S.K. Waller's Blog, page 14

On the Writing of a Memoir

I'm writing A Polite Little Madness in a way that I've never written before and I find the change energizing. Besides the writing style, or "voice" (which I'll get to in a minute), I'm using an entirely different approach as well as a different discipline, for want of a better word. The reason for this is, well, there was no real conscious reason, the book created its own voice, structure, and technique. During the note-taking phase, I realized I was employing virtually nothing of my past writing tools. This was new territory and I have to tell you, I dug it. I'm still digging it.
I've contemplated writing my memoirs for some time now—years, actually—but I always put it off. The question of who the hell am I and why would anyone want to read my story, anyway? always arises. Of course it does. But my procrastination was more about timing. It wasn't that I thought my life hasn't been interesting enough, or that there's nothing for people to learn from my experiences, it was that I wasn't ready to reopen a case of Cans 'O Worms. Also, I didn't know what voice I should use for such a thing. I've kept notes forever for this book, some as long as full book chapters, not to mention the 50-odd journals I've kept since 1977, but it wasn't until last week that the voice for this book came to me. It was easy, too:

"Just write the way you talk."
"Really? Just like this? No perfectly structured sentences? No with whoms? All those contractions?"
"Yeah. Just like this."

Just like this, really. Just inner dialogue and free-form stream-of-consciousness. Mostly low-key with a pinch of patter and a tablespoon of humor thrown in for flavor. Add a little spice, a fair amount of chewy bits and go easy on the schmaltz and sugar.

I've thought it over and there's no one thing that makes this project so fun and easy (easy in the sense of the physical act of writing; a memoir of any sort does require a hefty helping of self-analysis, which is never easy). As I write about my life, I flash backward and forward, but I always come back to where I ventured off the path. Just like how I've lived my life. There's no sense of strict chronology, although a feeling of a timeline is in place, giving the whole thing support and just enough ballast to keep the whole thing from flying away.

I've also flung aside a lot of the rules that go into the writing of a novel. No strict comma splices, no problem using my personal slang, and no fibbing! By their very nature memoirs and autobiographies are suspect where truth is concerned, but I'm maintaining two guidelines:
If it's about someone else, it wouldn't be fair or decent of me to give away their secrets. It's not their story and exposing them would do nothing to further understanding of where I come from. Do unto others.If it's about me, then why even bother going through all this only to hold back the truth, or lie about things? I've always been an "open book" sort of person and I loathe keeping secrets because, as a victim of abuse I was forced to keep everyone's dirty little secrets as a child. This is the nature of any abuse; the perpetrator always thinks they have something on you that they want to make you feel ashamed of. If you buy into that load of crap, they terrorize you with the fear of "being found out" and they have power over you.There are a few things I can't include, because some of the people from my past are still alive and I don't wish to burst their bubble of what my childhood was, but where those who are dead are concerned, I'm being honest. To be fair, I have to tell you that I'm not making anyone look all-good or all-bad. And every tale is told, not as an exposé, but as a means to understand why I've turned out the way I have.

I'm also writing it from beginning to end, not hopping around as I usually do. And I'm not editing, adding, or taking out anything until the first draft of each section is completed in its turn. This is probably the hardest thing for me, because I usually write all night, then edit and rewrite that the next day in sort of a slip-stitch approach. Not this time, however.

All of this being said, here is a little info about the book:

Title: A Polite Little Madness
ETA: Shooting for mid-winter or early spring, but what will be will be.
Pages: I don't care. Could be 50, could be 500. I'm not telling it what it's supposed to be, I'm just along for the ride.
Genre: Memoir, philosophy, travel, self-help, whatever.
Structure: Written in four parts...


Part I: NormalMy early childhood beginning in 1951 through tomy departure for Haight-Ashbury in 1969.
Part II: It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the TimeMy travels on the road, the first phase of my music careerto my "Let it Be" breakup with my best friend andmanager in 1982, and how that threw my life into a tailspin.
Part III: Reluctant Spirit GuideMy departure into classical composition, my spirituality,life with La Boheme through 2000,and my 15-year creative drought.
Part IV: The Dust of Dreams & Star DustMy life with Lynette and our family, my coming to termswith chronic illness, ageing, and the return of my Muse.
I'll keep you updated.

