writing

I’m back. Hope the magic will follow.

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In the last eight months not one person has asked me why I have not written a blog post. I could be devastated, crushed, demoralized. I could decide to scrap the whole thing.

Maybe I should quit.

But I am not going to. Not yet.

Why bother, you may ask, if no one even notices when you are missing?

Because even though no one wondered enough to ask me why I was no longer posting new content, when I looked at the analytics of my blog I discovered that even in my absence, new readers continued to discover the old posts. I have always said if my writing helps even one person, then it is worth my time.

I began my blog after reading “Let’s Pretend This Never Happened” by Jenny Lawson. I discovered beside writing memoir, she also had a blog: www.thebloggess.com   

Her writing focuses on her day to day struggle with anxiety and depression. She writes authentically, with sarcastic humor. She is an inspiration to me, as is every person trying to live their best life with health difficulties, either mental or physical. I would say that is damn near all of us this past year or so. And if it isn’t “us”, then it is someone near to our hearts.

Jenny now has two follow-up books to her debut memoir. Her struggles continue; her writing does too. Maybe Jenny Lawson doesn’t just write for an audience. Maybe she writes to save her life.

Maybe I don’t just write my blog posts for you. Maybe they are for me too.

If this post seems incoherent and scattered, you are not wrong. You would also be right if you guessed that is a reflection of my state of mind over the last eight months since my last post.

I did not write new blog posts because I typically wish to add a dose a humor to my stories. I’ve always been able to find humor in any situation, but over the course of the past months, even my dark medical humor was missing. And that folks is how I know I have not been myself.

I know I am not alone. Though I have not been present here, I have not been in seclusion. I have been off cavorting with words in other places. I’ve been in online courses and writing groups with other “creatives”. I’ve felt the weight of the longing for normalcy in our days, human connection, and the yearning for creativity to spark once again, in myself and others.

I’ve decided to stop waiting for creativity to strike like lightning, for the light bulb to appear over my head, and instead just get butt in chair, pen to the page, fingers to the keyboard, and let the magic return one word at a time.

And isn’t that how magic happens? Take a leap and believe.

#writeforyourlife

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While presenting a workshop I attended this week via Pandemic University, Michael Lista suggested people know they want to write, or what they want to write, long before they know the why.
Being a naturally introspective sort, I have been contemplating my “why?” ever since.

Then today I came across a fellow Sjogren’s friend’s post online saying she is going to be returning to writing her blog this weekend. Her comment to friends and family was “It’s scary”. This was my response to her:

“Being scared means you are vulnerable, being vulnerable means you are authentic, being authentic means you got real with your words, and that is what people relate to the very most. It’s all good.”

Today as I thought about why I write, I drilled down to be more specific, thinking about why I write about personal health issues. The personal health topic brings me the most fear when writing, but probably not for the reasons you might guess. What scares me the most is that people might think I am doing it for attention or sympathy. I fear people thinking I am being dramatic regarding events that happened. Trust me, truth IS stranger than fiction; I do not need to embellish a word.

So what do I want?

Why write health stories to post publicly?

One is a selfish reason, the other altruistic.

First, the selfish reason. I have zero desire for sympathy. However, I do crave understanding for my particular situation. I want people to understand my strange constellation of autoimmune connective tissue illnesses, the myriad of symptoms that combine to make every day a new adventure.

The second reason is to educate others, in the hope of preventing them, or someone they love, from suffering needlessly as they wade through the murky bog that diagnosis, treatment, and living with a chronic health issue of any type can be. I want to spare people needless anxiety, especially if they are in the middle of a health misdiagnosis fiasco.

So that is the why of writing about my medical issues. But what about my other writing – the word balm poems, the “bite-size” childhood memoir, the Mr. Wanton stories, the fiction and other memoir not yet published on my blog or elsewhere, but still buried in notebooks between other journal writing?

When I was a young girl, I remember playing games like tag, or Blind Man’s Bluff, running to breathlessness, being chased, kids hollering “run for your life!” I ran to be “safe”.

Now, “I write for my life”.

That said, Michael Lista also told the class this week: “Never trust a writer who thinks they’ve figured it out.”

