Second Sunrise of the Day, part 2
Liza's Note : I love this question posed by BL : Do you use fiction writing to write about real stories?
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Continued from (as a Coda?) Second Sunrise of the Day, part 1
So, you might be wondering, what’s become of Stone Creek hill today?
It’s a cow pasture. Always was. Smiling
Where’d that come from? It was Âanother among my weird little meditations that Mike B. thinks are fiction. Since I barely edit and only proofread as much as I can stand it, the early ones I'd produced, they didn’t seem much like writing fiction to me. They were just babbling. Or 'tellin' stories' as my gramps always called it.
This one feels more like writing fiction. But the experience was so odd. And now I’m curious if others do the same thing. Is this how fiction writers do it? That it’s happening so frequently lately, is odd and a little disconcerting.
I can’t even begin to explain it. It was the weirdest experience of memory becoming so vivid I could smell, I could taste, I could see, I could feel these memories. I swear. It was surreal. I could feel the bristle of Dad men’s five-o’clock shadows. I could see, as if it was right in front of me, the tan of a Dad man’s arm and his black forearm hair.
Very strange.
So, this built off this:
Shakespeare’s sister was prompted to ask about childhood toys. Responding, I realized that toys didn’t figure prominently for anyone in my neighborhood of girls.
I can’t really remember toys being a big part of our world. We had some, we just didn’t have very many or even have things we lusted after enough to remember being upset we didn’t get them or being told ‘no.’
The * only * one I can remember is Operation.
We had the hand-me-down Crissy doll. I vaguely recall a baby doll with closing eyes as a very tiny one. Mostly, I remember board games. The rest? Toys were things like ice skates, bikes, sleds. I think the big thing both my younger sister and I wanted and never got: a race track or a train track. I lusted after race tracks and train tracks. My very little sister had a Fisher Price Garage and at 9/10 years old, I played with it, reveling in finally getting something that resembled a race track. Wheeeeee curving ‘round the parking garage ramp.
But, all-in-all, toys weren’t much a part of our lives. We had adult castoffs to play grown up games like "office," "store," "diner," and "house."
Otherwise, it was all outdoors stuff: forts, fishing in the creek, building boats, hiking hills, swimming, sledding, snowshoeing, ice skating, putting on mini-Olympics shows, dance shows, tennis in a parking lot.
And then, all of a sudden, I was typing. I was literally typing at times, my eyes out of focus. because I was in another state, looking toward some spot on a blank wall that was transformed into a vivid pastiche of feelings, sounds, taste, smells, imagery.
It was fucking strange. I could see myself doing it and I couldn’t stop typing.
I told my partner, R, that I thought I might be going a little crazy. Well, craziER. Smiling
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Feminism | Fiction | Writing
There is so much to say about this
I could go on forever; but for the short of it, all of my writing, even some of my more objective pieces, are about story-telling. I tell stories and through those stories I tell the truth.
These days most of my writing is inspired, on the far end of inspiration, by the tone and rhythm of spoken word poetry; but I like to think that my blogging is closer to essais, a la Montaigne. And when I get funny, I'd like to think I am writing stand-up; which is to me these days a big mountain conquer.
I used to get into those trance like states while writing and I honestly miss them. But having two kids around me most of the time makes it difficult to fall into that state --I leave that for standing meditations in the shower
Nowadays though writing has become another way of speaking. I have to write emails, blog and even prefer IM over phone calls. So writing has become second nature to me.