No Slow Zone

Me: Yes, I am officially a lady of leisure now.

Friend With Short Legs: Does that mean you’ll slow down when you’re walking now?

Me: No.

Me: Walk faster.

Sympathy Rent Discounts For The Recently Unemployed Single

I lost my job this week.

It was sudden, unexpected and very fucking strange. The reasons for my release were vague.

That said, severance gives me some time to figure out my next step -- hardly the worst thing for someone wanting badly to return to writing. Even if it IS a cruel, unrewarding and generally masochistic way to (try to) make a living.

Have also found that am sleeping better, stomach issues are settling, and I have a bizarre taste of something in my mouth that vaguely resembles freedom.

This week has been fucked up.

Random Things Running Through My Head #1

My brain is jam-packed with random thoughts, music, impressions. I generally tend to process everything it once. Here is this evening's random sampling as an example:

1) Thank god - my affection for James May has been justified.

2) If IKEA sells out the Korndal Green sofa cover before I find one -- and I find the IKEA customer service people have been lying to my and it IS reduced price -- there will be hell to pay.

3) I should have tried to marry Stanley Tucci when I was young and adorable and thin. He is the awesome.

4) Writer's block. I have fucking writer's block. Fuck. Fuckity fuck.

5) Current song in my head: Mambo Italiano

6) I drank too much this week.

7) Hiding from stress created from work tomorrow. It's on the peripheral of the brain. Must ignore. Quiet, brain.

8) One day, a particular boy and I will have a talk. It might not go well. Actually, I'm sure it won't.

9) Money panic!

10) Move panic!

11) More money panic!

12) James May is wonderfully elitist. I think that is why I love him so.

13) Book panic!

Signs, signs, everywhere there's signs...

It's funny the way the human brain works.

We twist and pull and stretch all manner of thoughts in our craniums. Some us might even be accused of doing this kind of activity excessively -- examining each piece of of information, idea or concept to the point where it is hardly recognizable.

Yet at other times, the brain is far more subtle. Having reached a suitable course of action, it may sometimes avoid direct missives.

It's a brain, after all. Sometimes it likes to be clever.

And when our silly little brains start getting clever, we start reading signs. We notice things are placed in our path in a way that seems like a message. A directive from the fates. Other times, we find ourselves drawn to certain things that may subconsciously reinforce this decision.

Yet we remain blissfully (and sometimes consciously) ignorant.

"Why am I seeing all of these things?" we wonder. "Clearly something is at work. Someone -- or something -- is trying to tell me something."

All the while, our little brains smother a giggle, and feign innocence when you dare to ask it a direct question.

That said...

Even knowing this, it's still a little freaky when the same message keeps cropping up, time and time again.

Life an authentic life. Let the creativity come from a real place. Don't be afraid of vulnerability. Just be true to it.

Hippie hogwash, I say.

But only under my breath.

Because that's how it is

Just a brief moment.

For those of you living in Canada, you already know that Jack Layton, the leader of our opposition in the House of Commons - and the leader of the NDP party - died yesterday.

The entire country is feeling the loss of not only a charismatic, passionate politician (who was, shockingly enough, likable), but also feeling sadness born of watching someone labour ceaseless their entire life, only to to miss out on the fruits of their labours.

We've lost a tireless fighter.

And for those wandering in from other countries, I can only leave you this note as evidence of unique political and personal grace:

http://media.thestar.topscms.com/acrobat/a8/44/ffee8eaa4928bb2bc366f943f7af.pdf

Authenticity.

... it is both terrifying and necessary.

And I am ashamed to admit how much I avoid it in my writing.

What do we think about screenplays?

As I consistently procrastinate finishing up the last draft of my book for my agent -- I so desperately want to move on from this book that I'm considering self-publishing it simply to make a few bucks -- my mind has been probing for other lucrative ways of writing.

Yes, yes. Lucrative + writing = oxymoron.

Come now, children. Let's consider it.

Screenwriting is an art I may not actually possess. I certainly have no experience with it. Sure, I'm a dab hand at dialogue. I can write likable characters. It's shorter than a book.

And I don't doubt that Hollywood is desperately seeking screenplays that are fresh, marketable and have a widespread appeal. The question is: can I deliver this?

