VIRTUAL VALIDATION

Yesterday morning I woke up to what I thought was going to be another semi-bland but open-ended band of hours that more than likely would not add up to anything terribly memorable by the time I couched my brain on my pillow again that night.

I was mistaken.

It would have been that kind of a day, if I had only stuck to my initial plan to clean out my closet.  I tend not to do that very often because I seldom fill it with anything new, so what is the point?

I am, what I consider to be, a very low-maintenance woman.

I don't follow fashion with any reliable interest; I don't color my hair and I wear it long, thereby eliminating routine bondage to hair salons; and as an artist, I work with my hands, which are predictably nicked and bruised from working with metals, have an uneven but curiously provocative assortment of broken nails and whose nail beds are often displaying the faded remnants of whatever inks or paints I exposed them to that day; so I don't get manicures.  In fact, I've never even had one.

But I made a strategic misstep yesterday as I was eyeing the over-sized, faded blue shirt I often wear to work in, trying to decide if I was woman enough to let go of the years of comfort I felt being artsy in the thing and get rid of it:  I checked my laptop for Open Salon updates.

When will I learn to stay on track?

It was there that I learned from Joan H., another writer on OS, that my post from yesterday had been selected as an Editor's Pick!  I was beyond ecstatic!  It had been a long-awaited moment (try fifty-four years!) for this kind of validation and was so incredibly freeing that my soul said to me, "It's okay.  You can cry now." And so I did.  Obviously, tears of great joy.

I had been told by many of the contributors that my rise in popularity and rankings on OS within such a short span was fairly impressive; that it can take writers eight months to a year before they get much notice at all from other writers and that most of them never find themselves chosen by the Open Salon editorial staff for the homepage as an Editor's Pick. To have become noticed and favored with EP within a mere three weeks was no mean feat, or so I heard.

That is all well and good, but my satisfaction comes at being recognized and valued for my writing efforts; plain and simple.  To have worked hard and earned the respect of other writers who have held the bar high is like being reborn....in an intellectual's body.

However, my free-fall into bliss was significantly tempered by my next move, which was to read all the comments following the post.  All but two were happily supportive and encouraging and that should have been enough to provide me with an escape from the sodden knot of concern as it slowly lodged itself in the middle of my throat after I read the couple comments that were not as forgiving nor as favorable.  I think it was because I really didn't see it coming.  Not in the slightest way, so it hit me hard; like being sucker-punched by your favorite cousin.  But then again, they were attacking the content of my post; not the writing.  I was good.

Still, it was upsetting because that is not how I see myself; as someone who rocks the apple cart just to watch the worms fall out.  I'm more the one who coaxes the worms out and then finds them all a new home in the potted geraniums.  It is important to me that everyone is happy.  At least on my watch.

But as much as I felt a bit stunned and, certainly, wounded to a degree; as the day wore on, those feelings had melded into an entirely new sensation so that, as early evening staked its claim on the hours, I felt grateful.  I also felt enlightened.

I had even stepped out and debated my detractors.  One was easily settled as a misunderstanding.  The other, well, she just kept on coming like a feral cat at a cheese convention.

  Actually, I went to this woman's page to discover that not only does she never post anything herself, but that I was the only one she was commenting on.  At least until another blogger wrote about beauty pageants!  Then she sharpened her claws and took off down another trail of harassment.  There will always be those for whom nothing matters except being right.

Perhaps the most salient lessons for me were that:  1.) You can't please everyone, and 2.)  It is much more difficult than I previously believed to convey honesty and humility when people think you have a better gig than they do.

The contentious blog had been the one written weeks ago about my experience growing up as a child/young adult of indistinct physical presence surrounded by the genetically graced beauty of my grandmother, mother and only sister.  (Repost and re-edited)  It was called Relative Beauty and was an attempt at understanding the role beauty played in their lives and to reconcile the childhood I knew with the emerging recognition I have gotten as I merged into my fifties.  I call that gesture of superficial recognition "shallow esteem" because it is nothing I earned and has little bearing on the person I have been fitfully crafting for over five decades.