9 Weeks

"Gash"
Copyright © SK Waller, 2014My hiatus from blogging didn't last as long as I thought it would. I thought I'd return in six months or a year, if I returned at all. But a lot happened in that short 9 weeks. I guess I simply was ready for something different, because all of the important changes took only about two weeks. Looking back, I'm amazed at how quickly and easily everything fell into place.
First of all, I had to get my health under control. I finally reached a point where I was sick to death of being sick and, well, waiting for death. I quit identifying with this disease and focusing on it so much. I left the different online groups that are dedicated to it and I quit thinking and talking about it so much. Instead, I focused on being creative via poetry, journaling, photography, and a new book.

What set this into motion was that I was rushed to the hospital with what Nettl and I thought was a stroke. Fortunately, it wasn't, but my blood pressure was dangerously high and erratic. Because I have no health insurance and cannot work out in the world, I qualified for a program through which all of my medical care, hospital costs, tests, etc., are now covered 100%. It required that I do the usual paperwork, but I soldiered on through and got it done. I was determined to change my life.

Then, a massage therapist offered to give me regular treatments in exchange for a website and ongoing maintenance. She specializes in treating chronic illness and the elderly and also does energy and chakra work as well as personal counseling. What we've accomplished together is nothing short of miraculous. I'm completely off the narcotic pain killers and now take only my thyroid med and one anti-inflammatory every day, which means my prescription bills have gone down to just $45 a month. But the main thing is that I'm pain-free. I don't even take Ibuprofen. I'm active, cheerful, and most importantly, I no longer feel ill. Of course, I've had to make some grownup lifestyle changes, mostly having to do with diet and pacing myself, physically, but it's well worth it. I'll never go back.

So I guess giving up blogging for a couple of months was a good idea. I'm now ready to get back into it. Facebook doesn't offer anything where real writing is concerned; outside of the Notes feature, there's nowhere for me to write like I've always done here.

I'm looking forward to posting my thoughts this autumn and winter.

Brainstorm

"Brainstorm" by Dave NitscheSo I must confess, I do miss blogging here. After what was about a two-month hiatus, I find that I can't help myself. But don't expect miracles, okay? I want to tell you (although this isn't why I broke down and decided to post a blog entry) that I'm busily writing my memoirs, A Polite Little Madness. In fact, I've been writing like a fiend and I'm actually enjoying it. No sludge, no drudge, just joyous spillage. Maybe it primed my blogging pump, I don't know, but it's nice to see you again. At least, I hope you're still there.

Letting Go

I'm letting go of this blog for a while because, due to my health, I must choose my projects wisely. I used to be a great multi-tasker, full of excitement and ideas, but these days I have limited energy to spend and there are other things that I would like to dedicate myself to before I shuffle off of this mortal coil. Not that I'm going anywhere any time soon, mind you, but you get my meaning. Presently, these important things include writing music and writing books, and I'm planning on recording an album within a year's time. The archives will remain open, although I have already closed the comments. Anyone who really cares to keep in touch can follow me on either Facebook or Twitter. That's about all I can muster just now, I'm afraid. I hope I'll be back, but after 12 years of it I'm tired. If anything really exciting happens, I'll come back and let you know. And don't forget that this blog is part of my main website, where I post news items on the home page .

Thanks for everything!
SK Waller

Hard Decisions

I've only been in this predicament once before. I didn't like it then and I don't like it now. Although I know as I did then that it is necessary, I also know that it will haunt me for the rest of my life. If there were any other way, I'd take it, but I finally have come to accept there is no other way. All I can do now is follow my heart and better sense and make it as easy as I can—for everyone...
I raised Nigel from a puppy. Because of my ongoing illness and the fact that I'm pretty much stuck at home all day, I wanted a companion and Nigel has fulfilled that role beautifully. The problem is that he's simply too much dog for me. I've had dogs all my life—a Cocker Spaniel, a Poodle, two Irish Setters, a black Labrador, a Cockapoo-Schnauzer mix, an Old English Sheepdog, and a Yorkshire Terrier. At any other time in my life Nigel would have fitted in beautifully, but at my age I simply have to accept that I can't give him everything he needs. I don't have a fenced yard so he must be in all day, which means he needs regular walks (something I can do only very rarely) and exercise. He's a great dog!