My mind was playing with an old screenplay I had been writing with a friend back in the day. Originally, it had been pieced together as a horror. But as I toy with the plot in my mind, I wonder if maybe it has a place as a cult comedy...

It certainly would divert me from the book that current makes my stomach churn and boil with anxiety. And screenplays - whilst being labour-intensive - aren't exactly long, epic works.

So do I dabble... or remain on my current (and temporarily stagnant) course?

When it becomes dysfunctional.

It’s odd how a stranger’s journey can show you your own.

It’s also not surprising, really, when I stop to think about it.

When you’ve lived a life filled with reading other people’s tales – stories both imaginative and those based on the bitter and blithely thing named “real life” – it’s not so surprising to realize that the lessons you’ve had to learn are best described through someone else’s voice.

And when you’re a writer of sorts, you create your own journeys. Your own interpretation of life, filtered through a fictional lens.

Now, you might think these paths would light those dark pathways in your own mind. Don’t we snake through our conscious and subconscious when we mine for characters and plot? Shouldn’t our heroes and heroines be manifestations of our own growth as a human being?

As it turns out, not always.

One of my greatest struggles – both as a flawed human being and as an even more flawed writer – has always been to connect what’s really going on deep down in that place we all have. The dark place... and also one filled with bright things.

This is the sacred place. The place where we protect ourselves as best as we can. By tapping into it, we risk the hurt and inevitable pain that comes when someone alien comes tramping through, mindless of the underbrush and the delicate things that have found a safe haven.

You can be a reasonably good writer without violating that space. Without dipping into its lush, easily-broken world.

But the writing never seems to ring true somehow. There’s always a disconnection. Someone has tried to lightly seam together the soul to the body.

And as much as you try to hide them, the stitches always show.

Here’s my confession: Even now as I’ve written this, I didn’t type the words “the sacred space” the first time round.

What I wrote was, “This is the scared place.”

It could have been a typo.

It wasn’t.

And it is the scared place. Scared of being discovered. Of being changed. Of being exposed to elements that could destroy it, or turn it into something terrible.

Having sat through a movie that even now I’m embarrassed to admit had the emotional impact of a ballistic missile on my psyche (not so surprising given that I changed my career trajectory after watching 13 Going On 30 – true story), I’ve been forced to deal with lessons I have been fighting to learn, without even knowing what they are.

Stories of divorce and separation and healing... and yet somewhere, this all translated into some oddball little form of clarity.

I have made mistakes. Lots of them.

People have been hurt. I’ve been hurt.

And not once have I ever been able to thread together the nameless narrative that brought my life together. The mistakes I have made, both personal and professional.

The missteps.

Every single screwed-up, fucked-up and completely dumb and asinine thing I’ve done.

I have accepted them. I have learned from (some) of them. And I’ve moved on. Mostly.

But not one single, goddamn time did I ever forgive myself for making them.

Not once.

Writing – as with all relationships, like the ones we have with each other, or really anything we love – is about trust.

And I haven’t been kind to my writing. I haven’t been able to trust it, to allow it to run its natural course. I’ve stifled and oppressed this poor creature, bending it to my will – simply because I couldn’t trust it enough to roam free.

It’s a broken relationship right now. We both want to make it work. It’s been asking for very little, except for my time and patience. And I, like any person caught up in a souring relationship, have only held on harder.

I have blighted it.

And so, after some time apart, I’ve come back to the negotiating table. I’m not ready to say goodbye when we’ve barely begun.
Not yet.

I ask for forgiveness of my little craft.

And more importantly, I forgive myself for being the agent of its near-destruction. Of controlling and denying it. Of committing to the wrong duties, and the wrong priorities.


It won’t be easy. We’ll have to take it slow.

But I’m ready to travel now.

And so, my friend, take a deep breath. Take my hand.

Let us away.

Resurrected. (Not like Jesus.)

It's been a few years.
Ok, maybe three. Ish.

I don't expect readers.

My only intent is a dumping ground of sorts for my addled little brain.

A lot can happen in three years. An interesting story. I'll tell you about it sometime.

In short - I'm separated, working for The Man (although like all things, it started with the best of intentions and went to hell once the company grew successful) and trying to finish up the last touches on my first book. It's a hideous process, and I've certainly learned my lessons on how NOT to write a book.