Quite honestly, I remain confounded by all of it.

Yet I have become obsessed.  All that matters to me at this point is growing as a writer.  As and artist?  Sort of.  But not really.  I enjoy that gig but only in that it is another challenge.  I loathe redundancy and boredom.

The ramifications could be severe in terms of how my rabid pursuit of this end impacts my personal life.  But, hell,  aside from being a mother to my children, (all of whom, as of August 1st, will be out of the house) my personal life leaves something to be desired.  It could probably do with a good purging.

I've become quite good at that this year.

If anyone reading this would like to follow the thread of comments under the blog that ornamented one of my best and also, most interesting days, just look me up on Open Salon.

I'll be there honing my skills in anticipation of lift off.
Ten, nine, eight, seven, six...........

WHERE HAVE ALL THE BLOGSPOTS GONE?

If anyone wonders where I've gone, I haven't gone far.

Well, that is not entirely true.  I have.  Just not logistically.

A couple of weeks ago I was trolling through Google looking for what, I can't even remember.  In my search I came upon a link to a blog that must have had something to do with what I was looking for, I suppose; so, I clicked on it and was brought to a writer's blog site and forum called Open Salon.

I cruised the layout on my cyber wheels for about an hour and was impressed because it was so interactive.  A writer would put up a post and other writers would read and comment on it.  Immediate peer feedback!  What could be better.....or more terrifying?

I decided to give it a go in spite of the hard knot in my solar plexus and the caustic refrain, "You're no writer!  Are you nuts?  You don't belong there!" that circled the inside of my thick skull like a noxious vulture of cognition craving another morsel of despair and regret.

I listed my first post on May 10th, and I was so hungry for connections that I was cutting and pasting two posts a day, which I have since learned is not terribly smart.  There is so much on O.S. with so many, many contributors, and because there is so much there to read, they tend to read only what is headlined on your page without scanning down for earlier efforts.

Of course, unbeknownst to me at the time, this meant that half of my blogs were not getting any recognition, and the one featured was up for such a short time because of my quick turnovers that it, too, was hardly garnering more than a glance before it was replaced.

But in spite of the apparent lack of interest in my blogs, I was happy to be there and absorbed myself in reading the excellent writing of others as well as making some whose writing I particularly enjoyed, my 'favorites.  That is another benefit of this particular site.  You have the ability to select and then to follow and comment on other writers who appeal to you.  And if a comment needs to be made that is of a more delicate or personal nature, you have the option to send a 'PM', personal message.  That is also a method used to connect more deeply with another OS writer when camaraderie is evident.

But on May 13th I received my first comment and made my first OS connection.  It took a few more postings over the subsequent five days before I finally found myself receiving more than one or two comments per.  One contributor in particular was impressed enough with my efforts that he sent an email to all of the OS'ers he knows introducing them to my work.

That was on May 19th, and this same contributor notified me a couple of days later that I had done what is virtually unheard of in that I landed a number three ranking in 'popularity'; something, he informed me, that usually takes a 'newbie' a minimum of eight months to a year to achieve, if they achieve it at all, which most do not.

I read that message just after consuming the whole of a Saturday morning and half of the afternoon writing, "Hello, My Name is Susan and I am a Word-aholic" and burst into tears.

I have waited my whole life for validation like that.  Okay.  Not my 'whole' life, but certainly since my 7th grade English teacher informed my mother and father that I had a gift and was writing well above high school level.  It was the first, and basically, the only, positive endorsement from the halls of academia ever to grace me and I clung to it with the ferocity of rabid animal.  It was the only positive, the only gift, the only good that I could then honestly associate with myself.  Without it, I was invisible; with it, invincible.

The double-edged sword there is the unexpected but very real, deep fear of loss that it ignited within me.

