“Be like a duck, my mother used to tell me. Remain calm on the surface and paddle like hell underneath.”
--Michael Caine
That’s about how I’m feeling. I’m trying to remain calm but things are churning below the waterline. I’m expecting a whirlpool any moment now.
In April, I have the opportunity to go to the LDStorymakers Conference where I am signed up for a writer’s bootcamp, a pitch session, and the conference itself. Some of the requirements for my extra activities are copies of my work and a synopsis. I don’t know about anyone else but my lil’ duck legs are in a frenzy.
I’m showing my work to veritable strangers. I’ve had to condense my story into a fragment upon which all its merits will be measured. There’s a sort of giddy terror that goes along with that
.
It isn’t the first time I’ve shown people my stuff (and by that, I mean my MS) but this will be in an environment of my peers. Published peers. Successful peers. Good looking peers. (Um…I mean, wait! They are good looking people!) Do I get to call them my peers when I’m clearly not among their ranks? (Yet.) I’m a presumptuous little thing. =P
I’m hoping that I’m the sort of duckling that grows into a swan and not just an uglier duck. For now, all that honking you’re hearing? It’s L.T. in a right panic.
Wish me luck.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
The set of the soul…
“Some choices we live not only once but a thousand times over, remembering them for the rest of our lives.”
--Richard Bach
“One ship sails East
And another West,
By the self-same winds that blow,
Tis the set of the sails
And not the gales,
That tells the way we go.
Like the winds of the sea
are the waves of time
As we journey along through life,
Tis the set of the soul
That determines the goal,
And not the calm or the strife.”
--Ella Wheeler Wilcox
L.T. is a divided person. There are many facets to me and I detail them out on this blog a bit. Dark L.T., mad L.T., sad L.T., happy L.T., and more.
Most people are multi-dimensional but how much of me is dimensional and how much of it is undecided? Am I faceted or false? Am I varied or vacillating? Do people really know who they are or does it take a lifetime to learn?
How much of this is supposition and how much of it is avoidance? If you haven’t seen it in me thus far, you’re probably seeing it now. I’m quite insecure. I never know where I stand; with myself or others. It shouldn’t matter to me. People tell me all the time, “It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks of you.” But it does. To me. Now and then, I feel the impression of The Divine and it matters less what others think---only what He thinks. Either I have a tiny memory or a stubborn head. Perhaps a weak nature. I mentioned once that I’m a wannabe barnacle. I keep hoping that I’ll find a way to be a stand-alone soul.
This mire might be easier to navigate if I wasn’t my own bog. I’m not at peace with myself. She and I have not been at peace since I was eleven years old. I don’t know if we ever will be. Is that the multiple dimensions warring against one another or the singular one refusing to be content? Yeah, I’m a therapist’s worst nightmare and biggest paycheck in one.
One of the biggest wars I wage is the choice to be a writer. “What? That should be easy enough. It’s a job, a career.” Yes, it is and professionally, it should be treated that way. It’s never been that simple for me. It has nothing to do with whether or not I can get published, earn a living, or “make it.” That’s persistence and hard work. It can be done. I’ll take the liberty of skewing Thomas Edison’s quote, “[Success] is 1% inspiration and 99% perspiration!” But being a writer, for me, is more than cranking out words and getting published.
So much of what I do is writ with the vapors of my soul.
It is not the formation of the words nor the application of them upon the page. It isn’t a lack of desire. It is an elusive description, an impossible clarification. I cannot explain the battle properly; only its intensity. You won’t see it in the stories I write (that’s not a boast about the quality therein) but the fight lives under the skin, a constant.
It’s baffling for me. I’ve known since the 3rd grade that I wanted to tell stories for the rest of my life. If I’ve known since I was 8 years old, shouldn’t it be easy? The choice was made, the die was cast, why the hell am I still fighting with it? The only answer I have for that is: Each word is dredged up from the deepest recesses of my heart. And not just the words in a book I’m writing. It can be in an email, a comment, a letter to a loved one. Why? I think it’s because each word is a exhalation, a heart-beat. They are all pieces of me. That isn’t to say that I say/write things perfectly.
