PTWD = Post Traumatic Writing Disorder

I think its funny how the very people who called my writing a "hobby" and wouldn't touch it with a ten foot pole are the first to ask me (now that I haven't penned anything longer than a blog in over two years) "what are you working on now", and saying things like "You're the writer, you should...."
I'm like... Oh NOW I'm the writer? Now that I'm not writing... I'm the writer....
People SUCK sometimes...
I'm not blocked, I'm not stuck, I'm not motivated...
It's just that simple.
It's like having been married to the mate of your dreams... Not everyone liked that mate of yours but it didn't matter... that mate was one who satisfied you in every way. The two of you had been best of friends your whole life. Against all odds you stood together through thick and thin... and then... one night... just after you had sat by the warm fire planning the rest of your life together... maybe a long trip together... a relaxing vacation of a lifetime... a thief broke in and shot your dream lover in the eye killing them DEAD... dead I tell you... dead dead ............... dead, and not only that... they then STOLE THEIR BODY... took it for their own.
All that you have left are memories.... you didn't even have anything to bury.
You have memories of their clothes, their shoes... their soul... but no BODY.... nothing in which to put those memories in or on...
I feel that way.
When I take out paper, I feel as though... it will dissolve as soon as I apply ink. I feel as though the minute I fall in love again.... the same thing will happen... the thief will come and destroy everything.
I feel like the only safe place for my writing is in my heart... my mind... my memories.
I don't know what will make this fear go away. I don't know how to take away the trauma of what happened to me as a writer...
Some say... WRITE. That will fix it.
I'm listening to you. I'm listening to you.
But right now... I'm not so sure I can really hear you.
~MeCheeism 2014

State of Hmmm

hmmm

Yeah, that's where I am right now…in a state of hmmm.

If you've read between the lines - you'd have too because I haven't even emailed those in my private circle to share my latest 2013 eye popper of horror - but if you read between the lines, I've had another setback on my 'let's fix this year', 'let's stay perky' agenda.

Yesterday another matter that I thought was pretty much resolved and off my stress list blew back with a vengeance. It was as it said to me, that I was ‘basically’ incapable of doing something that I’d accomplished many times… successfully – by a measure of my peers.

Humbling…

Did it hurt? omg… to the core. Was it a setback? No… it felt more like a rerun… a rerun from a bad season of ‘the whipping boy’. I think the person with the whip was whipping many of us – those others were not in attendance however. I believe this person THOUGHT what she was saying was fair, just, good and useful… but all I could hear was a crescendo of words and sounds all jumbled and confused and, in the end… nonsensical and culminating into a “Catch 22” of epic gauge.

Nope…

You can’t please some people. You can’t please people bent on control. Although you may concede, the timing on that must be just right to where they don’t realize you’ve done it… or they just raise the torturous glass to refresh and quench their maniacal thirst for power.  

As a younger woman I would try to fight it. But nope, now I realize that there are two types of people: those that seek to control and those who are controlled. Those who believe they are not controlled are fooling themselves…

How many times did those farmers in Ojai and other places where people who ‘refused to be controlled by the man’, protest the spraying of their crops only to be invaded during the night while they slept by silent planes sent by the government to pollute their produce with pesticides… YET… giving them the go ahead to still call them ORGANIC.

So…

So, anyway… I survived. I found a way to hurt the least… and still leave room for ‘good’ to take place. I think it’s called a sacrifice. Who would know when those who sacrifice are often those offered up in like manner.

Today I apply salve to my wounds. Fortunately they are deep and can be well hidden if I’m only strong enough to bear up to the new and fresh pain.

Today I pull out my list of things I wanted to do one day and I see if there is anything on there that I can do to distract me from the reality that I have been left to live in…

Today I made my coffee, ate my peanut butter cookie (to Hades with carbs and health plans and gyms and … and… self imposed restrictions).  Today I numb the ache by yelling out to the emptiness that is my universe “I am in control of me! You’re not the boss of me.”  The silence is deafening, the silence sickening… the reality… hitting as hard as a hammer. I am alone here.