As long as that ability went unchallenged and unrecognized, there was little risk of failure, and without failure to dim the gift or disprove it, it remained true and it remained mine.  No matter how badly I failed in all the other areas of my life, (and there is a vast array of them) I could, and did, say to myself, "But I am a really good writer."

Of course, the only ones aware of this were those I corresponded with via letters or email or the smattering of those who stumbled upon a poem I'd written here and there via those connections.
But it didn't matter.  It was my gift and it made me acceptable  to myself, and on days when I needed it to, it let me believe I was above average and special, at least in this one area.

I protected my ability in order to retain it.  Talk about backward logic.

Art was a different matter.  I have no innate talent in that area and have had to work hard to get even this far; much harder than I do with the words, which come effortlessly and need only editorial attention to craft into something halfway unique, compelling and worth reading.

I am not a natural artist.  In fact, any legitimate artist will tell you I suck at it.  Oh, I have ways of injecting enough dazzle into it to make it somewhat interesting, odd or appealing, but nothing spectacular.  My work is mediocre at best.  At worst, it is confusing and primitive.

But the bottom line is that I don't care about it.  Not in the way I do about my writing, and if someone were to say to me that they find nothing of value in my artwork, I wouldn't lose any sleep over it.   I don't see anything of value in it half the time either.

However, if I were to be faced with indifference or repeated rejection with my writing, I would have to leave civilization and go live in an abandoned bus in the Alaskan wilderness.  I would have to become fiercely religious, change my name to Shanti and give up all worldly attachments.

I don't really look like a Shanti.  It would be very awkward.

Happily, my experience exposing my words and, really, my soul, to the intelligent readership of OS has exceeded my wildest dreams in terms of positive response and validation, and I am so relieved I don't have to live on that broken down bus.

Just yesterday another OSer informed me that a group of editors had anonymously submitted my latest post ( a repost taken from this blog site and written in April) to the OS Editor page, which is a page of recommended reading.  But apart from that, the comments I have been receiving are well-beyond mind-blowingly supportive, and my mind is duly blown.

Apparently my ascension from obscurity to highly-praised visibility on OS has been abnormally swift, and while I know that life is full of flukes and that nothing, even the things that temporarily seem to place us at the top of the heap, lasts forever; I am working it as though my life depended on it and as though rendering my words immortal is all I am here to do.   In many ways I believe it is.

I know that this is just a first step.  A baby step, at most.  But it IS a step and one that is encouraging in me a great run up another flight.  I can't describe it and already feel awkward and self-aggrandizing relating this much.  I have no one else to tell.  So I transcribe my joy in this blog for whomever is listening or even vaguely gives a damn.  Believe me, no one in this house does.

But I will likely continue submitting my writing efforts to OS indefinitely.  I will do as I have done, which is to compose the blogs here first, then just cut and paste them onto OS.  The reason I have not been as consistent in writing here is because I've been cheating and doing a cut and paste on pieces I have already written here then reposting them on OS.  Obviously, I'm not going to post them again in this blog spot, which means that sometimes nothing new gets posted here for a few days.

However, if you would like to go to Open Salon and type in my name, Susan Creamer Joy, you would have access to everything.  Even the comments, although I don't think you can leave a comment there unless you sign up as a site member.  It is free, but it still might not be for everyone.

So, that is where I have been.  Still right here, still attempting to craft a wordy bridge from my subjective reality to one I don't naturally trust and barely understand.  Nothing has changed.  Except that everything has.

For the first time in my life, I think I can break out of this corroded, beleaguered, hard shell surrounding me; the composite blend of everyone else's life but my own with its jagged outer layer of my  compendious regrets and failures sealing the mix tight against my soul.

Fear is not an option.  Neither is restraint.

I'm all in.

