Back in the writing business

“To everybody I replied: “Go away, you make me nervous.”

–John Barleycorn Jack London

I’m pioneering myself into a new dimension of writing, perhaps one that nobody has gone into before. Would you like to come with me on the adventure? I’m going to pull myself out of this darkness and rise like a Phoenix in a triumphant victory over all things pulling me down.

After achieving a sort of clarity after drying myself out from alcohol (which isn’t as easy as you might think), my brain went directly to the keys on my laptop and wanted to dance. They wanted to create beautiful miniature ballets for the world to absorb and escape into. Little daydreams in increments of 1,000 words a piece. I am not Jack London, however, I do admire him and his work, and instead of worshiping the writers that I have in the past, I’m going to take to good old JL for inspiration. Jack London wouldn’t do a single thing in the morning until he had written at least 1,000 words. It doesn’t seem like a lot, but until you sit at a keyboard and try to squeeze them out, you really don’t know.

My goal, over the next year, is to be like a little Jack London and write at least 1,000 words a day and most the articles on my WordPress blog site (uh this one, duh). Some of you that have been with my blog for a long time might remember when I was doing a fundraiser for the “Great American Red Shark Adventure”, and had a link where you could donate to the trip. I’m going to do that again and grant anyone who donates to the cause the password to get into the special daily site. There could be anything posted anyday to begin with, but I want to make a weekly schedule and have a different topic every day. Such as Monday will be about cars, Tuesday will be about Mental Health, Wednesday will be about Travel, Thursday will be about daily life, I’ll have Fiction Friday, Saturday in the news, and Sunday a freeforall.

All monies that are accrued will be split in half, with one half going to the struggling writer and the other half going to NAMI (National Alliance for Mental Illness)

Click the link below to make a donation/purchase. I’ll send you the password, and the donation will be valid for a year after purchase. Send what you think is fair, a dollar a day would be pretty nice, but hey, even a penny a day is something! Help me help you enjoy life through the eyes of a girl that is keeping herself away for the “adventure path and brain maggots”. Clean living is good living!

www.paypal.me/WeedNikki

***Did you know Jack London was born into poverty in the slums of San Fransisco***

There was a time in my life that I would crave the sweet feeling of the keys under my fingers as I would flutter myself through a magazine article, writing a book, or even just composing a passionate email to a special somebody. Those times I cherish in my mind, sort of like fuzzy holiday family time memories, recounting every detail of the environment. My favorite place to chug away at, say, a writing project was at the big old dining room table, at the head of the table, peering out into the black night. I’d always write at night, when everybody had gone to bed, it would be my special time.

***Did you know Jack Londons mother tried to kill herself twice while carrying Jack in the womb. The first tried Laudanum (a liquid morphine) to overdose to no avail, then tried to shoot herself in the head, only for the gun to malfunction.

There were times that I leaned on my ability to compose words to soothe my soul a little bit too heavy and it seemed more like a chore. Pressures to get newsletters done would make those sweet keys seem like nails that would pierce me with every keystroke. There were also  periods of time that I didn’t even want to write articles because I was timid about getting the feedback from my editors. The criticizing words would be like daggers to my writing personality. Instead of being a fluid thinking writer – I turned into a choppy, unorganized writer that was about as washed up as a Billy Baldwin sitcom.

“Wander with me through one mood of the myriad moods of sadness into which one is plunged by John Barleycorn.”

Jack London, John Barleycorn

That period of time, I am forever going to refer to as my “personal B side” (for those of the younger, square generation, this is a reference to the “B” side of a racord, where you would typically find the songs that have good bones, but not quite catchy enough to be radio worthy.) My personal “B” side was directly caused by John Barleycorn himself, aka: Liquor. At first it was a little, I would pour myself a glass of bourbon while I say at my laptop and worked on either BMW tasks or planning my next big adventure. I’d submit my articles, post on the website, or just archive ideas and flow charts of the next big writing idea. I’d pour that first glass of bourbon (or on occasion Scotch, or Rum, or…well, you get the point) and the creative juices would start flowing like syrup from a sugar maple. I was on it, my words were weapons, my mind agile, and my hopes and dreams for my future were bright.

****Did you know Jack was arrested as a vagrant while being on the “adventure path”, riding the rails, toiling around the big country and seeing whatever was aside the tracks. When he was arrested, they kept him in the lockup for a month and after getting released, Jack returned back to California.

Then life got complicated – details not necessary – but just imagine being on one of those carnival rides that spin in a circle and also spins the car you’re in through smaller circles, all the while going up and down. Trying to get your bearings and your mind straight while constantly spinning is almost impossible, but then try doing that while pickling your liver every day by pouring some foul tasting (most of the time) liquid down your throat? The elixir of life, I was convinced it would bring me back to facing front and getting back on tract to achieving my goals. I’m not embarrassed to say, I turned into a full blown almost dysfunctional alcoholic. I’m not proud to say it, either, but I turned that around.