Monday will come and I will not cry. I will do my job and pack bags, and suitcases, I will keep the order. I will give instructions (that I’m sure will not be followed), I will try hard not to make promises I’m not in a position to keep…

As you see…

I have been controlled…

Whether I believe the words I must act accordingly … my margin for originality was small. Basically, I was left with only the room to NOD MY HEAD… SHUT UP… and JUST DO IT.

As I sip my coffee, I ponder what I’ll do next… terrified at what ‘next’ could be …

...hmmm

The Human Experience: Faith

Building one's faith is personal, but maintaining one's faith can take a village. 
Visualize this... we are born and growing (discovered faith and building it) in the village we are fed, and cared for and loved - all those things that make living easy. We then step out of the village and BLAM the lion is there, the bandits, the bad guys... yes we have faith and we know we don't want to be one of those bad guys and we so we run from them and run right smack dad into the lion... guns, bow and arrows... no we don't have them... we cry out to the more experienced .... no... more likely, they are, PREPARED villagers... bring me a gun, a bow, and arrow... they come and kill the lion. We are safe again... learning process. Never leave the village alone again... or at least grid up.

As we get older we can become sick - perhaps infected by a small bite we incurred from the lion... and as we heal we slowly we start preparing for another journey we must make outside of the village - why we gotta go? because as we got older, we became an 'older' one, and we now have responsibilities that match that title... going out of the village to take care of business...

It is expected of us to know how to move around the bad guys, and bandits and we are expected to be girded up at all times and or have a buddy with us... but we've been sick and contagious and many have moved away from us so as not to catch what we have... so for this time of healing, we have been basically alone... or so we have felt...

Maybe we've just been impatient - maybe we haven't looked long and hard enough for the ones in the village who have learned to deal with the infectious ones without becoming sick themselves... maybe we just didn't TRY to heal fast enough... Maybe we are humble and we SHOO people away for fear of infecting them... they try but we resist....

who knows... bottom line is this... we are now alone so we found ourselves outside the village.... ill prepared.

The bandits come, they walk with us for a while... although we are a little putt off, we continue to walk with them... our heads are down and we clutch our gun, but... they don't seem so vicious when in fact they simply pick our pockets... why beat us up... where is the honor in that (honor exist between thieves "So you beat up and robbed a sick man... big deal" their friends would say), so they just gently pick our pockets and so we are thinking hmmm... not so bad.

Then we come across the assorted other bad guys who continue to take our dignity in such a nice way - They make love to us, laugh with us, feed us, seemingly are THERE for us... shoot...we don't even realize that we are down to only the clothes on our backs - and NOTHING MORE ... our guns have been emptied along with our quiver... not to mention self respect and dignity.... we have no idea of this until we come to the lion!

We call out...

Oddly enough, our voices are not loud enough to reach the villagers who have, for the most part gone on without us.

We are heard however by the bandits and bad guys who now own all our essentials...
They quickly come to our aide...
They rescue us...
hmmm
Confused ...
Yeah... me to.

However, I'm attempting to solve the riddle as we speak....

in the background...
Mama is on the train now, coming from the village to me....
She is COVERED by a literal and symbolic STEEL Armour... her quiver is full and her gun is loaded... WATCH OUT!!!

