Leaping Through Fear

Not ten minutes ago I e-mailed my submission to literary master John Rechy and my new writing group.

John Rechy is an amazing writer, and an equally talented teacher and critic. I have taken his course before. A fellow journalist who also harbored secret fictional fantasies turned me onto him. Go, he told me. He is amazing. And he will love you.

Well, he turned out to be one of the most gifted editors I have ever come across. And all I did was work with editors. He held his literary workshops in a small apartment. First he would greet you politely at the door, as if you were a Queen, or celebrity from a long ago, more civil time. Then he would lead you, in my memory it is by the elbow, to the back room, where he showed a shelf of his own books, and a shelf of books written by students in his seminar.

Then the seminar began.

You have to write to get in, but he waived the admission requirement for me because I was a professional journalist. This is good, an honor, but also intimidating. Would I have gotten in if I had submitted my fiction? I don't think at that moment I had even written anything. It created doubt in me.

It took me weeks to submit. I watched as he critiqued the writing, and taught us gentle lessons about ourselves, about observation, about writing. At times he could be cutting, and flashed a wit that was wonderful to witness, but left you praying he would not turn his keen powers of observation on you. But of course he saw all. That is what he does!

The night I submitted, I went last. I was so anxious I felt weak. I remember my face was bright red and I wondered if I was going to faint. It was shocking even to me. I mean I wrote every day. But I was always hiding behind the conventions of journalism, which dictates that you never show yourself. This was like being stripped naked before strangers.

He looked at my red face, and said, "Darling, are you alright? Look at her, class, she is so red..." Oh, I know he was much funnier, his adjectives more precise. Listening to him is like eating the richest of desserts for someone who loves words. He fishes out delightful words that are all but dead and flings them around so they sparkle. If only everyone talked like that all the time, with such precision, with such joy, using all the words we have, rather than sticking to the 500 we lead our lives wit!

When I fell in love with Jonathan I made him come to a John Rechy seminar. I felt like I could not marry him--even if I loved him--unless he saw, and appreciated--how great John Rechy is.

Years have passed, and now, due to the gentle persuasion of a woman I adore, I am in again.

This afternoon the call came for submissions. The typical Hilary said, Oh, wait a few weeks. See what people submit. Make sure you are OK. Just wait. But then I thought, NO! This is the point! I have to jump in! If I want to write, I have to leap in, be fearless. I have something written. No, it is not great. It is a rewrite of a novel written in month, itself written in a month -- which I guess makes it doubly shitty.

But I have to own what I am. I am a person who loves to write, who loves stories, who uses many cliches, but also can touch on the universal. It is no literary masterpiece, and yet something is making me keep going on this. I am here to write, to learn.

I had thought that with more years, my fears would abate. But I know I will feel just as faint when he clears his throat to begin his critique. And I felt weak just pushing the send button, sending my submission out to 10 people I do not know.

But I did it!!!!!!! I am not hanging back. I am leaping in, with whatever I have, and facing my writing head on. Procrastinating won't make it any better. It will just allow me to harbor secret delusions of grandeur for a few more weeks, until I am faced with reality.

So here goes! Into 2010 and the rest of my life!

Shifts

OK, notice to readers whose stomachs turn at the sight of vague, New Agey concepts. STOP READING HERE! DO NOT PROCEED!!!!!

All others, carry on.

I am writing this here half to remind myself, and half to share what I have learned.

I am cursed with high expectations of myself. Sure, I know this can lead to greatness. It can also lead to misery. Especially if the expectations are too high, too fast, or just unreachable. So in 2009 I tried to be like Obama. I tried to move forward on all fronts, in tiny steps. I tried not to judge myself daily on what I had NOT done, but rather to think what tiny thing I could do to move forward. No judgement. Only action. If I did not move forward I was not allowed to judge. The action did not have to be big. It could be infinitesimal. So tiny that no one but me knew. Imperceptible. Maybe writing the first line of a cover letter in my head. But it had to happen.

So I did that.

I would say from September on. Training for Alcatraz helped a lot, because there is nothing like training for an event to get you in that mindset. You do not have to be fast, do the best time ever, feel good when you wake up, but if you do not put in the time in the pool or the ocean you will not be strong enough to do the thing. And you will drown. Or be humiliated. So you just have to do it. Again, no judgement. For awhile there will be no effect. That is the hardest, dullest, most isolating period. But then the training kicks in and you KNOW you are getting better, faster, stronger. And suddenly your stroke is changing, you are powering through the water, you wake up CRAVING the water, the workout, like a crazy addiction.

So for me, one who is always at war with my own head--there are a lot of people in there and some of them are VERY judgemental!--quieting those voices and focusing on mental shifts and tiny actions was a huge thing.

And here is what I found. Sometimes a tiny tiny step in a different direction changed everything. Indeed, the change was so dramatic that sometimes it blew my mind.

I know I know, you want examples.

