C.L. Walters's Blog, page 22

Swimming Sideways: A Letter to Readers

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Aloha e na Readers -

My name is Abigail Keānuenueonālani Kaiāulu and Swimming Sideways is my story. Everyone calls me Abby. The rest of my name is Hawaiian, because my dad is Hawaiian (my mom is white in case you were wondering). My middle name means A rainbow from heaven because on the day I was born my Poppa saw a rainbow. He said it was a good sign because rainbows in Hawaiian culture are associated with the birth of chiefs. So far, I think I’m a disappointment to my name, but Poppa would tell me to be patient. My last name is a wind - a gentle breeze - that comes in from the ocean to the Westside, my Waianae homeland.

This was taken in Chinatown outside of the Hawaii Theater. (PC: CL Walters :)

I have spent all of my life on the island of Oʻahu except for the summers hanging out with my Grandma Bev (she’s my mom’s mom) in Oregon and now Arizona. I have a lot of fond memories of those summers in Oregon: a friend named Seth; the tall trees; Grandma Bev’s laugh; playing in the woods behind her house; building sandcastles at the beach. Visiting Arizona is different and less frequent now that Grandma Bev does a lot of traveling with her group of retired friends during the summers. My favorite place to be is home, on Oʻahu, in the ocean. I love to surf. Poppa taught me.

The WESTSIDE! My home. (PC: Miulan Nihipali)

Everything changed for me a couple of years ago, when my Poppa died. He raised my twin brothers and me because our parents worked. He taught me everything I know about Hawaiian culture (which I wish was more now. I wish I’d been a better listener). When he died, my family fell apart. I fell apart, and made some choices I wish I could take back. That’s when the incident occurred, and it impacted my world at school too. Needless to say, the last year or so has been hell on earth.

This is KALO . . .it produces the Taro root, a Hawaiian staple. Culturally, as Hawaiians, we believe the Kalo is our brother. Makes sense, right? Take care of what feeds you like family? That’s what Poppa always said, anyway. (PC: CL WALTERS)

My mom and Dad told us we are moving to Oregon. They’ve been fighting a lot, and I’m pretty confident that this decision is my mom’s. She’s originally from Oregon, so it’s what she knows. At first, I was upset about it, but the more time I’ve had to consider the opportunity it presents for a fresh start, I don’t find myself as antagonistic toward the idea. Dad said that Hawaiians were explorers: they navigated the sea using the stars to find Hawaii, so now we’re going to do some exploring.

My mom got this picture.

(Model pretending to be Abby - the authorʻs awesome daughter; PC: CL WALTERS)

Here’s what I think: Explorer or not, it’s my job to make sure no one finds out about The Incident at my new school in Oregon. That means that I have to do everything right, because I can’t face my junior and senior year in the same social dump where I’ve spent my freshman and sophomore years. I’m also hoping that my family will find a way to make it through these rough seas. When my Poppa was teaching me to surf, he said how important it is to watch the ocean before getting into it. Be an observer, he’d said.  He also said that sometimes we all get caught in a rip current. If that happens, Tita, don’t fight it. Swim sideways out of it. So, that’s what I’m trying to do: Swim Sideways.

I hope you enjoy my story.

Aloha,

Abby

Empathy is Our Superpower!

I’m struggling.

I posted that the other day to Facebook and a bunch of friends reached out, commented and said, “You can do it!”

Struggle is always a writing thing, and goes without saying, but I’m struggling with understanding something else (which I’ll get to a bit later in this post). I’m working on the new WIP (Work-in-progress) which, as a story, is a difficult one to tell. It is about a character’s personal struggle. As I’m writing, I’ve been thinking a lot about the idea of personal strife.

Each of us faces the symbolic mountain. (FYI: this is literally the Ko’olaus on the the island of O’ahu).

The struggle for me as an author is often in the bond I create with the characters as I learn who they are. The character comes to life, becomes a real face, with a real history and their experiences often opens my eyes to the authentic world where my own perspective is challenged and shaped. When I’m in the darkness with a character for an extended period, I live the struggle with them, but I push through it because I can feel the necessity to tell the story in every beat of my heart.  

Struggle is a human experience, one that we all of share in a myriad of ways. It is a common language.

But then again, maybe not.

Without over politicizing it (I’m trying to focus on the humanity) when one of the most impactful world leaders - while at a political rally - mocked the experience of a woman who shared her troubling experience drew me into a dark place. When I was able to set my feet back on rational soil, I wondered if he’s ever had to struggle? Are there people on this earth who have never experienced the pain, the adversity, the difficulty of floating in the pool of trials and having to climb out of it? Has he ever grappled with abuse, inequality, grief, rape, racism, mental illness, addiction, physical disabilities or a myriad of other ways that humans face mountains? How could he not, after all; the struggle doesn’t differentiated does it? And he’s human. Right? Then again, this isn’t the first time the man - or others in varying positions of power - have trivialized trauma or attempted to flip the script to marginalize groups, dehumanize their experience, or categorize behaviors to negate their import.