But learning puts hair on one's chest... when it's not busy kicking your ass and netherbits.

Home again, home again, jiggity jig

... Y'know, I don't even remember when or where I picked up that expression.

Somewhere delightfully infantile, I'm sure.

As per this year's Xmas theme, getting home from Nova Scotia was a total nightmare. Approximately 18 hours of travel and airport waiting. By 4 am, I had lost all patience and calm. Got to bed just after 5 (although felt like 6 am, due to time difference) and succeeded in not killing anyone in violent, unnecessary ways.

In happier news, I had my first meal today since the revisiting of Christmas dinner for 24 hours. I had almost two McD's cheeseburgers (don't ask me why, but I find them strangely comforting after I've been unwell) and a handful of fries. Nothing terribly horrendous happened, so I celebrated with some fried rice for dinner.

My apartment looks like a store vomited all over it.

On a completely unrelated note, have you ever found yourself strangely obsessed by the actual sound of a word? The meaning is irrelevant. Simply that the words rolls around in your mouth in a pleasant way is joy enough.

Like "kumquat." Hard clicks and soft "mmm"s. Or "vulva." All teeth against the lower lip and forced-out vowels.

Yet the word that popped into my head today which has been making me giggle is not that interesting, either in meaning or as some kind of alliterative joy.

"Goiter." [n. A noncancerous enlargement of the thyroid gland, visible as a swelling at the front of the neck, that is often associated with iodine deficiency. Also called struma.]

But it really sounds like it would be an excellent insult.
"Bloody goiter." "Hey, goiter -- get your ass in gear!" "Where did you meet that goiter?"

Sometimes I even impress (slash disgust) myself with my love for things inane.

Ugh

...Stomach flu.

Happy Christmas to me.

I am indeed an effing idiot

Time keeps slipping away from me when I don't notice it. Which, of course, gives me ample opportunity to let my blogging slide until I am indeed ready to pick up keyboard and mash words into it.

It's Christmas day, and I've just gotten off the phone with my uncle. I am consistently amazed and horrified at just how stupid and idiotic I am capable of sounding to relatives. Years ago, I was dismayed to learn that my aunt did not care for me at all. In the sense, of course, she didn't much like me -- I'm sure she has some concern for my welfare.

However, ever since then, being the gorgeously paranoid creature i am, I labour under the impression that I am universally disliked by ALL family members. Tolerated by a few, disliked by most. "That Hannah girl? Ugh. What an embarrassment." And of course, things slip out of my mouth carrying one intention, and gather another somewhere in the air between my lips and their ears. Minutes after the conversation ends, I cringe.

I am much better in person, most of the time.

Of course, I am dreadfully lazy.

Now to totally drift off course -- because it's more fun to just switch topics when you're simply too bored or irritated to continue the previous trail of thought. (Besides, I do hate looking like a twit.)

In the last few months:

I went and returned from Nova Scotia.

Temped my little arse out -- being an assistant to a Regulatory and QA director (dull job, lots of filing, but the woman I worked for was pretty awesome).

Chris was laid off.

I insisted on still trying to write...



...but picked up a full-time job a few weeks ago (a real "grown-up" job with normal pay and all) that will last at least six months.

I do want to keep on the writing, but I simply do not have the resources or support network to allow me to do it full-time at this point in my life. The debts are growing and I'm getting nowhere. So I'm opting to use this opportunity as sort of a sabbatical.

Besides, I kind of like being regarded as something other than a clever little office monkey or a failed writer.

Now, I say!

Sometimes being impatient is incredibly wearing.

On occasion, I have been able to sit back and say, "These things need time. Breathe, and wait."

More often than not, however, I demand results. Sooner, rather than later. I don't need everything, but at least a few small tokens to get me through to the next stage.

Chris maintains I am comprised entirely of id. "I want, gimme, gratification NOW."

He might be on to something.

Mucking about in Nova Scotia

Well, it's that time of year when I brave the eastern ocean air and family tempests. And lucky me, I brought the shitty weather from Toronto with me, so while Toronto begins to bask in a rarely seen spot of dryness and warmth (usually Toronto summers are roasting, but nae so much this year), Nova Scotia turns very cool and rather wet.

