Writing From Within

Constantina Boudouvas, a wonderfully grounded friend and a gifted therapist, and I are starting a group for writers--Writing From Within.   On February 11 and 12 we  will offer our first writers' retreat, Mindfulness for Writers.  It will be an experiential workshop and the sharing of writing will be optional.  Critiques will not be given as the focus is getting the words on the page and digging deep for inspiration and awareness through mindfulness.

Our location will offer a peaceful, forested setting including trails and a labyrinth for mindfulness walks.  Attendance will be limited to a small group.

Writing is a solitary activity.  And the heart of writing is to get to guts of life, put the reader inside your characters and let the reader walk down the streets of the location you've chosen.  You want to write the glint of light hitting seashells (a play on Chekov's quotation) not moonshine.  This writing comes from awareness and knowing without boundaries.  Being fully prsent for life.  Mindfulness is an avenue to get there.

Brochures will be available soon.

Bitten Deep by Sariah Choucair

April 27, 2010

The following blog captured the Sirenland experience so beautifully.  I'm posting it here with the permission of the author, a very talented writer. Please check out her blog at http://yellsoftly.com/2010/03/30/bitten-deep/

Bitten Deep

Posted on March 30, 2010 by Sariah Choucair

A last attempt: the language is a dialect called metaphor.
These images go unglossed: hair, glacier, flashlight.
When I think of a landscape I am thinking of a time.
When I talk of taking a trip I mean forever.
I could say: those mountains have a meaning
but further than that I could not say.

To do something very common, in my own way.

-Excerpt from “A Valediction Forbidding Mourning” by Adrienne Rich

————————————————-

What can I say about Positano? Should I tell you about the way the sky melds with the sea, a steel dome enclosing pastel homes stacked like pastry boxes and the turquoise water that rolls over black sand beaches? Perhaps you’d rather hear about watching the tide come in on my last night there, or how the waiters moved in crisp white jackets among jewel-like lemon trees in the dining room draped with ivy? I could inadequately describe steamed milk and perfect coffee served from silver pitchers or the endless glasses of golden prosecco passed by gentlemen with tender eyes, like Roberto.

If I was ambitious I could tell you about the people, my fellow writers and, now, friends. I could start with the children, pure treasures wrapped in small packages named Jacob and Lucy, who told me (rightly) “you really must try the vanilla gelato” and who, when one evening became so wonderful I thought my heart would break, allowed me to sit with them, listen to their dreams of being writers, designers, and a “pilot who writes pilots,” and give them scenarios to test their acting chops. 

I could move on, then, to the adults who imprinted themselves in my heart like handprints in soft plaster, the women and men who would humor my overwrought simile because they experienced it, too. And it is here your narrator finds herself, at last, without words because they were so wonderful, they were so kind, they were so fantastic.

Wise writers tell you to write about things from a distance. Wise writers tell you to avoid writing about topics previously covered by John Steinbeck. I am not wise.

I don’t want distance from Sirenland. I want to hold it in my hands, a diorama, a silver snowglobe that I can shake and then peek through a crack in the silver dome to remember, perfectly, what it was to be there. I will conjure rigorous mornings spent with writers I admired; an afternoon spent writing and sipping espresso on a cast iron deck over the Mediterranean; late night chats and farewell dance parties; the realization of the friendship of a lifetime; the life-changing realization that, in the end, there is always the work and that this work of putting words on a page is mine.

I don’t have a silver snowglobe, but I do have a perfectly smooth wishing stone picked from the beach by an amazing teacher. This morning I roll the stone between my palms, fight sleep, and write. 

- – - – - - - – -

The title refers to this famous quote from Steinbeck’s essay:  “Positano bites deep. It is a dream place that isn’t quite real when you are there and becomes beckoningly real after you have gone.”

Barcelona

Staying in one place for a week has definite advantages over hopping from place to place.  I know the rhythm of this city, have a favorite restaurant, and the days are easy, not rushed.  Having time that isn't packed to overflowing with tasks or even want-tos is so refreshing.

Barcelona is a city for walking.  My feet  have covered miles of sidewalk and going somewhere beats the treadmill by far.  Bicycles are everywhere and the government supplies bicycle stands with bikes to take from one place to another (they encourage use for a half hour at at time) and a biking path on the road.  The crosswalks have a bicycle light as well as a pedestrian light.   Lunch is around 2 and dinner at 8 or after and they eat for hours.  Waiters don't bring the check until you ask for it.  To do otherwise would be considered rude. There are very few fast food restaurants:  I've seen one Burger King and one McDonald's.  I've not seen a single convenience store offering sodas, candy, and chips though there are small groceries with fresh veggies and fruits.  I don't think they snack.

And you see very few overweight people.  Except in the hotel.

Sirenland

Only one day left.

I've fallen down the rabbit hole to a land of beauty, good food, wine, and constant talk of writing, learning about writing. The workshops have been wonderful and for the first time in my life I spent three and a quarter hours eating lunch.  I'm full, nourished, tended to and I'm ready to write.

I'll always have Positano.

When Dreams Come True

A few weeks ago I heard that a publishing company would offer a contract for a nonfiction book I wrote with coauthor Melissa Cook.  A few months ago I learned I had been accepted at Sirenland, a compeititive writers conference in Positano, Italy.  You would think I would jump up and down for joy.

I had the same reaction for both events, though stronger for the book contract.  I wasn't happy at all. In fact, sad and scared would be more accuratem after I recovered from the shock.  I was comfortable with my view of myself as someone who wrote hopefully but would never be published.  I believed I would never really be a writer.  It was a dream and an inconcieveable reality. Having a contract meant all the work involved in completing the book. Could I actually do it?  What if I couldn't?  What if in half the pages necessary I'd said all I had to say?

Weeks later I am esctatic.  Now I am over the top with excitement. I will be published.  I did it.  How funny that having dreams come true scares the heck out of me.

Elephants in the Closet

I am currently working on my second nonfiction book with a psychologist from North Carolina, Dr. Stephanie Wright.  The book is an effort to help survivors of domestic violence and hopefully have an impact on preventing family violence.  Part of the book includes the views and opinons of the general public about the issue.  We need more questionnaires completed.  If you are willing to help, the questionnaire is at

http://bit.ly/gDAKK.  Thanks so very much.

The Gift of Validation

I learned last week that the book I am writing with Melissa Cook will be published in the Fall of 2011.  I am so excited!