Fading into the echo... a writer's decline

Fading into the Echo…
Why is the thought of writing for a living the source of debate. Many people answer phones for living, drive trucks for a living, pretend in front of a camera and even sell their bodies for a living. What is so controversial for someone to put their heart on paper and their passion into fiction … for a living? YET, when we find ourselves out of money people are quick to say…you should have gotten a ‘real’ job.
Why is it expected that we shouldn’t plan to make a living as a writer. Why is it acceptable that the very people making a living off our writing can say to us or expect us not to do the same… with our OWN writing?
I think about all these questions daily when I see my babies up on Amazon, and I gnash my teeth at the thought that I have given them over to a literary-pedophile who has raped them and used them – selling them to the high bidder for entertainment. It’s true… metaphorically speaking… because when they age out; he just goes and get more. He never even sends the previous children back to their parent… he just ‘remainders’ them… ripping off their faces and throwing them in the trash as unidentifiable pieces of trash.
In the meantime I wonder why … how… did I let it happen? As I first see my phone shut off due to having no money to pay my bill, then my cell phone, then my internet…
I clutch my computer filled with other ramblings form my broken brain, and spirit… I wander into coffee shops seeking solace in free wi-fi… out of a ‘knee jerk’ habit; I check the stats on my babies… to see how they are holding up under the conditions … well I see. I see they are behaving and selling… despite the fact that I’m being told they are not.
It’s abusive… it’s a lie… and I’m breaking each day under the pressure I feel. What have I done? I should have listened when others told me to ‘present my babies to the world myself… don’t let someone do it for you… they will steal your babies from you’. I didn’t listen.
I feel like a failure …
I feel like a failure…
I think about my stomach churning as I get no returns on emails sent begging for my money – payment for my sins… the sin of selling my children into literary slavery… I wait for my money to come… money that I’m contractually entitled to yet… ‘denied’ with a harsh symbolic slap on the face. My stomach churns from worry… no wait… that’s hunger as I have no money for food…
That’s not a fan letter on my door… it’s an eviction notice. I gather boxes from the liquor store… empty ones, as my days of drinking away the guilt I feel being told day after day, I’m not working HARD enough to get my babies SOLD… I need to work harder… You’re so LAZY… you’re always whining… work HARDER… stand on the corner if you have to… so that the PIMP can continue to get rich… it will make it easier and you’ll get more money when he comes for your next child!
I fill the boxes up, without the means to even move them anywhere… Dragging the heavy boxes filled with notes and books and clothes and … things I could not sell on Craigslist… I don’t drag them to a moving van. I can’t afford one… I drag them to the trash bin… it’s the only free storage for my life now.
I beg my muse to come and but all she does is ask “Why? So you can throw away the gifts I bring? So you can prostitute my offers as you have the others?” I back away from her pointed finger… tossing and turning my sweated sleep… I bolt awake on the floor where I sleep now… I jolt awake from the nightmare. “No! I promise he will never touch anything you offer me again! I swear it! I’ll never give away my work or sale your precious words to the devil again!” But my voice fades like an echo… into the emptiness.
What will I do next? Where will I go? I’m a writer whose words have been stolen. I’m an artist whose only employment was their art. I’m a resume who has gaps you can drive a diesel truck through… as no takes ‘writer’ seriously as a ‘previous employment’… not when the writer is homeless, penniless and destitute.
How can you have been a bestselling author when you’re books didn’t sell!
Tell me how your books stay in print… and reprint… and reprinted again… when your books didn’t sell… I think that’s the real question here.
Shhhhhh don’t ask that question out loud don’t ‘him’ angry or he’ll…
He’ll what….
He’ll beat the other children… he’ll beat you…
Beat me…? Why waste your time beating the beaten… why waste your time?
I again wake up screaming… “Stop saying that! I’m not dead. There is a fight left in me… I’ll free my children… I promise. I’ll bring them home. Are you listening? Do you hear me…? ARE YOU LISTENING…? DO YOU HEAR ME?”
But again, my voice fades into the echo… of the emptiness.

© Michelle McGriff. I may have lost my mind but I didn’t lose my pen. 2012

INTRO FINAL VERSION

Co-oP Writing... why can't we all just get along

Co-op writing.

Readers understand this concept. They read a good book and they immediately share it with friends. But what about writers, we write a good book and it’s like, the biggest faux pas to ‘share it’ with anyone until its ‘locked and loaded’ at the publishing house.

How I wish I had been part of those Bohemian days when writer's and poets  sat around drinking and laughing, eating finger foods (probably something sweet), and writing—together! Together! What a concept! Sharing their arts and the crafts and the talents and often, such as in the case of Frankenstein, coming up with a classic masterpiece – when in fact that story was probably nothing more than the result of a drunken giggle fest…

I can almost hear them now “and then… haha… and then he has like bolts coming out of his neck”

“ohhh and the parts offa dead people.”

“You’re so dark… always talking about dead people.”

“How come my ideas never get in the story?”

“Fine fine… put it in… parts of dead people”

“Sewn on!”

“Ha! This story is so crazy, nobody will read it!”