A very sinister kind of torture for me, given the fact that I despise winter -- summer is the only season I really look forward as spring can still host snow and fall only heralds the approaching six months of misery and cold.

The family, of course, is doing their very best to drive each of us into a frenzy. Tears. Tempers. Sulking. And amusingly enough, not by me. Not yet, at any rate. In a few more days, I will weary of being genial and fence-sitting, and will eventually crack and explode.

Family. Such fine fun.

So I've really only spent the last few days laying low, sleeping, staying out of the rain and reading almost non-stop (re-read Wilde's The Picture Of Dorian Gray as I disliked it while in high school -- and am very happy I did). Tomorrow is possibly sunny -- I say possibly, because it is very likely a cold, damp fog will roll in off the ocean. It has a funny way of doing that here.

But the best part of this vacation is that it's given me a much-needed breather -- time to reassess, gather my remaining shreds of ego and regroup for the last push. Time is running short, and I have lots to do.

I will make this writing thing work if it kills me.
Which it may very likely do.

But at the very least, people can sit back and say, "She was stubborn as hell -- but she still barrelled through when things turned heinous."

Although I do agree with Wilde... "All art is quite useless."
Be a good tattoo, I think.

Whoopsie!

I didn't think anyone would notice when I clammed up for a bit.

But for a while, I've realized that I've become dreadfully silent on my blog. Maybe it was a turn when an unexpected encounter made me turn inward and vague. Maybe it was was lack of things to say.

Maybe it was simply because I couldn't bear to put into writing how I really feel about myself, and the direction my life has turned.

Things have gone from hard to worse. Financially, I'm probably at the most penniless I've ever been in my life. Am thinking of cancelling my cell phone (which is already on the cheapest plan I can find). I'm further in debt, and the "inbox" has slowed to a trickle. I can barely explain this to people I know, because very few people understand the concept of "no money." Not in the sense of third-world poverty or homelessness, of course. Just in the sense of having no disposable income, no investments, no savings... just debt. Counting down to the cent. Feeling guilty for splurging on a drink at Starbucks. Shuffling around your bill payments so you don't end up with creditors snarling at you over the phone.

I think the words I'm looking for are "professional failure."

I never expected any of this to be easy. But the last few months have sort of driven me to a point where I realize that my lifestyle as it stands will have to end. For a little while, at least. I have until December 31, 2008 -- if I can survive that long -- before I switch all gears, and investigate new things. Office things. God, how I hate the idea!

Ironically, my writing has only improved over the last little while. More focus, better results. Better (in my eyes) writing. Hell, I even started a BOOK. It's a little odd, but I'm having great fun with it so far. It's not the serious novel I always imagined writing... but it's 100 per cent me, and I think that's more important.

I've also been working on screenplays, which I find great fun, due to my affection for dialogue. Over-affection, perhaps.

Other than that, I keep busy. Walking. Biking. Going to the pool. Occasionally whoring myself out to temp job I despise.

I was never ready for success before. Now I'm ready... but I wonder if it may have passed me by.

I smelled summer last night

Walking along the boardwalk last night, as I am wont to do these days, I felt a slight shift in the wind, in the scents and in the air.

Warmth is coming. Summer. Heat and sun.

But even so, life still manages to get all scrambled. Like eggs tossed in the pan with sharp glass. A few surprising epiphanies, and a few inclinations that I have tried to shut down are awakened once again.

I'm feeling antsy, and restless.
My sense of direction keeps getting murkier and the path -- scant though it be -- seems harder to find. Like walking in fog, yet still putting one foot in front of the other.

Is it faith? Or is blindness?

I always like to think life has a way of doing what is best for us. But at the same time, I think consciously making an effort towards your goals is necessary -- sitting back and waiting for things to work themselves out can be just as destructive as forcing it.

Inaction Vs. action. Fate vs. will. Instinct vs. control.

Seems a horribly amusing way to test just how many strings I'm willing to cut in order to be the person I need to be.

May was a strange month.

Hmmm...

Weird mood.

Not sure how much is due to the rather entertaining afternoon (and early evening) and the drinks, but right now, I feel like I'm waiting for something.

No idea what what form it may take, or how delusional I may be.

I'm sure it will go away in a few hours. I think.

Unsettling.