Immersion.

I've got a secret.

It's something I divulged to a mentee today to help him get over his writer's block. After spilling the beans, I realized that it might just be the thing to place here on the Smock. So here I am.

There are situations that I've been in, fully aware that they were/are harmful to my emotional being. Situations that include heartbreak, the unknown, pointless reiteration and sometimes utter chaos. There is this little being, inside of me, that gnaws at me to go through with the turmoil. Why?

Because deep down, that little being and I know that the madness will evolve into a flurry of amazing snowflake-method short stories/poems/journal entries. Yes, I let that damaging flame of a relationship burn out, I've taken the two train into the abyss beyond my stop and I've even sat in the middle of a random back and forth throttling between two strangers. 0_O

Because they make for damn good stories.

Crazy? No, not really. It's the journalist--being that I was one for my first two years of undergrad---inside of me. Just as the war reporter delves directly into the madness to gain a story, I've felt obligated to do the same.

This ploy is not for the faint of heart.

I repeat, this ploy is NOT for the faint of the heart.

The hurt I've gathered along my pathway to life is easily healed by placing it within the safe space of my journal. Knowing this, I've been able to recognize a good story as it plays out, step to the outside of it (while still being actually IN it) and formulate/speculate an ending before it happens. This helps me deem whether its worth going through with to actually write said story. Knowing that I could take this hurt and mold it into perfection on paper allowed me to push myself through many uneasy situations.

In no way is this recommendation. <-----In no way is that statement a deterrence either. If "immersion" is something you feel you can do without losing it, be my guest. If not, think again.

The second step is holding it all in until I reach the crevices of my lined sanctuary. I don't tell a soul. The words seem to bursts from my literary seams when I do this.

POTENT.

INTOXICATING.

Why not tell anyone, yet? Well, it's kind of like the game of telephone. A story diminishes its power a little bit, every time it's relayed. As a writer, its important for me to show my readers the madness firsthand, undiminished by retelling. That way, the reader leaves the page adrenaline rushing, wide eyed, dangling and strung along by the tale their heart feels they've actually just witnessed.

It is our unique experiences that make our individualistic tales so highly addictive. Every time I "immerse" myself into writing a story at my computer, I am entranced until I hit the very last letter of the last word. Writing it this way transfers my trance energy to the reader. Or so I hope.

I'm an addict for good literature and I'd want nothing less. So I try, whenever I open my ink veins and give prose hemoglobin, to give exactly that.........an addiction.

Get High.

-riv-
SMOCKER DEUCE 

Courage.

Today I was supposed to write about some of my most personal "writing secrets." However, after our Writer's Smock meeting, I've decided that writing about something personal would step out of the realms of well.....the writing tip arena. Clearly motivated by Ralph's post below, I've decided to post "Regretting Me." A short story/memoir influenced by my daydreams of what could've/should have been. The piece came across like one of my journal entries and I feared that my audience would be bewildered by it. I feared they'd ask, "Who is this emotional and insecure girl? Where is the confident and sarcastic one we're used to." I feared they might not relate.

Group member Thierry conveyed that a "journal entry" such as this one might be exactly the VERY thing they could relate to. I never viewed letting down my vulnerability as wearing my heart on my sleeve, but as exposing my dirty laundry. But my laundry isn't dirty at all. In fact, laundry day happened to be on Sunday sitting alongside three of my favorite dudes; who never judge, listen to all (no matter how crazy) intently, always smile, and make my burdens (laundry) feel lighter than usual.

Without any further ado, here's "Regretting Me":

I’m terrible at speaking. Often when I say this, friends fling their arms up in accusation. I am suddenly a liar because my profession is the oasis of oral communication. However, the truth is I’m only truly prolific within the written word. This is my confession.

At sixteen I was a queen of the good kind of manipulation and conversation. Kept men and boys, who swore they weren’t conversationalists, up until sunrise with banter of old shows, ideology, and the book jackets I’d lingered too long on. I remember that girl: Long hair, braces, and a size six; she wore her intelligence on the inside. Only those who prodded past the surface knew of the hundreds of journals, the categorized library, and obsession with fantasy.

I witnessed myself flip inside out. After spending too many months guarding my heart after a first heartbreak I’d lost the ability to communicate.

“Busy yourself.”

This is what my mother said when she saw I was on the verge of tears. The mechanism of multiplying your to-do list to forget your troubles had always seemed to work for her. So that’s exactly what I did. I immersed myself into five novels a week, fingered finger foods nearby, wrote like my fingers didn’t cramp, and considered myself a Salinger anti-socialist.

