Counterbalance. The End
LOL!
I had a thoroughly productive weekend, writing-wise, which generally leaves me upbeat, satisified, and ready to switch writing styles in anticipation of the new work-week.
Instead, I'm somewhat depressed (and I'm rarely depressed) and blah. Broken sleep followed by nasty nightmares last night and heavy rain this morning that's threatening to cancel my early morning walk didn't help either.
So, what gives?
The weekend certainly started off on a high note, John Simons style. I finished the Friday festivities in a goodly time and sailed out the door, ready for an Italian beef from Jody's, a work-out, Family Guy with Daniel, all before I'd settle at the computer with a fresh cup of coffee to finish the final scenes of Before the Blood: John's Story: Chapter 5: Post-Graduate Studies.
My first clue should have been walking back to work to retrieve the forgotten haluski in the refrigerator. Still, since that provided extra conversation with Rebekah, even that bit wasn't totally unpleasant. I then proceeded into the above activities and all was well.
The coffee gave out two-ish, but I was back in the nineteenth century by eight, a sure sign of a happy weekend. Prose and research rolled along at a steady rate until I had to run an errand. Let's just say that intentional meaness combined with poor customer service and bad handling of the two on my part started the downward spiral.
Generally, I have tougher hide, so I'm not sure why I couldn't easily shrug it off. Feeling a bit slapped down, I returned home to my chapter. This is where the lesson of counterbalance begins, as the writing, instead of distracting me, enhanced the hopeless mood.
For, you see, those scenes were all in nineteenth century slums. I spent the rest of the day reading about that lifestyle, viewing many photos of it, and writing about some of the most despairing situations one could imagine. If I'd been more aware, I would have skipped over the rest of this chapter and worked ahead on a happier scene. Instead, a dark quicksand sucked me in.
I did, however, finish the chapter around two o'clock in the morning, a good thing. Really.
The next morning, with a gray gloom hanging about me, we drove up to St. Nicholas in Homewood. A general confession service before liturgy temporarily and somewhat heightened my mood. During fellowship hour, I telephoned one of our matriarchs who has been absent since July, a strong, independent, never-married, retired nurse, perfectly lovely, never sick woman, who had battled some nasty virus last month, became dehydrated, and hasn't quite gotten her strenght back. I wandered around the parking lot, talking (I think best while walking), but it became clear to me that, because she lives many miles from church, she may never again be the full-time presence she once was.
Sigh.
Still emotionally dragging, I then spent the afternoon helping my ex-husband fill out paperwork regarding disablity and adding a few touches to said chapter five. Towards evening, the eureka moment occured.
Counterbalance.
One of the reasons, I believe, that artists are so skilled at their craft is because we are keenly and acutely aware of impressions -color, line, shape, emotions, nuanced human behavior - which we then transmit into a work for others to enjoy.
The problem, of course, with absorbing all those impressions is that we don't quite easily shake them away with the same ease non-artists do. I think that, had the chapter I'd been writing been a joyous one, the earlier incident, however unpleasant, would have faded into the walls once I began writing. Instead, I became steeped in dreariness.
Lesson learned: Follow up depressing writing actions not with depressing reactions, but with opposite and totally upbeat actions that have nothing to do with the storyline or passing negative life events. Dismal, no matter how real it appears (whether it is my creation or a creation of another's imposed on me) is not reality.
Reality, for me, is 1 John 4:8: God is love.
And it is in this reality I choose to live today, even though the meh mood is hanging about me like mist from Simons Woods.
The End.
Dog rescue group hosts fundraising luau
Cute and photo-heavy
http://www.theherald-news.com/2014/07/24/dog-rescue-group-hosts-fundraising-luau/alm85vz/
An Extraordinary Life: Not as good as Great-Grandma's
Bessie Frederick was, first and foremost, a mere homemaker, but, oh, what a homemaker.
http://www.theherald-news.com/2014/08/07/an-extraordinary-life-not-as-good-as-great-grandmas/ao9jgom/
LOL!
