Orodomop

 

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I hate ‘technique’. I hate rules of ‘creativity’. I hate identifying nouns, verbs, and constantinoples or whatever they are called. Who made these rules? Why are they rules that we have to follow? If I am baring my soul to the masses of strangers that read my blog (there are at least 10 of you), why do I have make certain that I have inserted a semicolon and not just a colon! A colon is a part of your ass, not something one needs to pay attention too during writings of emotional strife.

Like right now.

I am sitting here, on my laptop, legs curled, yelling at my cat because he won’t stop meowing because he murders birds (whole other story), watching the Real Housewives of New York (the one where Luann gets arrested), and testing out the ‘Pomodor’ technique. For some reason, saying the ‘Pomodor’ technique reminds of saying a favorite and very reliable system we used as teenagers called ‘the pull-out method’, but I digress because the two methods/techniques are not even remotely similar.

I am a procrastinator. I have lists and lists of things that I must get done. In my ever quest for seeking meaning in my life I have created things that must be done to attain this. I am fantastic at making lists, and should probably market my technique, however I really haven’t figured out how to actual do what is on my list. Actually rewind that. I can do the things on my list that mean nothing.

  1. Wash dishes
  2. Clean carpet
  3. Floss
  4. Pluck
  5. Clean windows

Everything else remains on my list, and gets carried over to my final task:

  1. Make new list.

On this new list (and every new list) is the task ‘write’. Make sure to write. Write an outline. Find that book on how to get published. Finish your story. Find apps to help you finish your story. Again, finish your fucking story.

Finishing a story is a tall order, I know, and as a writer I will not stop writing until I am dead, or my fingers fall of because of my inability to control my Diabetes – whatever. What I actually mean by ‘write’ is to actually sit down and create. My hard drive is chalked full of beginnings of stories, ideas of stories, paragraphs I wrote when I could not see through my tears, and words that inspire me. I also have finished stories, however before you ask me than what my problem is, these stories and essays were given to me as assignments. If I did not do them I would not pass a course. So, regardless of how I feel about the finished product and how great they are, they are still assignments. What I mean when I list ‘write’ on the top of every list is to actually write because I want to, because I don’t feel scared, or full of self doubt, or tired, or hungry, or anything else I can think of to not write.

In this search to keep myself focused I recognize that I need help. Help on my own. Self-guided guidance if that is a thing.

I have found one thing.

The Pomodoro App.

I know that the Pomodoro (pull-out .. argggg) technique is not a new thing. Apparently it is a big deal that many people have done for many reasons. It is also a pasta sauce. I really don’t care about the history of it – I just want it to work. I have also just decided to rename it the Orodomop because I don’t want to think about the pull-out method anymore. Anyways, I am so happy that I found something that was simple and what thrilled me the most about this technique was the little photo pops up as my App icon on my phone.

A little tomato timer.

My grandma had one of these, and a tomato pincushion, and each one these fascinated me to no end. Call it nostalgia or a far cry from Grandma Alma from the grave telling me to get my shit together and write. Either way, it worked.

I am on day two or writing 750 words per day. This is a big deal. It may not be sole focus of the bestseller I am writing (or not writing), but it is something.

I will take something over nothing at this point.

And a bowl of pasta.

And another 16 words to make it 750.

But, I won’t, because, you know, rules.

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Orodomop

Victory

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Victory

 

Thank you, thank you, merci, merci mes amis

Sunny ways, positive politics can do

Hopeful

Canadians, Canadians from across Canada

Can make things happen

Change

Thank you, merci, Gerald and Katie

Tough and hardworking and a shared vision

Winning

Tonight, my good friends, it was proven

Public life isn’t a naïve dream

Vision

Volunteers, hearts, thank you

Even to those across the aisle

Mr. Harper, Mr. Mulcair

Faith, in yourselves, in your country

Minds and hard work

History

You did, you put me here

Creating jobs and devotion

Middle Class

Country Strong, differences, because of them

I understand openness and transparency

Better

St. Catharines, Ontario, young mom

Muslim, making her own choices

Diversity

A Canadian is a Canadian is a Canadian

We beat fear with hope

Merci, Merci, Merci

Victory

The tiny spark of inspiration: Thanks JB! (AKA Mom)

writing

I am not able to write. I am in a funk. I am taking a copy editing course; enough said.

When I take courses that are technical in nature I lose my sense of inspiration. I hate technicalities, rules, and table manners. I hate constructed morals based on a prehistoric manual of morality. Copy editing makes me crazy.

So, rather than writing I have been reading, and watching Law and Order: SVU on Netflix.

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Today, I am reading We Were Liars, by E. Lockhart. I have probably mentioned that I run a Teen Book Club at work, and this is their latest choice. IT is a good choice. It deals with the intricacies and external facades families maintain to save face. It talks of priviledge and ignorance and aging. It is a white person drama, full of in-our-face fallacies of white-person life.

For some reason (for many reasons) this book made me think of my family. It than got me thinking of my mom. It got me thinking that I really miss her. It got me thinking that I want to write about it.