Half-Dachshund, half-Labrador Retriever ("Dachsador", a mix that is currently being considered by the AKA).Will be 2 years old on August 31st, 2014.Male, neutered.All shots current, with medical records.About 25 pounds in weight.No health issues apart from summer allergies that make him itch.Friendly and socialized both with people and other animals—he loves everyone!Loves cats, children, visitors, and other dogs.Crate trained; puts himself in his crate at dinner time (just say, "Dinner's ready!") and really looks forward to his bedtime snack (I ask him, "Is it time for your bedtime snack?" and he goes right in all by himself).Housebroken, but needs a bit of poo training. He'll go outside, but I can't always take him out in time.Leash trained.Obeys basic commands: Sit, Stay, Up, Get a life, Ride in the car, Go for a walk, etc. In fact, he has a huge vocabulary; we sometimes have to spell certain words.Amazingly intelligent; show him something twice and he has it down.Routine oriented, but adapts well to a new routine.Very pack and family oriented.Never destroys anything, not furniture, not computer cables, nothing.   The only time he ever chewed up anything was when the cat knocked a flash disk onto the floor and I was out of the house. I can leave him alone for several hours and he just naps, plays with his toys, or waits by the door.He would not be good alone all day every day, however, not because he'd destroy anything, but because he'd become depressed. Ideally, he needs at least one person home, or another dog to keep him company.He's joyful, sweet-natured, and has never bitten anyone.Non-aggressive, but he really hates the mail man and barks like hell when he comes around.In a similar vein, I wouldn't let him off of his leash or cable in a unfenced yard because he doesn't like bicyclists, skateboarders, or other people walking their dogs. He's completely accepting of these, however, during walks. It's only his territory that he protects.He's strong-willed, but not obstinate, stout-hearted, loyal, and protective.Loves to play fetch, frisbee, and tug-a-rope and adores his squeak  toys and the occasional tuna can.Love to run, but tires quickly due to his short legs. No running alongside a bike.He has a sensitive stomach and reacts to dietary changes. No table scraps or people food.He doesn't really like to get a bath or shower, but he accepts it, passively.He likes being on the furniture, but because I bathe him once a week, I don't mind at all. He likes to nap with me. In fact, he looks forward to it and tells me when it's time.
As I said, if there were any way that I could keep him, I certainly would, but he needs a younger owner. I have my standards, though:

No students.No one who lives alone and is gone all day, unless they have another dog or two.No foster care.No spanking or cruel treatment (this should go without saying).No keeping him outside day and night. He's half-Lab, but he's definitely a house dog.Applicant must have "dog credit", i.e., a history of longevity with pets. If you've left or given up pets consistently throughout your life, don't bother contacting me.
The ideal adoption situation would be a single person, couple, or family with another dog or two and a fenced yard for potty and play use.

If I can't find a home that I know in my heart will be perfect for him, I'll keep him. I'd rather know that he's happy, loved, and well cared for.

If you live in the area and are interested in Nigel, or know of someone who is, just email me using the contact form (link is in the menu bar, above) and I'll get right back to you.

It's breaking my heart to do this, but I know I must. He has been a great friend and companion; I know he'll be the same for someone else.

Did You Know...

Unless you're a good and intimate friend of mine you wouldn't know that my very first aspiration in life was to be a jockey. I loved horses and, growing up on a ranch in the Santa Ynez Valley and having lots of girlfriends who rode both dressage and western, it wasn't at all unusual that I should lean in this direction. I was never attracted to the local rodeo scene, however, with its barrel racing and such. I wanted the silks...
Across the road from the ranch we lived on (we didn't own it, but rented a small house near the barns and cattle/horse corral and breeding pen) sat a boarding stables called Jess Clark Farms, whose clientele was thoroughbreds and race horses. For the entire time that we lived out on Adobe Canyon Road (now Fredensborg Canyon Road ), just the name of Jess Clark struck a blind fear in me. How could I, a 9 year-old horse lover, stay away from Clark's white fences, where his charges grazed on tender green grass, their tails swishing lazily at flies? Huge, sleek, apollonian and proud, they were nearly otherworldly to me. The attraction, as it is for many girls at that age, was overpowering. (Go back to your pipe, Dr. Freud. This was True Love.)