 

Links that may be of interest:

Friend, fellow Sjogren’s patient, writer Christine Molloy’s blog “Thoughts and Ramblings on Life, Love and Health”. http://www.christinemolloy.com

Writer Michael Lista’s webpage. http://www.michaellista.com

Pandemic University, a totally fake university with excellent 90 minute live and archived writing sessions presented by experts in the field. http://www.pandemicuniversity.com

sometimes all you can do is walk, read a poem

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For several years I have been submitting a poem, or two, to the annual Friends of the
University of Alberta Hospital poetry contest. The poems are to focus on “hope,
healing, and the hospital experience”. Medical staff, patients, and visitors are
all invited to submit. The selected poems are on display for one year on the
“Poetry Walk” wall on the second floor. The “Poetry Walk” is across from the pedway
to the Kidney Clinic, or straight down the long hall from Diagnostic Imaging or
Dentistry, should you be local to Edmonton, Alberta and some day wish to read the
chosen poems. Though to be honest, I hope you never have occasion to be at the
hospital.

CLICK on photos to enlarge / read.

This year, for the second time, I have one of my poems chosen to be displayed on
the “Poetry Walk” wall. The poems are selected by a panel including hospital staff
and the head of the “Artists on the Ward” program”. The “Artists on the Ward”
program” is dear to my heart. I believe the program staff and volunteers do work
that may be more healing to many patients than any prescription medication or
procedure. A patient may request a visit from an artist to write poetry or stories
together, paint and sketch, or perhaps create or listen to live music.

I discovered the “Poetry Walk” by chance in 2012, when my husband was first a heart
failure inpatient at the Mazankowski Alberta Heart Institute, attached to the U of A
hospital. I needed time away from him to collect my thoughts, so I set off on a
walking meditation. As I wandered throughout the hospital, I happened upon the
poetry. I recall reading a poem about a woman who sat vigil by her spouse’s bedside,
knitting. I continued reading the poems. I felt my breath deepening, shoulders and
neck relaxing, mind clearing, as I continued down the row of frames.

In January 2018, my husband returned to the hospital via ambulance, becoming an
inpatient once again. The dilated cardiomyopathy (believed to be viral in cause) now
had him in end-stage heart failure, too ill to wait for transplant. Mechanical
circulatory support via an LVAD to pump for his damaged left ventricle became the
only option to prolong and improve his life. It is not a cure. It is 24 hour, 7 day a
week portable life support; but it is life. He was an inpatient for five weeks.
Again, at times I needed to wander the lengthy halls alone, to find comfort in reading
words on the wall when I could not write my own.

On February 14th, 2018 my husband was to be sent for an echocardiogram. The unit
staff was busy, so I asked to take him in the wheelchair for his echo by myself.
Allowed to remain with him during the ultrasound of his heart, I watched the screen.
I was struck by the realization of what day it was on the calendar, as well as what
I was observing.

Almost one year later on January 31, 2019 I wrote “On Valentine’s Day” which will
be on the “Poetry Wall” until 2020. It was my Valentine to Mr. Wanton this year:

Is it the best poem I’ve ever written? It is not. I don’t like that the poem is
“telling”; I should be “showing” (my writer friends know exactly what I mean).
But poetry is subjective – people like what they like – and for whatever reason, this
year the jury selected it. Though the poem is far from my “best”, I hope it might
bring comfort some day, in some way, to some other wanderer.

In honor of World Sjogren’s Day, allow me to say: I’m really f***ing tired!

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Today is World Sjogren’s Day. Set aside to honor the birthday of Dr. Henrik Sjogren, who discovered Sjogren’s Syndrome, it is also a day to recognize the millions of Sjogren’s patients worldwide and create awareness of the often misdiagnosed / under diagnosed autoimmune connective tissue disease.

The main triad of symptoms that plague those, including myself, with Sjogren’s are: dryness, joint / muscle pain, and fatigue. The fatigue of Sjogren’s has been studied and found to equal that of MS.

A few months ago I attended a session with a motivational speaker who is promoting a book she authored detailing her personal experiences with low self-esteem, self-shaming, body image insecurity, and infertility. If all that was not enough, she also has a rare autoimmune disease affecting her lungs which required hospitalization in the past. The young mother is a passionate, energetic firecracker devoted to spreading her message of self-love and acceptance to women everywhere. She wants women to “embrace their flaws, own their awesome, breathe fire, and be world changers”.