So here I am, writing about my mom – but not really. Thinking about her made me want to write, but she isn’t my topic today. She is my inspiration. She would want to know what I was doing while not writing. She would say about my copy editing class “you always hated being fussy.” I feel my topic today is just a conversation I would have with her.

I can hear her listening…

The tiny spark of inspiration: Thanks JB! (AKA Mom)

I Am My Own Worst Enemy

All I hear..

You are so good..

You need to write more..

Start writing those books..

I sit in front of my computer..

I hear your words..

I think about my dishes, my weight, my failures..

My bills, my mom, my floors..

You see I am my own worst enemy..

My brain doesn’t work like yours..

You say I am good, and at times I agree.

But I would rather do dishes, than just be..

I Am My Own Worst Enemy

You Should Get This Published: am I really good at something?

Bridesmaids drinks

Narrative Essay

Creative Non Fiction

Feb 5, 2014.

I wish I had remembered her name because she had changed my life.

University life for me in Vancouver in 2003 was chock-full of instrumental feminist instructors who exposed my enclosed underbelly of justice and dues. This particular mentor who I shall call Professor Life Changer, taught my most favorite class, Women Studies: Women, Food, and Culture, a course that examined the role of women and food through a literary lens. The course and instructor introduced me to the books Like Water for Chocolate by Laura Esquivel and Aphrodite by Isabel Allende. These two books and authors left an impressive mark on my heart and my soul that no other piece of literature had done before than or after.

Professor Life Changer also introduced me to the art of writing. Not just essay writing, which I had grown bored of, but deep, abandoned, emotive inscription. We wrote essays on everything that ignited my fire, from the beauty and treachery of food, the role of women as true nurturers, and symbolism of the kitchen as a breeding ground for revolution. I was captivated and in it for the long haul. I had taken my first step into my true self. This class was the first chapter to my real life story.

My last assignment for this class was my first time being published, well kind of. The class was to individually write a piece integrating a recipe, much like Allende did in Aphrodite, and the Professor would put it together into an anthology for the class. Mine was called The Dynamite Roll and I utilized the ingredients and assembly of the Dynamite Roll as a metaphor for my tumultuously exciting and tragic existence at the time. She asked me to read it to the class. Once finished, everyone applauded. I had never been applauded to after reading something I had written in class. I took it in, and it felt great.

When I was leaving the class on our last day, Professor Life Changer took me aside. “I think you should get this published,” as she handed me back my assignment. I kind of stopped and stared, perhaps with my mouth wide open. All I could get out in response was “Okay.” I probably should have said more, but I was taken aback, stunned really. I had never, ever considered myself good at anything, let alone writing.

Those words have not left me since that day. I have shifted my life towards the art of the written word. My words have become stronger, more coherent and full of passion, fun, and rage. I have been published, and continue to work on publishing my first novel. And on the front page of that novel will be the words, “For Professor Life Changer. Thank you for telling me that I am good at something.”

You Should Get This Published: am I really good at something?

The Reasons Why I am Returning Home

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I have decided to return home – home being Calgary. This has been a very tough decision and one not come upon lightly. I am going to touch on the reasons why it was difficult first.

My Toronto friends. You all know who you are. You and you alone are the reasons that I had such a hard time leaving. You have all seen me through the good and the bad and kept by me throughout. Thank you. I will be forever grateful and I will be back to visit, I promise.

Now, to reflect on why I am leaving (and a brief history of Dallas in her thirties). A few years back…say 2006? I met a girl. When I say we met, I mean we chatted online, MSN Messenger to be exact! I had just come out and was really getting along with her. In fact, I was falling hard. Here I am in the throes of my new found identity.

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That particular romance did not last, however a spark in me did. I needed to get out of Vancouver and broaden my horizons. I figured that Calgary would be a good place to start. So I gathered my buddy Erin and my two cats to move with me and recruited two other friends to help us load up the UHaul and drive with us to Calgary.

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Once I arrived it didn’t take me long to flourish. I joined everything, I volunteered, I made amazing friends. I discovered I wanted to write. I felt at home. I met this weirdo.

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I had never been in a space where I felt pretty fantastic. This was my home. This was my Calgary. And than I met a girl.

I fell in love, and I fell hard. I wanted to be her everything and I became someone I was not to try and be that everything to her. I lost myself in the process. This was not her fault. It was how I chose to do things. She wanted me to follow her to Toronto. I did.

In the back of my mind I was telling myself no, don’t go. But my stubborn mind was made up. I went. Our relationship did not work out, but I do not regret going. These are some of the reasons why.

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After we split up, my mom got sick so I came to Vancouver. Before she passed away she told me that I always seemed so happy in Calgary. I was happy, she was right.

I decided to return to Toronto in September with full intentions to make a go at it on my own. I found a great place with great roommates, I reconnected with friends, I went to yoga religiously, and I went back to school for creative writing. I even began working on my mental health by going to groups. But something was missing.

My mental health was at an all time low. I was alone. I was away from heart and soul – my home. I was starting to rediscover myself and with this I realized that I needed to return.

So here I am. Two weeks from my departure. I want to thank Toronto for taking me in, for bashing me around, and for helping me rediscover myself.

I also want to thank Calgary for always being there, even when I left you. Thank you for letting me back.

 

The Reasons Why I am Returning Home