I had a thoroughly productive weekend, writing-wise, which generally leaves me upbeat, satisified, and ready to switch writing styles in anticipation of the new work-week.
Instead, I'm somewhat depressed (and I'm rarely depressed) and blah. Broken sleep followed by nasty nightmares last night and heavy rain this morning that's threatening to cancel my early morning walk didn't help either.
So, what gives?
The weekend certainly started off on a high note, John Simons style. I finished the Friday festivities in a goodly time and sailed out the door, ready for an Italian beef from Jody's, a work-out, Family Guy with Daniel, all before I'd settle at the computer with a fresh cup of coffee to finish the final scenes of Before the Blood: John's Story: Chapter 5: Post-Graduate Studies.
My first clue should have been walking back to work to retrieve the forgotten haluski in the refrigerator. Still, since that provided extra conversation with Rebekah, even that bit wasn't totally unpleasant. I then proceeded into the above activities and all was well.
The coffee gave out two-ish, but I was back in the nineteenth century by eight, a sure sign of a happy weekend. Prose and research rolled along at a steady rate until I had to run an errand. Let's just say that intentional meaness combined with poor customer service and bad handling of the two on my part started the downward spiral.
Generally, I have tougher hide, so I'm not sure why I couldn't easily shrug it off. Feeling a bit slapped down, I returned home to my chapter. This is where the lesson of counterbalance begins, as the writing, instead of distracting me, enhanced the hopeless mood.
For, you see, those scenes were all in nineteenth century slums. I spent the rest of the day reading about that lifestyle, viewing many photos of it, and writing about some of the most despairing situations one could imagine. If I'd been more aware, I would have skipped over the rest of this chapter and worked ahead on a happier scene. Instead, a dark quicksand sucked me in.
I did, however, finish the chapter around two o'clock in the morning, a good thing. Really.
The next morning, with a gray gloom hanging about me, we drove up to St. Nicholas in Homewood. A general confession service before liturgy temporarily and somewhat heightened my mood. During fellowship hour, I telephoned one of our matriarchs who has been absent since July, a strong, independent, never-married, retired nurse, perfectly lovely, never sick woman, who had battled some nasty virus last month, became dehydrated, and hasn't quite gotten her strenght back. I wandered around the parking lot, talking (I think best while walking), but it became clear to me that, because she lives many miles from church, she may never again be the full-time presence she once was.
Sigh.
Still emotionally dragging, I then spent the afternoon helping my ex-husband fill out paperwork regarding disablity and adding a few touches to said chapter five. Towards evening, the eureka moment occured.
Counterbalance.
One of the reasons, I believe, that artists are so skilled at their craft is because we are keenly and acutely aware of impressions -color, line, shape, emotions, nuanced human behavior - which we then transmit into a work for others to enjoy.
The problem, of course, with absorbing all those impressions is that we don't quite easily shake them away with the same ease non-artists do. I think that, had the chapter I'd been writing been a joyous one, the earlier incident, however unpleasant, would have faded into the walls once I began writing. Instead, I became steeped in dreariness.
Lesson learned: Follow up depressing writing actions not with depressing reactions, but with opposite and totally upbeat actions that have nothing to do with the storyline or passing negative life events. Dismal, no matter how real it appears (whether it is my creation or a creation of another's imposed on me) is not reality.
Reality, for me, is 1 John 4:8: God is love.
And it is in this reality I choose to live today, even though the meh mood is hanging about me like mist from Simons Woods.
The End.
Dog rescue group hosts fundraising luau
Cute and photo-heavy
http://www.theherald-news.com/2014/07/24/dog-rescue-group-hosts-fundraising-luau/alm85vz/
An Extraordinary Life: Not as good as Great-Grandma's
Bessie Frederick was, first and foremost, a mere homemaker, but, oh, what a homemaker.
http://www.theherald-news.com/2014/08/07/an-extraordinary-life-not-as-good-as-great-grandmas/ao9jgom/
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