As I sat listening to her impassioned message I was in awe of her enthusiasm. She speaks her truth unapologetically. After we applauded her, she opened the floor to questions or comments. I told her I thought she was delivering a powerful, needed message but personally I was just “too tired to be a world-changer”.

Her response to me was surprising. “Are you are hiding behind the mask of fatigue?”

What I wanted to say in that moment was “No, I am just truly f***ing tired.”

I wanted to tell her that my fatigue was no more a mask than her infertility was. It is not a choice. It is not something I can turn on and off, I don’t use it as an excuse, rather it is a truth. I did not share those thoughts aloud. I was also having the overwhelming thought that perhaps expecting all women to be world-changers might leave some feeling yet again “not enough”.

I sat there as she continued answering audience questions, stewing over my own thoughts and insecurities. Why was I reacting so strongly to her question? Was it because I was hiding behind a mask of fatigue; did being exhausted gave me any sort of personal pay-off, gains of attention, anything positive in any way? I believe the answer was, and is, no.

(Well, okay, it does give me something to blog about, but that’s all.)

In April I had to have a “level one sleep study”, the kind you have as an inpatient spending the night in a sleep lab hooked up to wires, sensors, recorders, and so on. Literally the sleep technician covers you from head to foot with equipment monitoring your pulmonary, cardiac, and neurological functions as you sleep. Decked out in all the medical technology paraphernalia I wondered how I could possibly sleep.


(Partially rigged up for the sleep study, more stuff to to be added, including in nostrils!)

Adding to the ambience, the room was seemingly airless except for the fan whirring in the corner. The bed was a typical hospital bed complete with vinyl mattress cover and pancake flat plastic covered pillow. Adding to the whole experience is the reminder that upon entering your room you stripped all your clothes off, except your underwear, to be enclosed in Rubbermaid containers as there had been previous bedbug infestations in the lab. And, if all of the above was not enough reason to provoke sleeplessness, the ceiling mounted camera capturing your every moment throughout the night becomes activated, the red “on” light glowing intrusively. The technician shortly thereafter announcing over a speaker in your room: “the study has begun”.

I wondered how valid these sleep studies could be; was it possible people actual slept under these conditions? As always, I was tired. I closed my eyes and hoped for the best. I did not want to have to do this again, ever.

Last week, I finally had the appointment to review the sleep study results with the pulmonary specialist who ordered the test. Good news was I do not have sleep apnea, which had been his main concern, thinking perhaps it was provoking my random intermittent episodes of atrial fibrillation heart arrhythmia.

I asked if there were any other significant findings. He said it was all quite normal, or in medical terms “unremarkable” except for one thing -I had slept 94% of the time.
Highly unusual he explained, for anyone to sleep that percentage of the time during a sleep lab study.

“You must have been extremely sleep deprived before the study”, he pronounced. It was a statement, not a question.

I’ve been tired since 1990. I could sleep anywhere, anytime is what I always tell people. Now I have the study to prove it.

 

 

For those who would like to know more about Fatigue and Sjogren’s: http://info.sjogrens.org/conquering-sjogrens/bid/342548/13-types-of-sjogren-s-fatigue

 

My 3 all-time favourite memes re: fatigue (one of my least fave things) and sleep (one of my all-time fave things):

A bite-size piece of memoir for Mother’s Day

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Dad served on the town recreation board for years when I was a kid. I was thrilled. Was I already civic minded? Was I proud of him being involved in community volunteer service? No, these were not the reasons.

Once a month, the “rec board” gathered for a supper meeting in town hall. Lucky for me, the perks of being an only child kicked in.

Mom took me out for Chinese food at the “Golden Dragon” every time Dad was attending the meeting. The front of the restaurant was a regular small-town cafe, but passing through the beaded curtain at the back, you entered the enchanting dining room. Dim light, Chinese lanterns, white fabric table cloths, stemmed water glasses, leather-bound menus, and wooden chopsticks waited. Mom and I regularly had arguments at home but once a month, over wonton soup, egg rolls, and Cantonese chow mein, we called a truce.