Then I realized: it’s about EMPATHY.

My daughter and her best friend as they say goodbye to one another as they head off to college.

Empathy is the means with which we identify with those who struggle. It is the grace we show our fellow human beings, and that which makes us act in service to one another. It is the way we connect.

Ultimately, we tell stories because we seek connection. Happy stories, sad stories, hardship stories that overcome odds, love stories. When my father died, others told me their stories of losing their loved one as a way to empathize with my experience. I’m a sucker for the sports vignette when watching College GameDay or E:60 where I’m often moved to tears because the stories showcase struggle and the empathy attached by others. It is our nature to seek connection, and it is in the struggle where that often takes place.  

I wish I had an answer for those who lack the empathy needed to understand the struggle others face. Politically, we can answer that at the polls, but in everyday life, those of us who can, I suppose, need to continue to serve, to provide grace, and to connect. Whether that’s through telling stories, delivering sandwiches, working at a soup kitchen, volunteering at church, offering a hot meal, spending time with the elderly, volunteering for a campaign - it is our empathy that is our superpower.

So I will continue to struggle to tell this WIP’s Character’s story, even if it is difficult, and climb the mountain with him.

The Writer Hoard

I was sitting at breakfast with my family the other day - family with whom I don’t often get the opportunity to visit since we live so far apart - and they were telling stories. This is one of the joys of being with my family who talk a lot and loudly, laughs often, and enjoy the space we share. Around the table were three aunts, two uncles, and a cousin (also a writer) and my daughter. As usual, the stories were family tales of grandparents and great-grandparents, times when our parents or the cousins were small, and funny anecdotes that we’ve heard again and again but never get old. Eventually, my aunt Susan turns to Mike - my writer cousin - and I and observes, “Nothing is safe with you two around, is it?”

My cousin Mike and I. Check out his website and work (here)

Nope.

Here’s a truth about writers: we are collectors. At first, I think about The Collector in the Marvel Universe, or maybe a librarian with beautifully arranged artifacts and books. These images - for me - conjure a romantic notion of what it might be like as a writer. For example, it might be sitting down at a Parisian Cafe and penning into a leather-bound notebook a gorgeous list of things to remember (ever read A Moveable Feast by Hemingway? If not, your next assignment!). I like this image.

But hoarders of information is probably a more apt description.

How I imagine the info hoard in my mind might look, but I do think there would be labels. Definitely labels.

We collect, and collect, and collect stories, facts, tidbits of information, moments, impressions that may or may not be useful. Our minds are filled with boxes and boxes stacked one on top of the other with only enough room for little pathways for our memory to traverse. But ask a writer, and chances are every one of those mind-boxes contains very important memory bits that we are (probably) going to need one day.

Truthfully, those boxes may never get opened, and should probably be gleaned - But dammit! You never know when that little sliver of information might come in handy!

So be forewarned! If you know a writer, chances are, everything is being stored: the who, what, when, where, why, how, impressions and tone. Then we’ll file it in our mind hoard, into a box that may or may not get opened. I guess you’ll just have to read our work to see if you notice any interesting tidbits and similarities, but I promise (what’s that disclaimer after the movies?) this story is fiction, and any similarities between a real person and the fictional work is unintentional.

Swimming Sideways Play List

Music - for me - is a means of connection between my feet on the earth and my creative head in the clouds. It’s as though I’m plugging myself into an electrical outlet to run the current between my brain and my soul. It speaks to me in a way that allows me to plug into the protagonist and the narrative.  

Ear buds save my life in public places and in a living room where my boys watch TV.

One of my writing tools is to develop a playlist for whichever work is in progress (so Spotify is one of my favorite apps!). Whenever I’m working on the work-in-progress, that playlist is rolling. Though, the list doesn’t necessarily stay the same as the narrative changes (the playlist gets edited just like the work itself) eventually it gets to place in which the vibe is perfect to the story and the tone I imagine.

As I worked through the writing process for Swimming Sideways (Cantos Chronicles, Book One), the following songs became the playlist that I clung to like a life raft as I was swept up into the story. They are in no particular order.

Oceans Away by A R I Z O N A, Mansionair Remix

Nani Koolau by Keauhou

Special N by Mogwai

Pteryla by Novo Amor and Ed Tullett

Waves by Hayden Calnin

Langtan by For Alltid: Langtan

Cibi by Luke Howard

Brassy Sun by S. Carey

Tomorrow’s Song by Olafur Arnalds

Ocean Eyes by Billie Eilish

Ten Sails by Luke Howard and Nadjie Noordhuis

Souvenirs by Kina Grannis