Please allow me to assure you that in no way am I belittling anyone or saying that “real writers suffer for their craft.” That’s not what I mean at all. I know how valuable other writers (and readers or artists of differing mediums) are. You work hard and your struggles are just as, if not more, important. I tend to blather.
I guess what I’m trying to say is the choice to write is a choice I have to decide over and over. There’s an opposition and I have to face it down repeatedly. My heart knows I want to write. My mind knows I want to write. I know I want to write. It’s the flavor of my personality. I need it as much as I want it. It should be easy.
But it’s not.
--Richard Bach
“One ship sails East
And another West,
By the self-same winds that blow,
Tis the set of the sails
And not the gales,
That tells the way we go.
Like the winds of the sea
are the waves of time
As we journey along through life,
Tis the set of the soul
That determines the goal,
And not the calm or the strife.”
--Ella Wheeler Wilcox
L.T. is a divided person. There are many facets to me and I detail them out on this blog a bit. Dark L.T., mad L.T., sad L.T., happy L.T., and more.
Most people are multi-dimensional but how much of me is dimensional and how much of it is undecided? Am I faceted or false? Am I varied or vacillating? Do people really know who they are or does it take a lifetime to learn?
How much of this is supposition and how much of it is avoidance? If you haven’t seen it in me thus far, you’re probably seeing it now. I’m quite insecure. I never know where I stand; with myself or others. It shouldn’t matter to me. People tell me all the time, “It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks of you.” But it does. To me. Now and then, I feel the impression of The Divine and it matters less what others think---only what He thinks. Either I have a tiny memory or a stubborn head. Perhaps a weak nature. I mentioned once that I’m a wannabe barnacle. I keep hoping that I’ll find a way to be a stand-alone soul.
This mire might be easier to navigate if I wasn’t my own bog. I’m not at peace with myself. She and I have not been at peace since I was eleven years old. I don’t know if we ever will be. Is that the multiple dimensions warring against one another or the singular one refusing to be content? Yeah, I’m a therapist’s worst nightmare and biggest paycheck in one.
One of the biggest wars I wage is the choice to be a writer. “What? That should be easy enough. It’s a job, a career.” Yes, it is and professionally, it should be treated that way. It’s never been that simple for me. It has nothing to do with whether or not I can get published, earn a living, or “make it.” That’s persistence and hard work. It can be done. I’ll take the liberty of skewing Thomas Edison’s quote, “[Success] is 1% inspiration and 99% perspiration!” But being a writer, for me, is more than cranking out words and getting published.
So much of what I do is writ with the vapors of my soul.
It is not the formation of the words nor the application of them upon the page. It isn’t a lack of desire. It is an elusive description, an impossible clarification. I cannot explain the battle properly; only its intensity. You won’t see it in the stories I write (that’s not a boast about the quality therein) but the fight lives under the skin, a constant.
It’s baffling for me. I’ve known since the 3rd grade that I wanted to tell stories for the rest of my life. If I’ve known since I was 8 years old, shouldn’t it be easy? The choice was made, the die was cast, why the hell am I still fighting with it? The only answer I have for that is: Each word is dredged up from the deepest recesses of my heart. And not just the words in a book I’m writing. It can be in an email, a comment, a letter to a loved one. Why? I think it’s because each word is a exhalation, a heart-beat. They are all pieces of me. That isn’t to say that I say/write things perfectly.
Please allow me to assure you that in no way am I belittling anyone or saying that “real writers suffer for their craft.” That’s not what I mean at all. I know how valuable other writers (and readers or artists of differing mediums) are. You work hard and your struggles are just as, if not more, important. I tend to blather.
