What goes into a blog post?
What are the goals? What are the pitfalls?
Who is out there, reading it?
What is being added to the sum of noise in cyber-space, by my words?
Who cares?
When I began "Streetrap", I was first in Los Angeles. My tiny loft was in the middle of the Wilshire District, surrounded by multi-cultural centers, The County Art Museum, The La Brea Tar Pits, an ethnic restaurant of every variety every twenty yards, the GLASS Day Program Complex, several neighborhood bars--one working class, one Gay and one Hispanic, and more homeless than I could count. I was employed as the Arts and Education Director of the foster-kid agency, GLASS, Inc. I could walk to the Day Program from my loft. For almost five years, I was happily engaged in the lives of fifty foster teens plus the support staff and Admin of GLASS, Inc. Then CA tanked and GLASS went bankrupt. We all dispersed--the kids hurried off by social workers and parole officers to various facilities--some locked down--others cut free to roam the streets of L.A. Staff scrambled. Many left the city and sought respite far away.
At the time, I had savings, unemployment insurance, and decided to stick around, to see if anything shook out of the mess. There were friends close by; several people I was dating; and the possibility that "something" would come from Heaven to explain how this predicament had occurred. (Hadn't I been recruited for a "forever" job, by the Director of GLASS, Inc.?) The only reason to move away from the beach and beautiful Orange County was because I felt I could contribute something to GLASS; I believed in its crusade of making better lives for ALL kids, regardless of gender, race, ethnicity or HIV status. (A position not all foster agencies were comfortable with...) I felt we were also making history--again. Then, the crisis in California, which began to finally be owned up to across the nation (and which will someday be acknowledged as "The Second Depression"--I am sure!) hit and there were no more jobs for white girls in the inner city, at least not with my credentials and experience. (There were precious few for any women, actually...) Childrens' programs, support groups for families, arts and education resources were drying up. My time of unemployment grew. I needed to get back to doing something--my "break" was getting boring and worrisome.
Back to writing full-time. A novel I've wrestled with for four years, now, and still work on...not exactly Gothic, but not pure horror/fantasy, either. Not a romance, though it is romantical. Definitely not a vampire chapter...Lots of research, lots of plot lines and characters...but it was a stewing mess. The poetry wasn't coming. It's "tap" had been turned off. As my writing non-fiction expanded, my creation of posy decreased. I began to co-write a screenplay. Co-writing is tough--the one thing a writer relies upon: absolute control, is foregone. I did a few reviews and some short fiction, but nothing was connecting my reality with my writing.
Charles Bukowski, the irreverent Los Angeles icon, lived on the edge, until his death. His novels and his poetry sustained my "outsider status" when I first arrived in the late seventies. Feminists were horrified that I loved his prose--that I attended his readings and bought his books (mostly used). I didn't care. It balanced out my superbly "politically correct" life in other areas. Secretly, I felt like Bukowski. Women made me crazy--I didn't understand them. Men made me feel hopeless--the ruling elite made me powerless. I lived among the insane, the homeless, the prostitutes and drug addicts in a big city. I saw the life force sucked dry by the drying palms on Sunset and Santa Monica. I was part of the picture, even as he was, and we both were trying to write about it. Bukowski gave me a kind of template to frame my best work, I think. But now, he was dead. The city had turned a corner. I needed something new.
"Streetrap" became my on-line communication in cyber-space of what I was witnessing and feeling.
When I finally realized it was time to return to "the clan" and try to reconnect before the parental units were off to the next lifetime, I just kept writing.
My goals were to post at least an entry a week--more if I had something interesting to say. I wanted each blogpost to stand as a separate entity: to be able to be read by itself, not knowing who I was or what biases I contained. Almost like mini-short stories. Like Bukowski, I wanted to illuminate the exceptional in the ordinary. I wanted to write what I could not find anywhere else.
Unlike Bukowski, my boozing and drugging days are long, long ago. I have no place to pour out my frustrations or sadness or anger--except the page. Sometimes, long stretches of time pass and there is nothing really "interesting"--except in a Zen way. I try to take those moments and expand them--examine them--make them plain and plainer--to understand the simple, powerful Truth that is contained there. Does it make for great writing? I'm not sure. Often I feel that I've captured a nuance, a mood, a character, a plotline. Other times, it feels empty. I try to move away from the emotional examination of each blog...unlike when I do write a finished short story or novel. This sets the blog apart. I think it makes it more raw, immediate, useful.
A pitfall is that when a potential employer reads my blog, depending on what values, belief systems, religious or spiritual affinity or history the person contains, I can be judged without debate. People often feel that they "know" a writer after reading some of her/his work. (I do!) This may or may not be true...A potential employer holds the writer's life in his/her hands, economically speaking. Telling the truth, unless it lines up, is sometimes dangerous in these times.
At a job that had been promised to me, recently, and then was snatched from me, the given concerns were not what I really think were being mulled over. I was simply told: You're too much of a writer.