****************************************************************************************
P.S. Happy Mother’s Day Mom! This one’s for you:

*****************************************************************************************

“Bite-size memoir” is a chunk of memoir just 150 words long, no more and no less.

It was first initiated several years ago by Lisa Reiter on her blog: https://sharingthestoryblog.wordpress.com/

If you enjoy writing but haven’t the time to get into a bigger project, or you are just starting to write, give it a whirl.

150 words may not seem like much, but have another read of the memoir above. Think about how much you learned about me, and my family,
in one little “bite”.

Bad news: we are all dying. Good news: we can still laugh.

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We are all going to die. Some of us know when it will happen and some of us do not.

The doctor called with bad news today. The first thing I thought after gently setting the phone down on my desk was should I still order those new sandals on-line?

Summer weather is almost over where I live. I won’t have much time to wear them before the snowflakes fall. My husband is always astonished at how far I push the flip-flop season. As long as there has been no snowfall sticking to the sidewalks and grass I am likely to still slip on my flippies to at least go out in the yard, if not to town.

I wonder if it is worth spending money on something that I might not be around to wear next summer. I suspect this is a weird worry to have; maybe not, who knows? But the sandal concern reminds me of the other day in the car on the way to my doctor’s appointment the underwire in my most loved silver grey bra poked through. Oddly both sides simultaneously peeking up and out of the top of my tank top like two white antennae of some creature living nestled down between my boobs.

bra betrayal

As Mr. Wanton drove down the highway attentively I kept poking the wires back into place, but with the slightest movement of my body, out they would inch again.
“Screw it!” I said, and yanked them out completely.

Mr. Wanton, concentrating on driving as we entered the town limits, was unaware of my struggle until then. He glanced over at me but said nothing.

I held the two large “U” shaped white plastic coated wires up near the rear view mirror so Mr. Wanton could see them. Holding them in one hand, I twirled them around between my pointer finger and thumb.

“I think I could make something out of these. Like, maybe a mobile; see how easily they twirl. Wow, I sound like my Dad.”

I laughed.

Mr. Wanton said, “Yah, you do sound just like your Dad. Maybe give them to him to put in his garage.”

Now we both laughed.

I agreed. “Yah, Dad could add them to his collection of stuff he might need some day.” I took a long deep breath and sighed. “I guess I am going to the clinic floppy today.” I was somewhat confident the doctor might see worse things during his day than me hanging low.

Mr. Wanton, eyes on the road, was oblivious to my level of distress.

I’m sure no one will notice.” he said.

As we continued down the road I remember saying: “I guess I will need a new bra”.

And now I wonder, will I?

And that’s the thing when you get seriously bad medical news with no specific deadline, just vague inclination of impending doom…do you buy the one season shoes?

I didn’t buy the sandals, but I have splurged on a fabulous, lacy, deep raspberry fuchsia pink underwire bra made in France. I hope I get to wear it until the fabric is worn thin and the wire antennae poke up from my cleavage once again.

P.S. Since I posted this, people I love (and who obviously love me) have been sending me messages of concern. No need. I have no idea what is going on medically really, no specifics yet, other than the docs are concerned because I have connective tissue diseases and some preliminary testing points to those illnesses now affecting my heart and lungs. With miracles of modern medicine I hope to be out in the grass in my barefeet and flippies next season, and several to come! 

But seriously folks, no guarantees in life except it will end. What sparked this post is that I was thinking how I much rather it would be later, than sooner.

I love pizza, yoga and my Mom.

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You cannot be on social media today without being reminded tomorrow is Mother’s Day in Canada. Like Christmas, Mother’s Day is not a day of celebration for everyone. For many it is a day of remembrance due to the loss of a mother, if not through death perhaps through estrangement. Sadly the reality of life is that days of celebration are not all-inclusive. Even those who are a mother themselves, or those who have a mother, may have reasons not to celebrate.

I do not take the fact I still have a mother for granted (she is nearing eighty, though without a doubt I know she’d rather I say she is just over seventy-five), but as I am reflecting upon Mother’s Day I realize I don’t think I’ve really ever told my Mom what it is I admire the most about her. Today is that day.