I guess what I’m trying to say is the choice to write is a choice I have to decide over and over. There’s an opposition and I have to face it down repeatedly. My heart knows I want to write. My mind knows I want to write. I know I want to write. It’s the flavor of my personality. I need it as much as I want it. It should be easy.
But it’s not.
Friday, March 13, 2009
In your face, self!
BOO-YA!
3000 WORDS! Yes, it took me until almost 3 AM. Yes, I had to fight myself all day long. Yes, compared to other people out there I’m sucking rocks. Yes, I need to do better…
BUT 3000 WORDS!!!! Take that, Naughty L.T.! Back with you, demon! Back!
Now, to do that again later today. Wish me luck. (And no, this isn’t cheating because I GOT DOWN 3000 WORDS!!!!! *Happy dance*) And it was in Drystan’s POV. If you’ve followed along, you know that character is a *&#$%&# to get to behave. GWA HA HA HA HA HA HA!!!!!
Hi, I’m sleep-deprived L.T. We’ve never met before, have we?
Thursday, March 12, 2009
L.T.’s been sent to Time-Out…
L.T. (Dark, mad, sad, grouchy, happy, weird…etc) is currently on hiatus.
I’m trying to force myself to get some work done and since I’m so frustrated/mad about not getting it done well, I’m punishing myself. My blogging rights have been revoked. (Slightly. I’m allowing myself reading/commenting freedom but not writing.) I deny myself the right to blog if I can’t force myself to write on the project I need to.
Anyone want to take bets on how long it will take before you see a new post? This is going to be a sad commentary on my work ethic…isn’t it?
[Ugh. My brain-damage is showing. Look at that up there. It’s like I’ve forgotten how to write at all. Ugh.]
Saturday, March 7, 2009
L.T. Ciphers
"Language is wine upon the lips."
--Virginia Woolf
My blogger alias is "LexiconLuvr," as is the address of my blog. Clearly, it indicates my love of language and the written word while at the same time slandering it by improper spelling. I'd love to tell you that it's a tribute to my little sister who once used "luvr" as a part of a former alias herself but I'd be lying (but my lil' sis is worthy of tribute.) I have committed linguistic sin and yet I still luv the nickname.
I have always felt that I don't fit so well. Not from some belief of superiority (in any measure) or from a freakish deformity of body or mind but simply...I don't blend well. I am, at times, awkward in a conversation; too honest for some, too simple for others, and as some friends can attest, too needy. (As well as too wordy!) And in the physical, I am all of these things, often.
But when I write...when I have time to compose my thoughts and sift through the right words, I am a different person. Perhaps different isn't the right word. When I write, I am nearest to the substantial me, the distilled essence of who I am. Without the burden of my lack of social grace or a crippling insecurity, I am the most elemental me.
I hoard words. I pile them around me and blanket myself beneath their weight when I express myself. They are both haven and mask while simultaneously being windows and keys to discovering me. I use words to express as well as conceal. But mostly, words create a bridge over the yawning chasm I'd normally be unable to span.
And yet, when I am in person I find myself at an utter lack of words. Those faithless friends vanish before the daunting opposition of a physical conversation. I am reduced to a sputtering, incoherent fool who both embarrasses and discomforts those around her. I have an unfortunate tendency to "rush" to fill a void, to blather when I ought to wait and form intelligent, thoughtful responses. In this moment, I do not resemble my father's daughter.
My father--one of the most educated, well-spoken, respected men I've ever known--is patient and wise. When queried, he always pauses to think before he speaks. On occasion, I wonder if he has heard me because of the lull in the conversation. He quickly disabuses me of the notion when he replies. Whether he learned it at his father's knee (also a wonderful, respected man) or my father taught himself, he always speaks with calculated care and rarely offends. He is a peaceable person, to be sure, but that is not the only reason for his admired social grace. He is deliberate and cautious. And I'm sure I shame him often because I have the kind of lanky verbal skill with which one equates to a stumbling baby giraffe. I find I don't struggle as much with written skill.