My first slam poem dripped with the anger of puppy love. As hard as it is to admit, he is the reason for the force I am today. When the notoriety started to pile on, I realized how much I’d pushed myself away from my own reality. When I looked up, the boys who used to find me funny were turned off by my incessant rambling of my latest read, my home girls—content with cruising the mall for a man—were annoyed by reiteration on how they deserved the love that Paulo Coelho had embedded into my psyche, and lost my uncanny ability to connect.

After forty extra pounds, braces that didn’t quite work, and the ability to mesmerize and intimidate all at the same time; I’ve failed to bring back the lass I once was. During those few months, my confidence seeped into the pages of those journals and only seems to flood me when I’m reading from them.

“Busy yourself” followed me through undergrad, grad school, and sits with me today. A show a week, five books every two, killing packs of pens within a month; time slips through my hourglass fingers like a goddess waiting to die.

Now I stutter in conversation, pull hard for words I write everyday, smile less, cry more, dance only in the mirror, and sing only in the shower.

I often regret me. Wonder how my life would’ve been different if I’d catcalled cuties at Roosevelt, continued rocking lunchroom ciphers, gave my best friend the chance he asked for, got on my knees and told God I needed him, kept pretending I didn’t know Langston and Zora back and forth and falling in love wasn’t my favorite pastime. Wonder if I’d paid more attention to my body, lingered less between the shelves, and kissed more eager boys; who I might’ve been.

I regret the bitter, the broken, the surreal me. The aggressive, non-submissive, I-got-my-own-shit-so-eff-you me.

I gaze at Briana, my high yellow light brown-eyed best friend, and watch her twirl men into a samba through the draw of a finger. I am amazed at her effortless pull of awe. She doesn’t care about cultural cuisine, could care less about the NY Times Bestseller list and doesn’t know who Basquiat is; but the world wants to paint her.

That’s jealous me speaking.

But I love her. Love her like late night Jill Scott concerts, Brandon in my arms while she sings and me running up to cook dinner for us afterwards.

“I’ll be right up. I’ve got to make a call.” he says.

Love her like sitting at a table with cold chicken Parmesan, your man on the phone with his ex two hours outside the door of your apartment. Love her like when I didn’t have those words, those good manipulative words, she flew down the steps pushed his ass in the vehicle and demanded he never come back.

Those words.

Those hold-on-right-quick-I-got-to-pee, wake-up-to-you-snoring-on-the-receiver, girl you make me feel likkkkeeeeeee words.

I miss those words. Miss them like a book that I didn’t have to analyze, the kind that sinks to your stomach like warm tea and glows like melanin. A good book with a girl who loved, lost, and found herself again. I’ve been reading every one I come across, hoping those words will find their way home.

-Riv

Smocker Duece

Week One with Writer's Smock in My Life.

Before I got smocked, it seemed that writing was such a lonely pursuit. I'm exaggerating y'all; the pen nor paper talk back to me, but when they marry their talents, it talks vicariously though my voice box from when arranging a few letters to form words; words that form sentences. These sentences form the paragraphs that visualize my personal stroke.

But now, I have strength in numbers. I got Jeff writing poetry and being a burgeoning writer in his own right. Theirry learning how to hone his craft for public consumption (and doing a great job with the spotlight on), and Erica, my constant companion in volleying fresh ideas when hitting the writer's wall.

Here is a sum of the writing week that was for me:

1. Got focused on reading. Reading only enhances your skill as a writer and here are some of the selections that I devoured:
- Waiter Rant by Steve Dubilanica
- Why We Make Mistakes by Joseph T. Hallinan
- Thinkertoys, Second Edition, by Michael Michalko

This jumpstarted my creativity, and got my imagination running wild. I learned many pertinent nuggets within the texts and look forward to reporting them on the smock blog and my own blog as well.

2. Erica taught Jeff and I the foundations in performing poetry slam. Slam's are when you perform an original work and you have a grand total of 3 minutes to use mannerisms, your voice box, your mind, and your thoughts to convey the message. To say we got thrown into the fire is an understatement. Our first performance is April 13th. Yikes.

3. Made a dent in my first crack at a novel, Muse of a Maneater. Seems so close but yet so far.

4. Wrote numerous short stories, for myself, and for public posting

5. Learning the basis of Spencerian Script, a technique developed by Platt Rodger's Spencer, who wanted an easy uniform script system that was inspired by the signers of the Declaration of Independence. I had a good first week, where I learned half of the lowercase letters. I'll report my progress as time elapses.

At the very least, smocking it out as got me focused.

Until Next time. Our next meeting.

Ralph - Numero Uno Mother Smocker.