My Mom always told me when she finished high school she had only three choices of career: secretary, nurse, or teacher. She was not good at typing and did not want to work around blood, so her choice was obvious. Because there was a serious shortage of teachers when she graduated high school, she became as they were called back then – a “six week wonder”, attending summer school in preparation to teach a class right away in September. My Mom began teaching school in a small rural community in the late 1950s when she was just seventeen years old. She graduated high school at a young age because she had skipped a grade in school.

The fact that she took on the responsibility of teaching, and did the job well is amazing enough, but the fact she continued to do so for decades until her retirement in her mid-fifties makes it even more so. While teaching full-time she also completed her Bachelor of Education degree doing evening and summer school classes. Later in life when I discovered Mom was a life-long insomniac it boggled my mind to realize it had not been easy for her to get up early every school day, teach all day, make supper at home, then continue her own studies in the evening. She had, and continues to have incredible willpower. To me, that strength and perseverance is her most admirable characteristic.

Though some might say it was not so difficult (after all she only had one child of her own) Mom had her share of other worries during the span of her career. By the time I became a teenager, Mom had lost both her parents within a span of two years. Her Dad’s death was a long suffering one due to pancreatic cancer, and her Mom’s a sudden, unexpected one due to a smouldering house fire. Mom’s only sister (separated and with no children of her own) was diagnosed with metastasized breast cancer, surviving for years but often requiring emotional support especially during prolonged hospital stays. Mom never took a leave of absence during these difficult times but continued with her teaching responsibilities, filling familial ones in between.

Another example of Mom’s willpower was when she decided to quit smoking. She had started as a teenager. Remember, back then doctors didn’t even advise pregnant women to stop the habit, and they even smoked inside the medical clinics and hospitals. However, when it was discovered that smoking increased cancer risk, Mom signed up for a seven day smoking cessation workshop for seven consecutive nights. I was around eleven years old then; I still remember she was grumpy and short-tempered for a few days. She was successful though, she never smoked again.

Likewise, when the news reported butter was not good for you and caused high cholesterol – BOOM – Mom stopped eating butter. Mom was diagnosed with osteoporosis at quite a young age, in hindsight probably due to having undiagnosed celiac disease for years. Learning it was important to build bone density via weight-bearing exercise, she began to walk regularly and joined a Curves gym when it opened in her community. During inclement weather she walks indoors on the treadmill. Prior to Curves closing she had registered around 900 workouts, most done in her seventies. I know few people of ANY age who are so diligent with their exercise and nutrition habits as my Mom. When she decides to do something, she does it, period. Without a doubt her strong willpower has served her well. I want her to know it has not gone unobserved.

A few weeks ago I asked my Mom to read a story I’d written for a short story competition. After reading it she sent me an e-mail saying she “loved it”. I asked her to tell me what she loved about the story. It wasn’t enough for me just to hear she loved it, I wanted to know why. I wanted to know she actually loved it, and was not just saying that without reason (except for being my Mom).

We live in a world where the word “love” gets thrown around frequently. Don’t get me wrong, that IS a good thing. I love pizza and can tell you why. I already told you a few blogs ago why I love yoga. Telling someone we love them has extra meaning when we let them know exactly what it is we love about them. According to palliative care experts, at the end of life what people most want to know is that their life mattered, had some meaning, and that they were loved. I don’t think we should wait for the end of life.

I love you Mom. Now you also know one of the reasons why.

Life Divided in Two

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“A diagnosis of catastrophic illness changes everything. It’s a thick line drawn through your life, separating the before and the after.”
-Heather Summerhayes Cariou (Author – “Sixty-five Roses”)

April 1st heralded the beginning of Sjogren’s Awareness Month. It was my intention to blog a bit about Sjogren’s Syndrome, and specifically my own experiences, each day of April. That did not happen. Here we are on the final day of the month, and I blogged only a few times. I could beat myself up about not reaching the goal I set, but I get beat up enough by other things out of my control including my own body and the symptoms of Sjogren’s.

Though not writing daily, I’m glad I decided to commit to writing about Sjogren’s again because there were several people who contacted me privately, or commented publicly that they had never heard of Sjogren’s before reading one of my posts. I had mentioned to Mr. Wanton, if even one person learned of Sjogren’s as a result of my blog, it would be worth it.