What did that mean?
Most writers I know make their economic livelihoods via teaching in some capacity. Wouldn't it be a plus to have an English teacher on staff who is a published, commercial and award-winning author? It has always translated as a plus to my students--but evidently, not so much with my Administrators. Why? (The person who had made this statement had read nothing of my fiction; none of my poetry; none of my essays or reviews. He made this statement, supposedly, based solely on my blogs...)My blogs are now tracing the life of a returning "outsider" to her hometown, thirty plus years after leaving. In New England, the fact of "leaving" can be seen as a sort of travesty. I am also dealing with an aging, extended family; with a father twenty-five years in the middle of local city politics, now retired; with a mother battling cancer; with nieces and sibs, each on their own voyages of self-discovery and survival. How this might be viewed as controversial remains to be seen...for him, it was, and something that helped make his decision to rescind the proffered position.
Beyond employment, the downside to writing about one's familia is obvious. We all see things through our own filters. My experiences, as an adult, have been mostly on the West Coast, past the fault lines and "leftists" that are the biggest fears of my bloods. California is a cartoon wasteland. Disney is still King. (Judging by the reality shows shot there, it is hard to argue against this interpretation.)Excess is the law of the land.
My re-entering, especially as I fight the historical economic downsizing around me, is the stuff operas are written about. I don't write lyrics,nor music. This blog is my "opera". And as we all know, not everyone is a fan.
People that I know are reading my posts are of course, far-flung friends; professional and personal contacts; evidently employers (for better or worse); my familia; Facebook attendees; long lost connections; some fans who follow me, not on Twitter, but via Google; the odd surfer of the Net; old lovers; old enemies; the curious; the sleep deprived. I welcome all readers. I welcome debate and discussion and comments and hope to grow from this exchange. Unlike poetry, there are no "performance blogs"--at least, not to my knowledge. So, this, then, is the podium. My hope is that these posts give people something to talk about--show a detail of life which they have not yet encountered; give them pause and make them wonder. Wonder--in the best way.
My dream is that someone, somewhere, on a particularly lonely or cold night, will stumble upon these posts and lose their worries in the short, short stories I am living out. It will make them feel less alone; less weary; less sad. Perhaps there will be some laughter, too, or a realization that what they feared was a personal tragedy happens to all of us, in some disguise. This is what Bukowski's weird tales did for me when I arrived out west, alone and scared and very young.
I am a writer. I breathe. I think. I write.
This is the new frontier.
What are the goals? What are the pitfalls?
Who is out there, reading it?
What is being added to the sum of noise in cyber-space, by my words?
Who cares?
When I began "Streetrap", I was first in Los Angeles. My tiny loft was in the middle of the Wilshire District, surrounded by multi-cultural centers, The County Art Museum, The La Brea Tar Pits, an ethnic restaurant of every variety every twenty yards, the GLASS Day Program Complex, several neighborhood bars--one working class, one Gay and one Hispanic, and more homeless than I could count. I was employed as the Arts and Education Director of the foster-kid agency, GLASS, Inc. I could walk to the Day Program from my loft. For almost five years, I was happily engaged in the lives of fifty foster teens plus the support staff and Admin of GLASS, Inc. Then CA tanked and GLASS went bankrupt. We all dispersed--the kids hurried off by social workers and parole officers to various facilities--some locked down--others cut free to roam the streets of L.A. Staff scrambled. Many left the city and sought respite far away.
At the time, I had savings, unemployment insurance, and decided to stick around, to see if anything shook out of the mess. There were friends close by; several people I was dating; and the possibility that "something" would come from Heaven to explain how this predicament had occurred. (Hadn't I been recruited for a "forever" job, by the Director of GLASS, Inc.?) The only reason to move away from the beach and beautiful Orange County was because I felt I could contribute something to GLASS; I believed in its crusade of making better lives for ALL kids, regardless of gender, race, ethnicity or HIV status. (A position not all foster agencies were comfortable with...) I felt we were also making history--again. Then, the crisis in California, which began to finally be owned up to across the nation (and which will someday be acknowledged as "The Second Depression"--I am sure!) hit and there were no more jobs for white girls in the inner city, at least not with my credentials and experience. (There were precious few for any women, actually...) Childrens' programs, support groups for families, arts and education resources were drying up. My time of unemployment grew. I needed to get back to doing something--my "break" was getting boring and worrisome.
Back to writing full-time. A novel I've wrestled with for four years, now, and still work on...not exactly Gothic, but not pure horror/fantasy, either. Not a romance, though it is romantical. Definitely not a vampire chapter...Lots of research, lots of plot lines and characters...but it was a stewing mess. The poetry wasn't coming. It's "tap" had been turned off. As my writing non-fiction expanded, my creation of posy decreased. I began to co-write a screenplay. Co-writing is tough--the one thing a writer relies upon: absolute control, is foregone. I did a few reviews and some short fiction, but nothing was connecting my reality with my writing.
