”

I have a thematic “man against the world”.

And there will be a love story, the near recent Parisian past will frame the love story.

Despite my not having a romantic liaison there, many, so many romantic things happened to me, not excluding receiving a package with mixed cds in it from a lover back in the states.

The night I got it was raining and I was disconsolate and the rain sluiced down in the courtyard and I was cold and lonely and it was raining in Paris and then I open the package, see the book, cry to find a few Euro tucked in the book, and then the cds.

I made it a quarter through one of the songs and started to leak tears.

Two songs in, maybe, it could have actually been the first one, I was sobbing.

Gut wrenching sobs.

Heart breaking open sobs.

And did I regret things?

No.

I actually wanted to feel some regret, but I knew that the feeling was bogus.

The choice to move to Paris, abandoning so many things, so many loved ones, lovers, and familiar places and faces to embark on a new journey into the unknown, carrying its own kind of romantic peril was totally the right decision.

It was.

My heart got peeled down to cordon and tendon.

I was not just wearing a heart on my sleeve, it was bleeding all over and it was a mass of sinew and song.

I won’t ever forget that night, it was ghastly romantic and it was all in my head.

It usually is.

The stories.

The story was already there.

It was just waiting to be lived.

The places I walked, the people I met, the kindness and sometimes unkindness of strangers, the Trocadero Bridge, seeing people come into visit that I had not really known very well and watch them become my friend and compatriot and supporter over night, all the museums and smells, the chocolate and boulangeries.

Oh.

My.

I have some material.

“Carmen, most writers would kill to have had the experiences you have had,” Alan Kaufman said to me once from his perch in the corner of his room up in the Tender Nob.

And that was seven years ago.

I have had a few more experiences to add to that.

I have a wealth of material to exploit and exploit I am.

“Write a book in a month?  Seriously?”  A friend who I poked to join the challenge e-mailed me back.

I could hear the incredulity in his voice.

Yup.

I did it when I took Kaufman’s class, and I do it every day, here, in this blog.

You think this isn’t some kind of book, The Book of Carmen (versus the Book of Dave, which I will also not compare myself, ever to Will Self, that is just retarded to think that), then you would be wrong.

This is a living memoir.

I am my own version of Anais Nin.

Sexy in my own way, courageous in my failings, leaping again, and again, into the arms of the unknown, fraught and full of angst, but also laughing like a fucking idiot when I do.

Because it is a kind of crazy love, this romance with the written.

I realized today when I was writing my morning pages that I did actually have time, Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesdays between work and early evening commitments to sit down in a cafe, maybe Tart to Tart or the Beanery at 7th and Irving, and write a 1,000 words or more, and Thursdays.

Well, shit, Thursday is easy, I will write during my charges THREE  HOUR nap.

Friday I have currently booked as a half day, so I can get that kicked out then.

Saturday and Sunday, when I am not surfing, heh, I will also write.

I won’t tell you the rest of the story, but it’s there.

I have it.

I don’t know how it ends.

But I know how it starts.

And I know that I can do it.

Oh, yes I can.

January Spending Plan

January 11, 2012

Hello-host fam’s internet is back!  Here’s yesterday’s blog, today’s will be coming…

forthwith…

Back to the basics.

I just finished doing my spending plan for January 2012, oh, only a few days, 9, later than I should.  Could, would, should, drop those words from my vocabulary, John Ater always cautions.  And he’s right.  I just know that for my own piece of mind it is not the best idea to not doing my spending plan.  And doing it over a week into the month is not behavior I want to repeat.

I was lax this month partially because I did not want to see what I spent in December–oh land of Christmas presents and extra spending–and partially because I was uncertain where I was going to live and what my rent costs would be.  And yes, I spent more over December than I wanted to, but I did not go into debt to do so.  I just did not stick as much into my savings account as I wanted to.  And I admit it, I splurged a little on myself.  I got the pretty dress and shoes and I bought myself a ticket to the Nutcracker Ballet.  I am alright with this.

However, it is time to get back to the straight and narrow.

Well, that sounds harsh, it’s just time for me to make sure I am being accountable.  Which I am being accountable right now, to myself and my post a day goal.  Because even though I do not have internet tonight, the host family is experiencing difficulties, I am still doing the writing.  That is not to say that the little voice in my head said, hey, kick back, take it easy, lay low, watch a movie.  You don’t need to write.

Oh yes I do.  Even when there is no one to read it.  Even when there is no instant gratification, I need to write.  Every day.  No excuses.

As for the money stuff, that’s taken care of.  I have paid off my bills for the month, I have been putting money into my savings account, and I have the money for rent and deposit on my new place set aside and ready for move in costs.

January will be a chill spending month.  I have no bills left.  My only expenses being groceries and laundry.  The cats have been provided for and that’s it.  I’m not giving myself a big clothing allowance, in fact, after this past weekend, I actually have no clothing needs and since I splurged last month, I will be keeping it on the down low this month.  I picked up socks, bras, and panties at Nordie’s Off The Rack this past Saturday and that’s all she wrote.  I don’t need anything else.  Despite the wheedling voice in my head that says different.  Fact is, I actually don’t want to buy anything unnecessary this month.

It is going to be one hell of an exercise to co-ordinate getting all my stuff from where it is spread all over the city.  I have me and my luggage and the basic living stuff here with me at Calvin and Diane’s.  Then my bed and desk at Shannon and Alex’s place.  And last, but certainly not least, I have stuff in storage at Robyn’s place.  I am so looking forward to having my own space again.  To having a bed that is mine again with my own bedding and my kitties and my two night stands and two lamps and yes, that’s right, I kept those fuckers.

I am still on the Calling in the One kick.  I still practice the suggestions in the book.  And I actually feel like I’m getting closer.  Fact, I quit a job I did not like.  Fact, I am now working a job I like (I like my job!  What a novel concept.  I am still on occasion overwhelmed, but I am getting into it.  I helped design and put together another bike sale today–really pretty bike, sea-foam green with one white tire and one gold tire, white seat, white grips, gold chain–pretty sassy).  Fact, I am moving back to my favorite neighborhood in San Francisco.  Fact, I will be back in the heart of my favorite fellowship.  Fact, I have writing goals.  What does all this add up to?

Happy Carmen.

And a happy Carmen is going to attract a happy man.

At least that’s the theory.  And if it doesn’t, who cares?  Because, I’m happy.  I am happy.  Which does not mean what I used to think it meant.  I used to be under the impression that happy equaled excitement.  This is no longer true for me.  Happy equals content.  Happy equals serene.  Happy equals useful.  How am I being useful today?  What am I accomplishing to help another?  These are the questions I get to ask myself that lead me to happiness.

Today I am happy.

Just by getting back to the basics.  Simplicity.  Ease of life style.  I don’t need a whole lot.  A room.  A bicycle.  A pair of comfy jeans.  The sun on my face.  My own bed to sleep in.  My cats to curl up in my lap.  Friends to share my experiences with.  Love.  I have all these things.

Basically I have joy.


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