Thank you to everyone who has read, commented, and shared my blog. I appreciate your assistance in spreading awareness, please continue to do so. Sjogren’s currently has no standardized treatment protocol and no cure, perhaps through continued awareness and increased research funding, over time that may change.

In the past I have been reluctant to write about my journey of diagnosis, and navigating the symptoms of Sjogren’s because I felt some people might see me as doing it “for attention” or to garner sympathy. This week I ran across another blogger’s post about how in our society we condone (or at least tolerate) so many types of attention seeking behaviour (one only need think for a moment about reality TV, the shenanigans of political leaders, or the proliferation of  highly inappropriate or risque “selfies” on-line) yet when someone with a mental health issue or other chronic illness writes authentically about their experiences it is often frowned upon, deemed “attention seeking”, or having a “pity party”. That is unfortunate in my opinion; we have much to learn from each other’s honest health “stories”, both from a medical perspective as well as a human / empathic one.

I will be continuing to write about Sjogren’s, but I will also return to writing about other topics as well. As I’ve mentioned previously, I started this blog to write “wantonly” – about whatever grabbed me in the moment. When you have an illness that causes so much havoc with your body, it is hard to ignore. My life is not all Sjogren’s, but Sjogren’s does affect every aspect of my life.

To close out Sjogren’s Awareness Month, I was thinking about what I would want people to know most of all. The first thing is the seriousness of Sjogren’s; it is a progressive systemic disease equal in effect on quality of life to MS. It is definitely life-altering, but can also become life-threatening when organ involvement or lymphoma develops.

Secondly, it requires specific treatment and management individualized to each patient, yet it is a relatively unknown disease among medical professionals including Rheumatologists. In fact, one physician with Sjogren’s herself who does medical school in-service sessions discovered in her area of the USA only one medical school even had Sjogren’s in the curriculum. I have heard other doctors mention they heard the name in med school but had only two minutes of lecture on it. I suspect they were told it was only dry eye and dry mouth, as that continues to be the prevailing belief.

I want people to understand how scary it is to have an illness doctors are so unfamiliar with and to be unable to follow a standard, proven treatment protocol. I want it to be known that even though we may not have cancer, many of us are on a chemotherapy drug or a “biologic” drug, possibly for the rest of our lives. There is no such thing as remission.

On a personal level, I want people to know when I have to miss out on an event it is not always by choice. Each time I miss out on a once in a life-time event important to a family member especially my children, or a close friend, it breaks my heart a little bit more, even if at the time I say “it’s okay”. That if I seem rude when I have to interrupt you and leave immediately when we are standing to chat on the street or in a store, it is because I can’t stand up any longer. When you see me clothed head to toe under an umbrella on a clear summer day it is because being exposed to the sun is risking a disease “flare” that can cause further organ damage. If you knew me before Sjogren’s you might miss the person I used to be; you need to know I miss her too. Sjogren’s drew a thick line through my life, there’s no crossing back.

Pumping the brakes on perfectionism…

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“The greatest mistake we make is living in constant fear that we will make one.” ~ John C. Maxwell ~

A little more on perfectionism today because it is why I avoided writing the last week or so. The avoidance began after being involved in a discussion about published books and famous authors.

The discussion started after a friend discovered a mistake in pronoun use in a New York Times best-selling novel. I mentioned I was surprised such a mistake had made it past the editors at a large reputable publishing house. All were in agreement.

The talk then turned to mistakes writers make. Another friend mentioned she is appalled when writers use “comma splices”. Everyone involved in the discussion then began to detail errors they have seen in published books. I stood silent.

As the group broke up for the evening, all I could think was: I do not know what a “comma splice” is, oh my God, and I think I’m a writer? I’m not a writer, or I would know what that is.

I drove home pondering if I should continue to write or give it up completely. To be honest, I was ready in that moment to swear off writing forever. (I had done so once before, after a grade 12 English class with a teacher who terrified me. That swearing off of writing lasted twenty years or more.)

This was also not the first time in more recent history I was having anxiety over my writing. I have Facebook “friends” who are published poets, authors, high school and college level English instructors, spoken word artists, lyricists, Ph. D university professors and creative writing instructors, journalists, and English literature majors. The thought has crossed my mind many times that my writing is not up to their standards, and absolutely I admit it is not.