Writing. I dreaded the freelance life. The endless pitching, self promotion, waiting, bargaining. But I made myself do it. I called and called. One call every few days. I stayed on it. Tiny steps. I got my first freelance story (not for the L A Times--that does not count, and I will not support a paper right now that is breaking the back of journalists). Then I went to another dear friend. She is someone I admire deeply, profoundly, but though we are both journalists and she set me up with my husband, I never asked her for help. And sometimes I was hurt that she helped friends of mine, but never me. I was jealous. But I reached out and she responded with such warmth, enthusiasm and help I was blown away. Each of these things built to others. I have to stay on it--but I started to build momentum. I am at week four of training for a swim--but I just took a long weekend off and now I have to build back up again. (When I swam AAU when I was young our coach used to always say every day of missed practice is like losing a week of training. I am sure it was to scare us, but there is some truth to us)

Money. We do not have much to spare now. And I have weaknesses. Clothes. Books. Music. There is a lot of rationalization wrapped in each of those, but I knew if I could stop myself from buying so many clothes, so many books, so much music, it would help my family a lot. But I still wanted those things. Fashion, ideas and music make life great! So, there is Pandora. Endless great music and more fun than a million CDs. I use the library more. Not always the hit of a great day at the bookstore, but good for the checkbook, and I love libraries--even these days when they are filled with homeless people and security guards. I love that they exist, that someone came up with a place where everyone has access to knowledge and you can get it for free. But clothes. What to do? How to stop myself from darting into a store and making an impulse purchase. But everytime I was about to buy someone appeared to give me that thing. I am not kidding! From a winter jacket to cool new boots these things just appeared in my life through clothing swaps and friends. And beautiful! OK. I am not perfect here--but many of my impulses were curbed and I still got what I wanted and much dinero was saved. Leading to happier husband and better marriage. In short, a shift.

I know I know--this is all so gushy and hard to digest and not exactly scientific. But I can tell you--that these tiny shifts make a difference. Just pushing your boat off in a new direction--even if it is the weakest push ever from the dock--it will change your course. And once the wind picks up you will be sailing off in a beautiful new direction that you chose!

If you can stomach it, try it.

I will be trying, too. I will be trying to keep focusing on action, and silencing the critical voices that take up so much energy and get me exactly nowhere.

Which brings me to this: I am procrastinating. I must take some tiny actions!

Have you ever had this happen to you, dear readers?

Share!

On the 12th Day of Christmas...

our perfect tree came down. This is the sad part of the season. Our tree was the most beautiful tree we have ever had. I sat before it every night, or nearly, and looked at it, and the fire. Cozy, Christmassy, wonderful. But the new year has begun. Her needles are dried out and done. She barely smells like Noble Fir any more, even if you scratch the trunk to release the smell the way the tree people told us.

Benji and I put on Bing Crosby one last time and started pulling off the ornaments. We savored and wrapped and remembered. Then we put the ornaments in their special box, padded them with Christmas stockings, packed the lights on top and put them away. I took all the beautiful Christmas cards off the mantle--couldn't bear to throw them away--pictures of gorgeous children, the artwork of friends, holiday wishes. I put them in a bunch with a strong rubber band and saved them, too.

It is time to dive into 2010!

Happy New Year!!!!

Dear Friends One and All,

Happy New Year!

Akemashite Omedetou Gozaimasu!

We stayed home alone--just the four of us--and had crabs, champagne and chocolate cake. Take a look at that eponymous label! Found by Jonathan in the bowels of the Wine House! France's Oldest Sparkling Wine!!!! Saint Hilaire!

May your year be filled with beauty, love, health, creative energy, music, art, $$$, adventure and LIFE!!!!

A Walk In the Woods

On New Year's Day we were alone at last. Just us. It was a beautiful day. It had rained for a day and a half and the air was scrubbed clean and blue. We decided to do a hike in Topanga Canyon that we had not done since we were a' courtin'!

It wasn't the path into Topanga from the top, out of Topanga itself. It was a way into the canyon from below--up a long, wide road off Sunset, near the Center for Self-Realization, just a mile from Gladstones, Dos Banos, and the sea.

We parked. Jonathan couldn't believe I still remembered how to navigate to this random trailhead in a forgotten canyon, near the huge wrought iron gates of a gated community (new and more inpenetrable!)

We walked down into the woods. The air smelled sweet, like fall in New England, and rotting leaves, and fresh water.

Huge leaves drifted down from the California Oaks and other trees I do not recognize. They fell like snow, and caught the sunlight. Our boys ran ahead down the trail. Interesting woodsy trails give them much more energy than dry, desert fire-roads in Griffith Park. They forget they are tired. They forget to whine. They just run ahead exploring.

We were aiming for a waterfall we once knew.

