Chalk

I saw the “documentary” comedy, created in the style of The Office, and would have laughed if I hadn’t been busy crying. The most frighteningly funny skit was the dim history teacher counseling two students to stop using big words and rolling their eyes when he made a mistake in what he was presenting. It reminded me of GW talking about education and how “children’s do learn.”

Humor, which cuts close to the bone, is laugh-out-loud funny and it makes me weep.

Young actors

Tonight, I watched To Kill a Mockingbird, not the movie but the play, or a play. There were three actors under the age of 13 and they were remarkable. They didn’t miss a cue, or forget a line, and they brought nuance and emotion to their parts.

It was a wonderful adaptation and I would have had a wonderful time except for the story is more difficult for me now, than it was 35 or so years ago when I read it for the first time. The racism that exists today is less blatant, more insidious, and more easily denied. For those reasons, I find it much more dangerous and distressing. Like the ignorant white southerners in To Kill a Mockingbird our judicial system continues to unfairly and erroneously incarcerate and execute minority citizens. A judicial system based on precedent is only effective if what has gone before is right and moral.

Writing with a friend

A friend of mine suggested we write together at the library. This has been great. We sit side-by-side in the quiet room, me on my computer, she editing her manuscript. It reminds me of when I first started meditating. Every minute that I sat on my zafu in my living room at my home, lasted an hour. Then I went to a “sit.” A meditation session where 40 or 50 other people were all gathered to meditate together. It was wonderful, easy, 45 minutes passed in no time at all.

The point I’m trying to make is this — sitting with a friend is far more productive than sitting alone, and the same can be said of writing.

The reemergence of illness

All day I’ve been trying to remember that movie about the comatose patients who rallied for a brief sojourn of life and then disappeared, again, into their illnesses. Every moment of life, of living, is cause for celebration, although I know first hand how much more difficult physical limitations are the second time around.

Right now I’m experiencing a reappearance of symptoms which had, for a period of time gone into hiding. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still grateful for every day, and for all my many blessings. The slow degradation of my joints, the intensifying of pain in my spine and the renewed swelling of my joints is just a little discouraging. But, really, I’ve nothing to complain about.

The language of politics

I’m engaged in this American experiment of government by the people for the people. A noble experiment it is. But, my passions and frustrations are such that it is difficult for me to talk about — the neo-conservative movement has threatened, destroyed and stolen many parts of the American experience, and it makes my stomach turn in circles.

It’s the stealing of words that prompts me to write. As a writer, I need words to mean what they mean and to not be subverted, twisted or reshaped. There was a time when those who felt compassion for a woman, pregnant unexpectedly, or dangerously, or viciously, were considered pro-choice. There was a time when abortion, as tragic as it is, was considered a painful, difficult and last choice.

One day, I woke to find that I was no longer pro-choice, now I was pro-abortion. What? Pro-abortion? No! It’s not possible. I’d never be pro-abortion. No! I refuse to be pro-abortion. Just like that, my words had been stolen. And not just mine, the words of a generation of people, over half the population, a nation of people had their compassion for women stolen and transmuted to become favor for a painful, disturbing act.

I write this now, because I’ve been silent too long. This is the year that one by one I’m taking back everyone of my words, making them as they should be — compassionate and bold and for the greatest good.

Creating the right website

I’ve been messing with website design. It’s a horrible way to spend a day, but I want my site to be of interest to you. I’m thinking about changing it every so often, not to drive you crazy but to keep you curious. After all, it’s curiosity that makes the writer, right? And the reader. We wouldn’t persist if we weren’t curious to find out what happens next.

The end of a blog

I’m sorry for not ending this sooner. Things happened in my life…my health took a dive. I need to end this blog, officially.

For those of you who come upon this while blog surfing — thanks for stopping by.

Go to www.anngonzalez.com if you are interested in reading more about the writing life.

Be you a reader or writer, thank you. Where would we be without words? All the readers and writers would be at a loss, as would we all. Thank goodness for words.

A sabbath for my characters

After finishing a highly charged, tension-filled chapter I often need a nap. It sounds silly, doesn’t it? I know, for many writers, it’s difficult to cause their characters to suffer, to experience great pain. I understand that reluctance — for those of us who write close, subjective prose, as our characters suffer so do we.

Today was a day of rest, a day of recovery, for my characters and me. Tomorrow we resume our suffering.

Friends who write

I’d be nowhere without my friends. My characters, too. With my friends I’m always somewhere. I may be traveling back east, or away on a writing retreat, or running fifteen minutes late on my way to the library to meet my friend for a couple of hours of productive work.

There is no story without setting; I learned that in fiction writing 101. And since then, I’ve come to realize, there is no setting without friends. It’s my friends who put me here in time and place, who support my future and validate my past. Thank God for friends.

I loathe the idea of disability

I’ve been working since I was ten-years-old, which is a long time ago now. I love work — the camaraderie, the sense of accomplishment, the purpose. All my jobs have been service oriented, and it’s wonderful to come home at the end of the day, knowing that I’ve helped someone solve a problem, address a need, made someone’s day a tad better.

In June I changed jobs — went from full-time to part-time because my health was bad. In July, I resigned from the part-time job because my health wouldn’t allow me to continue. The benefits adviser told me to apply for disability and I did. I doubt they could make the process any more humiliating if they tried. Cigna is still reviewing my application, deciding whether or not I qualify. Apparently being unable to work doesn’t, necessarily, mean one is, in fact, disabled.

In my mind, I’ll never be disabled, no matter what they decide. I’m not able to sit in a chair, or stand, or type or do much of anything for any length of time, but I can write. One word at a time, however long it takes, I am able to write.

I am able.