(Even writing the previous sentence I am thinking: I used the word “that” again. Oh no. I am just proving my own point. Of course I am not a “real writer”.)

The next day a friend who is in my writing group phoned me.  I confessed the anxiety I was having because of what occurred the night before. She started laughing and assured me I probably DID know what a comma splice was, I just did not know it by that term. Thanks my friend, I needed to hear your encouraging words.

I took a deep breath; I realized as a reader it is not perfect grammar, punctuation, classic structure, or extensive vocabulary which catches my attention, rather it is authenticity. Granted there are certain standards to be upheld in writing, as in all communication, but I can be forgiving of writers who make some errors if what they have to tell me is authentic. If a piece of writing resonates with me I don’t care if it’s in the form of a cartoon with word bubbles and thought clouds, or a poem with no structure or rhyme.

If I can be forgiving of other writers making mistakes, so must I be forgiving of myself. Part of why I named this blog as I did is because I do want to be wanton, both playful and a bit reckless in my writing. Maybe all along I wanted to send a subliminal message to those seeking perfection in writing – this would not be the place to find it.

 

P.S. “A comma splice is the use of a comma to join two independent clauses. For example: It is nearly half past five, we cannot reach town before dark. Although acceptable in some languages and compulsory in others (e.g. Bulgarian or French), comma splices are usually considered style errors in English.”

the two “P” words….

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Can you think of two words that start with “p” and fit together perfectly?

And no, all you innately sexual creatures, once again, I am not thinking of “that”. Remember, I told you before, this is not the place for sexually wanton writing, yet somehow ever since I said that, innuendo continues to appear.

The two seldom verbalized or admitted, but often practiced words, are the reason I have been away from my blog the last seventeen days. Of course I’m referring to procrastination and perfectionism. Usually when I am away from my blog for awhile it is because of one or the other, or both.

Recently I wrote a 2500 word short story for a timed international writing contest, NYC Midnight. One of my Underground Writing Cohort friends had tempted me to give it a whirl. I had a week to complete and submit the story after being assigned a genre, character, and a specific subject to be included.

Thanks to doing the story for the contest I became more self-aware. I discovered I can procrastinate perfectly. I never considered myself a perfectionist before. I now realized I was obviously wrong.

To be fair, the first three days I did have a migraine headache. Apparently people who have Sjogren’s are also prone to migraines at a more frequent rate than other migraine sufferers; hooray for us. Mine start by feeling like a vague sinus headache then build up to full frontal facial pain for three days. Needless to say pain encompassing my entire face is not conducive to my creative pursuits. So, right off the get go I was down to four days.

While I wasn’t sitting at my computer typing out my story I WAS doing what I do best – writing the story in my head. I told Mr. Wanton it would be extremely helpful to me if he, of technological expertise and mechanical invention, could possibly come up with something that could transcribe my thoughts automatically into a word document on my computer. You know, like verbal word transcription, but for my thoughts. He said “that is a bad, bad, idea.” What does he know? Oh yah, I usually tell him what I am thinking. Perhaps his opinion is of value in this instance.

Upon the end of the headache I should have been ready to type up my story, right? Wrong. For the next few days I proceeded to attack my long lost to-do list with a vengeance – the one that sits permanently on my desk, with items dating back to 1999, not all of which are crossed off yet.

Wow – more self-awareness – if I wanted to finally accomplish my least appealing tasks, the long overdue “leftovers” on my to-do list, all I had to do is commit myself to something I wanted to do even less, in this case the short story.

Perfect. I could put off the short story writing, not feeling guilty whatsoever, because I was getting lots of other stuff done. You know, important stuff – like organize my panties and socks, look up random symptoms via Google, watch Adele and Bruno Mars “Careoke” videos on YouTube repeatedly (okay, admittedly that wasn’t on my to-do list but in hindsight it should have been). I accidentally discovered the most seriously underrated motivational technique for overcoming procrastination ever.

So that brings me to this moment. How did I get over my procrastination to write a blog post today? Easy answer, the alternative was the now top priority item on my to-do list – personal income tax. Uh-huh, I definitely found what I can do perfectly every time.

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P.S. In case you are curious, I did complete the short story in eight hours on the seventh day, well before the midnight deadline.