We calculated--it had been 10 years since we had gone--down the path, to the waterfall out of a crevasse. Back then, at the waterfall, (small, but scenic) there had been a rope you could clamber up. It was hard, but we did it. There, beyond the rope was a whole river you could jump rocks on and do what was then a new sport--canyoning. Literally wade upstream through the water. We found another rope, back then, and I managed to swing across the river on it. You had to swing diagonally, then jump off, otherwise you would get smashed as the rope tried to straighten out. Jonathan loved me, so he tried it. And he ended up crashing into the canyon wall and getting a little bloody. And I was such a fucking awful date I just laughed and laughed because I couldn't believe he would swing himself into a rock wall. Part of my laughter was helplessness, part of it was because it really was funny--minus the blood--and part of it was because I was so overjoyed that I had found a man who would try anything with me-climb up a waterfall, swing across a crevasse, and even smash himself into a rockface and not cry and whine and yell, but laugh like a good sport while he wiped the blood off. (I think now he might yell--but he would still try).
I guess he really loved me.

So those were our memories. We walked along on this beautiful trail. It was very quiet. Topanga has been on the list of parks that will lose all funding to balance the state budget for about a year. Every time I read it in the paper I blanche--what happens to parks that are closed? Can you still go in? I love this park. Already it felt like it was being forgotten.

We got to the fork that leads to the waterfall. A sign said: Unmaintained trail ahead. Proceed at your own risk. We slid down the muddy incline and onto the trail. It was overgrown, and had more water than I ever remembered. Often the trail WAS the streambed, which was still filled with water, so the boys (our scouts) and us kept wandering off on little trails that petered out and led nowhere.

It was like walking back into time.

So much has happened in these ten years. When we were here before we were in love, dreaming of being together, giddy with findind a soulmate. There were no children, no marriage, no home, no life together, no engagement. Just the euphoria of finding someone who was on the same path. Or wanted to go down the same path.

Here we were again. So much had grown. So much had been forgotten. No one had been here in a long time. The path had changed shape. We had two boys running ahead who belonged to us. If someone had told me that would happen I would not have believed them. I despaired of ever having children, or ever finding love that lasted more than briefly, if euphorically.

We hiked way off course, back up into the sunshine, across scary rocks with slippery clay stones. We held our boys by the wrist so they wouldn't tumble down the canyon and die. We sat on a tiny trail in the sunshine, lost, with our two boys, wondering what had happened to this once popular trail.

We clambered back down waded and rock-jumped a little, and finally found the waterfall. It was smaller than I remembered, and the rope that we had used to climb up and beyond lay in a pool of water, covered with algae. No one had been here in a long, long time.

I managed to scale the slippery rock (Jonathan decided to remain below this time). I saw the string of linked, clear pools, and looked for the rope we had once swung across on. This trip, with two small boys, we couldn't be so daring.

But the oddest sensation of the day was that this place had closed up after we left. It was as if an entrance to somewhere magical were growing shut, soon to disappear. When we went we could feel how much time had passed--in a way you rarely get to feel. We could reflect on how much had happened, and travel back to the feelings we had had on that one perfect day--because that steep canyon valley held our feelings like a time capsule.

Next time I will bring a rope of my own so we can scale the waterfall and take the boys up and beyond.

It is one of our touchstones and we will return.

Fulfillment

A dear friend's lover yesterday made me think a lot about fulfillment. He is French Canadian--super smart, happy go lucky--but never stupid. Probably better read, more informed, more tech savvy and more in love with life than 95% of the people he will meet ever. That is just who he is. He is wonderful.

He is grounded. He knows what he cares about. He does not seem confused. It is not that his life is perfect, or that he does not have things he secretly and not so secretly longs for. But he seems clear on what he wants and what matters to him. He does not waver.

I thought about him a lot. And I began to wonder. Does America cultivate dissatisfaction? Yes, I know we cultivate dissatisfaction of products. You always need better cars, better houses, better appliances, better books, better yoga. But this culture of commodification goes so deep, penetrates so far into our psyches I think we do not even realize. Of course, yes, it begins to apply to people. Tired of your old wife? Your old kids? Your old friends? Trade them in for a newer model. Try again. (More true for men than women). Hate your life? Move somewhere new and start again.

But this feeling of constantly upgrading, it does start to affect you. And my friends are not so materialistic. They would I am sure argue against all of these ideas. But does it still get to us? Even the idea of what success is, what a fulfilled life is--it is affected by this deep dissatisfaction. Could we be MORE successful? Could our store be bigger? Our ambitions larger? Whatever you do, whatever you want, you could always have more.

It also means you never feel like you are enough.

I am too stuck in my provincial L.A. world to claim any larger wisdom at this point. I know humans are by nature restless, dissatisfied, looking for something more. This is part of being human. And then religion, politics, philosophy all try to address or tap into these impulses.

But as I watched my friend's lover I did think: he does not feel dissatisfied. I know he has dreams, and wants more. But his core feels stable, and satisfied. In our culture having children raises the question: can you have children and still be fulfilled? Do what you want to do? To him (he does not have children, so this may be an idealistic hypothetical) children ARE a fulfillment. Not something that gets in the way, but something that is an end in itself. I believe this--but this is not reflected back to me in life, or society.

Do you think capitalism cultivates dissatisfaction on a spiritual level? Tell me what you think.

Can you walk through this world and hold your own against it?