Charles Bukowski, the irreverent Los Angeles icon, lived on the edge, until his death. His novels and his poetry sustained my "outsider status" when I first arrived in the late seventies. Feminists were horrified that I loved his prose--that I attended his readings and bought his books (mostly used). I didn't care. It balanced out my superbly "politically correct" life in other areas. Secretly, I felt like Bukowski. Women made me crazy--I didn't understand them. Men made me feel hopeless--the ruling elite made me powerless. I lived among the insane, the homeless, the prostitutes and drug addicts in a big city. I saw the life force sucked dry by the drying palms on Sunset and Santa Monica. I was part of the picture, even as he was, and we both were trying to write about it. Bukowski gave me a kind of template to frame my best work, I think. But now, he was dead. The city had turned a corner. I needed something new.
"Streetrap" became my on-line communication in cyber-space of what I was witnessing and feeling.
When I finally realized it was time to return to "the clan" and try to reconnect before the parental units were off to the next lifetime, I just kept writing.
My goals were to post at least an entry a week--more if I had something interesting to say. I wanted each blogpost to stand as a separate entity: to be able to be read by itself, not knowing who I was or what biases I contained. Almost like mini-short stories. Like Bukowski, I wanted to illuminate the exceptional in the ordinary. I wanted to write what I could not find anywhere else.
Unlike Bukowski, my boozing and drugging days are long, long ago. I have no place to pour out my frustrations or sadness or anger--except the page. Sometimes, long stretches of time pass and there is nothing really "interesting"--except in a Zen way. I try to take those moments and expand them--examine them--make them plain and plainer--to understand the simple, powerful Truth that is contained there. Does it make for great writing? I'm not sure. Often I feel that I've captured a nuance, a mood, a character, a plotline. Other times, it feels empty. I try to move away from the emotional examination of each blog...unlike when I do write a finished short story or novel. This sets the blog apart. I think it makes it more raw, immediate, useful.
A pitfall is that when a potential employer reads my blog, depending on what values, belief systems, religious or spiritual affinity or history the person contains, I can be judged without debate. People often feel that they "know" a writer after reading some of her/his work. (I do!) This may or may not be true...A potential employer holds the writer's life in his/her hands, economically speaking. Telling the truth, unless it lines up, is sometimes dangerous in these times.
At a job that had been promised to me, recently, and then was snatched from me, the given concerns were not what I really think were being mulled over. I was simply told: You're too much of a writer.
What did that mean?
Most writers I know make their economic livelihoods via teaching in some capacity. Wouldn't it be a plus to have an English teacher on staff who is a published, commercial and award-winning author? It has always translated as a plus to my students--but evidently, not so much with my Administrators. Why? (The person who had made this statement had read nothing of my fiction; none of my poetry; none of my essays or reviews. He made this statement, supposedly, based solely on my blogs...)My blogs are now tracing the life of a returning "outsider" to her hometown, thirty plus years after leaving. In New England, the fact of "leaving" can be seen as a sort of travesty. I am also dealing with an aging, extended family; with a father twenty-five years in the middle of local city politics, now retired; with a mother battling cancer; with nieces and sibs, each on their own voyages of self-discovery and survival. How this might be viewed as controversial remains to be seen...for him, it was, and something that helped make his decision to rescind the proffered position.
Beyond employment, the downside to writing about one's familia is obvious. We all see things through our own filters. My experiences, as an adult, have been mostly on the West Coast, past the fault lines and "leftists" that are the biggest fears of my bloods. California is a cartoon wasteland. Disney is still King. (Judging by the reality shows shot there, it is hard to argue against this interpretation.)Excess is the law of the land.
My re-entering, especially as I fight the historical economic downsizing around me, is the stuff operas are written about. I don't write lyrics,nor music. This blog is my "opera". And as we all know, not everyone is a fan.
People that I know are reading my posts are of course, far-flung friends; professional and personal contacts; evidently employers (for better or worse); my familia; Facebook attendees; long lost connections; some fans who follow me, not on Twitter, but via Google; the odd surfer of the Net; old lovers; old enemies; the curious; the sleep deprived. I welcome all readers. I welcome debate and discussion and comments and hope to grow from this exchange. Unlike poetry, there are no "performance blogs"--at least, not to my knowledge. So, this, then, is the podium. My hope is that these posts give people something to talk about--show a detail of life which they have not yet encountered; give them pause and make them wonder. Wonder--in the best way.
My dream is that someone, somewhere, on a particularly lonely or cold night, will stumble upon these posts and lose their worries in the short, short stories I am living out. It will make them feel less alone; less weary; less sad. Perhaps there will be some laughter, too, or a realization that what they feared was a personal tragedy happens to all of us, in some disguise. This is what Bukowski's weird tales did for me when I arrived out west, alone and scared and very young.
I am a writer. I breathe. I think. I write.
This is the new frontier.
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