I am, by no means, a great writer but like I said earlier, I hoard words. They are the only armor I can provide myself; braces for my shaky giraffe legs. Armor aside, they are also a means of laziness. Why use three words when one will do? Why bother to describe and explain with five sentences when two words are adequate?
There is a flip side to this. Some "simple" words convey an emotion better than their exhaustive counterparts. (Not to mention that word-hoarders like myself tend to forget that we are not only a geeky breed but a sadly diminishing one as well. No offense to anyone out there. I know there are many "lexicon lovers" in the world today.)
I suppose I am blathering in long-hand. What I mean to say is, should you find me with twisted tongue (in either verbal or written word) just remember that it is the "insta" part of my personality that is responding. Deep within, my "judicious" self is shaking her head and writing well-formed apology letters for later. Bear with me.
All my best,
L.T. Elliot
--Virginia Woolf
My blogger alias is "LexiconLuvr," as is the address of my blog. Clearly, it indicates my love of language and the written word while at the same time slandering it by improper spelling. I'd love to tell you that it's a tribute to my little sister who once used "luvr" as a part of a former alias herself but I'd be lying (but my lil' sis is worthy of tribute.) I have committed linguistic sin and yet I still luv the nickname.
I have always felt that I don't fit so well. Not from some belief of superiority (in any measure) or from a freakish deformity of body or mind but simply...I don't blend well. I am, at times, awkward in a conversation; too honest for some, too simple for others, and as some friends can attest, too needy. (As well as too wordy!) And in the physical, I am all of these things, often.
But when I write...when I have time to compose my thoughts and sift through the right words, I am a different person. Perhaps different isn't the right word. When I write, I am nearest to the substantial me, the distilled essence of who I am. Without the burden of my lack of social grace or a crippling insecurity, I am the most elemental me.
I hoard words. I pile them around me and blanket myself beneath their weight when I express myself. They are both haven and mask while simultaneously being windows and keys to discovering me. I use words to express as well as conceal. But mostly, words create a bridge over the yawning chasm I'd normally be unable to span.
And yet, when I am in person I find myself at an utter lack of words. Those faithless friends vanish before the daunting opposition of a physical conversation. I am reduced to a sputtering, incoherent fool who both embarrasses and discomforts those around her. I have an unfortunate tendency to "rush" to fill a void, to blather when I ought to wait and form intelligent, thoughtful responses. In this moment, I do not resemble my father's daughter.
My father--one of the most educated, well-spoken, respected men I've ever known--is patient and wise. When queried, he always pauses to think before he speaks. On occasion, I wonder if he has heard me because of the lull in the conversation. He quickly disabuses me of the notion when he replies. Whether he learned it at his father's knee (also a wonderful, respected man) or my father taught himself, he always speaks with calculated care and rarely offends. He is a peaceable person, to be sure, but that is not the only reason for his admired social grace. He is deliberate and cautious. And I'm sure I shame him often because I have the kind of lanky verbal skill with which one equates to a stumbling baby giraffe. I find I don't struggle as much with written skill.
I am, by no means, a great writer but like I said earlier, I hoard words. They are the only armor I can provide myself; braces for my shaky giraffe legs. Armor aside, they are also a means of laziness. Why use three words when one will do? Why bother to describe and explain with five sentences when two words are adequate?
There is a flip side to this. Some "simple" words convey an emotion better than their exhaustive counterparts. (Not to mention that word-hoarders like myself tend to forget that we are not only a geeky breed but a sadly diminishing one as well. No offense to anyone out there. I know there are many "lexicon lovers" in the world today.)
I suppose I am blathering in long-hand. What I mean to say is, should you find me with twisted tongue (in either verbal or written word) just remember that it is the "insta" part of my personality that is responding. Deep within, my "judicious" self is shaking her head and writing well-formed apology letters for later. Bear with me.
All my best,
L.T. Elliot
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