But still they wrote it… together they wrote it and I believe, everyone has read it, if not twice. Movie makers have filmed it, more than thrice! Frankenstein still lives…

But no. For the modern writer there is no commonly accepted comradeship or communal atmosphere while writing. It’s even romanticized in movies (Misery, As good as it Gets) how much writer’s treasure their solitude. Nonetheless, for just a moment picture this – team writing. Co-writing—

Not co-authorship but group writing, helping one another sharing characters. Ever have a favorite character that is so real to you that you wish they had more of a life than you have time to give them—lend them out! What’s wrong with that idea?

As long as the hosting author agrees not to abuse them, let your character visit… heck, their doing it on FARMVILLE now… I see little farmers all over the place on my farm.. I was thinking “What are you doing here? Does your parents know where you are?”

Wii has it… visiting Mii’s… why not 'book' characters… what is so wrong with my character visiting another author's book? I think it would help with marketing, promoting and keeping us as writers ALIVE while we are doing other things between books to pay our bills.

It would also create some cross promotion contests like, ‘which character in this book appears in a book by ‘name the author’.

It would make readers go look for books containing that interesting character. It’s just a thought but I think a good one. It breaks down the barriers and creates TEAMwork. There is enough stories out there for everyone, and enough characters to go around and around.

©Michelle McGriff – 2010 PDX

Don't Push me Softly Into this Goodnight

This tough 'writer's economy' can actually affect and effect your ability to write in some ways. Struggling against being told constantly that we have 'no sales'. It's so hard to write when you are being told that your books aren't being sold which implies ... not being read. Sure it's not true especially in light of hard to read statements that indicate... well... sales... yet our pockets are empty... it can get to be too much. 

Yes we love writing but soon it will turn back in ... I hate to say it... a hobby, as it's so hard to make it a living these days. Unless you are an ultra A-lister living off the rewards of the 'days gone by'. The days of Large Contracts... strong marketing and that heaping helping of 'boosting onto the map'.. it's hard. 

I'm a good writer. Not for everyone... I get that... I've heard it time and again... but I've also heard that my work is good and I do have my fans... just as we ALL do. 

Many people don't like Eminem but hey he's paying his bills... because those that DO like him support him... see where I'm going with this. So no this blog is not for those that hate my work... obviously... it's for those that enjoy my work and want to continue reading it off the shelves… not via an electronic file sent to the email box.

The time of bad reviews just for the heck of it or hateraide just 'because' must stop and true support for the arts must come forth. Just as it happened when they threatened to close libraries the outrage was huge and the doors to many libraries stayed open. In this instance too, the love of the craft must come forth to save the arts. 

All writers give their hearts to this art and we really need the support. I want to tell readers that even if you don't like our work, love what we stand for... and support what we do. 

Self publishing is wonderful but not for everyone. Its a lot of hard work...hard hard work with many odds not in the self publisher's favor. It's difficult when you've had a career of 'low ebb' popularity or B-listing ...it's hard to suddenly break out and start self publishing. Its like starting to sell Amway in a new neighborhood or town... YIKES! Scary and well... hard.

Please...anyone hearing me (McGriff or Scott booklover or not)..Don't add to the dissipation of mainstream writers... not everyone can self publish and those that can't will fade away once publishers stop printing our work. Please don't let our work die... don’t push softly into this good night. Don't make us write those dreaded two words... THE END... 

And for those who don't favor my work ... put aside that feeling of put down for a moment to realize that there are some who love my work... that there is room on this literary planet for all books, videos, book trailers, and screenplays... just like music... never has there been someone say... there is just NO room for that song as it sound similar to another... 

Okay.. i"m off my soapbox for now and going back to work... no, not writing my story... my other work... and yes, I do miss writing my novels for my readers... they miss it too. I enjoyed being prolific and pumping out story after story... three and four a year...but with only having one book a year coming out and sometimes not even that (no books are selling)... it's been tough to pay bills... and I too have had to do 'something' else to keep my lights on... *sigh. 

I've seen successful writers get up in front of people and shamelessly request people to "BUY my books!" and it's not a bad idea... no marketing ploys... can't afford them... just an honest sincere request... BUY my books! BUY all of our books... keep us writing! Keep our publishers printing...