And if anyone would like to join me, please do.  But as I said, I will still keep posting the new things here as well as there.  However, during those stretches when I cannot be found slamming out prose and poetry here, just go to:   http://open.salon.com/blog/susancreamerjoy

You will likely find then, a repost of something I wrote here initially, but odds are it will have been edited and tweaked a bit.  The bar is much higher writing in plain view of the excellence on Open Salon.
It forces me to reach into pockets of possibility for the odd bits of perfection and gum wrappers I might have stashed in there.

I am sure there is the chance I may not find you there, but one thing I is certain:  I will find myself.

The Pain of Art

I am a firm believer in pain.  Not in its content but in it's potential value.  I think I am a masochist.

It could be because of my early years of Catholic schooling or the fact that I have had to find a way to excuse and forgive my own encounters with pain.  But in my special, warped way, I have chosen to view adversity as a necessary evil as well as a necessary good, insofar as the crucible it provides us to hone and refine the base components of our humanity.

I bought all those sayings, "No pain, no gain." and "Good things never come easily."  I have been cowed by the guilt factor which argues that unless something is labored over and suffered for; unless blood is drawn and courage is required, it will always be substandard.

Is anyone buying this?

I've found I must.  If I do not, I may have to do away with my entire family.  And if not that, then most certainly, I will have to leave home.

But as long as I stick to my theory that abrasive conditions and contentious attitudes are an asset to me and actually improve my artwork and my writing, then I can remain legally free and keep my backpack in the attic.

What is it about husbands and offspring that challenge the soul and require the patience of Job to survive?

Outwardly, they seem harmless and friendly enough.   Husbands can be invaluable on garbage pick-up day and once they learn how to boil water, there are a myriad of foodstuffs they can concoct when you are unable to start supper on time.

And the kids?  Well, they're just cute as buttons at birth, aren't they?  After that, we learn to see the good in them; and during their teens, well...we just stand by and pray a lot.

But I've found after long years of being heavily vested in the livelihood of both that they are truly at their very best when you are taking care of them.  As long as their individual needs are met, the love really flows.

I've also learned that when attention is diverted away from them, there is not a human alive who can withstand the petulant onslaught of familial umbrage that results.

Over the years I have been able to imbibe the precious nectar of creative self-indulgence sporadically.  I had time to myself during school and work hours and there was always the refuge of deep night in which to secrete whatever creative juices from my cerebral container onto a page or canvass.  It was manageable.

Right now I have only one remaining child still roosting in our cozy coop of clan dysfunction, but she is a tough one.  She is the baby of the three, and it is obvious that in her ranking as caboose, she has become the bloodhound of familial deficits.  She notices them all and has no qualms alerting you to her findings.

In the two weeks that I have been salivating over my discovery of O.S. and slaving to insert myself into this heady mix of word sculptors, I have heard from her only that I am wasting my time, that "Trust me, Mom.  No one is interested in hearing about your life." and my personal favorite, "Oh my God, Mom!  You are just SO overly-attached to your laptop!"  This, mind you, is coming from a nineteen year old who goes into apoplectic shock if she is separated from her Blackberry for more than sixty seconds.

In a couple of weeks I am doing a three-day road trip with the child as I drive with her in her little Nissan from Kansas City, Missouri to Scottsdale, Arizona where she will attend culinary school.  Please pray for me.

As for my husband, I think his long years of chronic sports watching and participation have rendered him completely unable to comprehend any life circumstance that does not involve some sort of ball and a jock strap.  He resents the time I've recently dedicated to writing and when he sees me tickling away at these computer keys, he'll holler out to our daughter, "Uh-oh.  Mom's BLOGGGING again." in a way that converts the word into a close-sounding facsimile of the fog horn in the harbor on Hudson Bay.

I've tried to share some of my blogs with him, naively thinking that it will somehow enable him to become supportive of my efforts, but to no avail.  I don't think he's gotten more than two paragraphs into one before he intones, "Look, I know you're a good writer because I don't understand it.  But can I read it some other time?  I'm missing the game."