“These are two of the deadliest drinking habits: regular drinking and solitary drinking”

John Barleycorn Jack London

Towards the end of my personal “b” side, I started stretching for help and answers in books, meetings, and even therapy. All of them said I needed an outlet, sadly my brain couldn’t comprehend what it meant to sit still and not be seeking my next drink. I started small, by reading a book. John Barleycorn was my pick, primarily because I was curious as to what the hell it was. I knew it was something referring to drink, but there had to be more about it. The book, writen in 1913 could have very well been my personal memoir, however, I am female and instead of cannerys and dry cleaners to work in, I went through wringers of different Nurseries, schooling and pharmacies. He was milling about life, following his adventure path, trying to find his niche in the world. This was his personal life story, he poured out his ugly inner thoughts and experiences, and I can almost assure you that it was a more therapeutic project to him to write that book as apposed to something that would actually provide him more wealth in later years.

“I am. I was. I am not. I never am.”

-John Barleycorn

 

Pole Vaulting Over Mouse Turds

There aren’t any little things in life for me lately. Things are just all dramatic and what seems like life shattering. Although I’m keeping my head above water, it’s really starting to get to me. As I adventure through life as an anonymous alcoholic, I’m learning exactly WHY things seems more severe and I feel more passionate towards things that before didn’t really matter much. It’s because life is  a big deal. Living is a big deal, and dying is no laughing matter.

Let me preface this with my definition of “death” – the ending result of loss of life. It can be death of a relationship, death of a living creature, or death to an idea. I’ve found that I’m experiencing all sorts of those all at once. I’m surrounded by death. It’s everywhere. I can look out at people that usually know me as happy-go-lucky and I have this somber look about me. I’ve even been asked if I’m “all in there”, rest assured I am. Death is just a bitch. I’ve never dealt with it before.

Lets pick this apart using a very excellent analogy I heard locally. A buddy of a buddy told a dude once “You know, normal people they just kind of step over mouse turds and go about their business. I however, over think and prepare and exert all this unnecessary effort in getting over something that most people would find easy, if not invisible. In the relationship aspect there is no “invisible”, you can’t pretend is isn’t/wasn’t/won’t be there. It’s always going to be a hot topic and something certainly worth pole vaulting over any size turd for. I, however, have been soiling on purpose just to see if I can vault over my own turds in addition to the random ones that get dropped into my life.

Instead of dealing with other peoples problems as they relate to my own, I was shitting in other peoples cages. That isn’t right, I feel badly about that. Now I’m on a search seek and clean mission, not just for myself but to try to heal the people that I made deal with my pole vaulting mentality. Something as little and simple as what to eat for dinner became as big an event as the Super Bowl. My ability to make something out of nothing was extreme…and I was extremely pissed when it all came into light for me. All of the energy I spent in my relationships (past and present) I’ve been looking for stuff to jump over instead of just focusing on everything else going on. I was constantly on poo patrol.

It stunk, but nobodies fault but my own.

Death of a creature is something that I guess I know,  but then again I don’t know. There is this hole that gets ripped inside of you, which causes pain and confusion. Instead of focusing on the overall picture of being out of pain, I’ve found that I just focus on the “woe is me” aspect and wallow in my own self pity. I use this as a tool to arrange for a pole vault extravaganza and find sadness wherever I look. Oh, that song was his favorite, oh that cookie was her favorite, oh she was the best cat and loved to play in the leaves, oh that car was so amazing. I jump from turd to turd just anticipating a moment in which I can stew in my sad juices and think about my own death. Piling up my own turds. Sigh.

I didn’t realize how facinated with death I really am until speaking aloud in class the other day about how I would react to a certain situation. This in turn lead to me plainly answering “I wouldn’t deal with it, I’d find the tallest tree and the shortest rope and swing in the breeze.” This of course didn’t amuse anybody in the class, and I’m sure it alerted the instructor,  but that’s exactly what I was feeling. Damn it, if I’m going to fuck up, I’m going to do it with style and punish myself afterwards.

I realized, however, I don’t have to fuck up. I don’t have to use all of that energy In order to properly save myself from this life long pole vault extravaganza, I’d have to commit myself to death of ideas.

The idea that I’m not good enough for anybody.

The idea that I’m not strong enough to become who I want to be.

The idea that I’m not smart enough to make good decisions.

The idea that I’m a troll from under a bridge.

The idea that I’m destined to be a screw up.

Last night I experienced death…death of pride. I really thought it would come in a different way, but it was subtle and really was a sucker punch. As I prepared myself for sleep I put my head against my pillow and listened. What I used to hear was the occasional car and perhaps owl hooting outside. Last night it was surround sound of three old men all sharing the same house snoring to their hearts content. They had their own special lives in their own private rooms and I was just like them. They’re all over 50, I’m thirty. I can’t go another 20 years plus of living this life. I won’t go another 20 plus years of being on an air mattress and listening to the three stooges in concert. In order to make this happen death has to occur.

Death of ideas, death of a few dreams, death of a few relationships. Most important though, with death comes new life. We’ll see what happens.