If my theory is correct, one thing is certain:  I've definitely suffered enough for publication.

I figure another four or five years and I'm good for The Pulitzer.  Perhaps Poet Laureate?  (Hardships spawn a tendency to aim high.)

However, I'm keeping my options open..... and my backpack ready, just in case. 

Observation Platform of O.S.- What We Don't Know

I wasn't going to post anything today.  I've spent the past week heavily mired in the subjectively complex work of adapting to this new writing venue at Open Salon; and for someone whose general preference is to remain as sheltered from potential ridicule as possible, standing on the platform of this deluxe literary station was no small step.

For one thing, there are some impressive, erudite trains rolling down these tracks, which is intimidating enough; and although no one has yet ridiculed my initial efforts, I have read some pretty vitriolic comments about blog content on the pages of others.  Comments with the potential to turn a fragile, tentative train passenger into a jumper.

I know that freedom of expression is a necessary component for the success of any open dialogue and I realize that dissenting opinions are indispensable tools to hone one's discernment; but I am also aware that we don't really know each other here and it's what we don't know that could cause harm if the brakes of bitter judgement are not applied in time.

I'm not advocating coddling.  I don't believe that we should all receive ratings and be decorated with smiley-faced icons just for showing up.  I'm not even suggesting that criticisms should be entirely withheld.

But there are ways to critique and disagree that come significantly closer to respectful than some of the eviscerating, mean-spirited and wholly unnecessary diatribes of contentious slander that I've come across in these unfortunate comments.

I find it confounding and, obviously, disturbing enough to mention right now after only a week of train watching; even though it places me so close to the edge of the platform I can curl my toes around the tile.

There may be some among you now who are thinking that if I don't like it, why don't I hop on a bus instead or take a pleasant little compositional ferryboat to Storytelling Land where everything is light, everyone is supportive and every story has a happy ending?    Odds are you might be the very people I'm addressing.

Look, I'm just saying that this is a relatively new medium for all of us.  Never before have we had such vast exposure to the out there; to the other, particularly with such incredible immediacy or intimacy.  We live all over the world and come from every variety of circumstance imaginable, and what has become evident to me in startling dimensions after reading through a significant number of posts this past week is that many of us carry burdens of incomprehensible weight.  Burdens of pain, loneliness, addiction, recovery, abuse, loss, tragedy, failure or with a brokenness so weighted by darkness that its nature can only be implied.

But we all come here to write.

Some write about how their lives fell apart, some, about how they are patching them together or how they are surviving the daily slaughter.  Some write about anything but their troubles.  And for still others, this may be the only refuge, respite or moment of joy in their whole, oppressive existence.   How many  sets of toes are curled around the unsteady edge of the platform tiles as they write their insides out or as they retrieve the comments left on their blogs?

The answer to this is:  We don't really know.

Like many I am not unfamiliar with the rabid toxin of despair and self-loathing.  It has taken me most of my life to reach this point of clean comprehension when the sodden cloud of insecurity has finally lifted and my life is no longer compromised by inadequate perception.  I can see clearly and I now recognize the craven silhouette of the enemy.  I know when to run and when to fight.

At this moment I am fighting.  Not for myself, but for those who come here to find themselves, to reach out to others and to find a place on the platform where they can wait in safety but who, for whatever reasons, are temporarily drawn toward the edge.

They shouldn't have to fear us.  Offer them a place to stand.

There is room for everyone here.  Be kind.  You never know......

Bulimic Touch Seething between sin and scorn I swallow all I cannot mourn and smother what is scarred or torn THEN TRACE THE FACE I'M LEFT WITH I excavate and then remove This womb of rage no one can soothe A tacit gesture to improve AND TRACE THE face I'm left with These fingers are my anodyne Five tools that craft and realign the shadows all my fears define THEY TRACE the face I'm left with And hone this practice to deceive to suffocate what I perceive I guarantee you will believe the trace of face i'm left with I've been there.  Just sayin.......