Horse ranch in the Santa Ynez Valley.Of course, Jess Clark must have paid a fortune in insurance to keep those horses during their off-seasons. I understand that now, but at that age, when I spotted his white pickup zooming down the drive toward me, I always took off running for cover in the overgrown creek bed so that he couldn't find me and threaten to go to my parents. Eventually, he actually carried through with it and my neighbor and best friend, Cathy, and I watched in horror from atop a favorite hill that overlooked the ranch as that pickup made its way across the road and straight to my front door. I knew I was in for it. My dad was a loyal sort, though. When I finally dared to show my face that evening, he calmly told me I really needed to stay clear of Clark's horses, but in the meantime he'd told him where to get off and had sent him packing. Good old Dad!

At last, after a number of such visits, Clark decided it would be easier to allow me access to some of the horses under his strict supervision. I was allowed to start mucking his stables (free labor for him), grooming the less expensive horses and, eventually, even to exercise them by leading them about by a halter and lead. I was in heaven! There was a groom there (probably all of 22, but he seemed old to me) who taught me everything I needed to know and kept an eye on me. I spent the entire summer at this unpaid job, which resulted in my being allowed to ride the horses around the exercise track the following year. My parents bought me some dressage boots; I'd arrived. I was a tiny puckish thing, short, wisp-thin and never destined to be very big, and some of the horses were so tall, I could stand beneath them, my head barely brushing against their chests. To mount, I had to climb a fence. I loved them and they loved me. I became attached to one in particular, a grey that everyone called King. I'm sure his racing name was something longer and more impressive. We rode like the wind—I'm positive he never even felt me on him as I opened him up and let him wear himself out.

Lori Martin & King.It was exactly at this point in time that the TV show National Velvet, starring Lori Martin, aired. What could be more perfect? She was a girl my age in love with a race horse named King. I never missed that show. I even wrote a fan letter and received this photo in return, autographed. Thus it was that I decided I wanted to be a jockey when I grew up. Enter, my mother.

"Girls can't be jockeys."
"But, Mom, Velvet won the Grand National!"
"That's TV. In real life girls can't be jockeys. You can either be a secretary, a waitress, or a salesgirl. Or you can always get married."

Of course, my parents couldn't afford riding lessons or dressage gear (with the cute little velvet riding helmet that I coveted so badly), much less a horse and its upkeep. We were lower middle class (my dad was a TV repairman and musician) and college had never been open for discussion, much less consideration. The following year we moved from the ranch and I took up pop music as my career choice. There were plenty of women there, and doing quite nicely, thank you very much.

Diane CrumpAs you might imagine (if you're at all into such things), when Diane Crump, the first woman jockey, made her newsworthy entrance in 1969, I about died. Apparently, Mom, girls could be jockeys. But it was too late for me. I graduated high school and hitchhiked to Haight-Ashbury. I learned many years later that Crump wasn't the first woman jockey, in fact. She was the first to ride the Kentucky Derby, but not the first by a long shot. There was Anna Aldred in 1939, Wantha Davis, who won over 1,000 races in the 1930s, '40s, and '50s, and hundreds more. Mom was wrong on more than one count, but she'd been a rider of thoroughbreds when she was a girl and had run into the sexism that still ran rampant well into the 1960s. Her admonishment, "Girls can't be jockeys" meant it was difficult, but maybe not impossible, although the world of racing would do everything in its power to stop me. She just wanted to save me the heartache and struggle of trying to enter the Sport of Kings as a 95-pound, starry-eyed girl who didn't even own a horse.

I never did get a horse, although I continued riding for years. The last time I rode was in 1982. It's a long time, but if I could afford a horse I swear I'd get my seat back and ride like the wind one last time!

On With the Show

The crap storm that is my health has made my practice and self-identification as a writer rather a thing of the past of late. Not only has it affected my books, it has also waylaid my intention to be a better blogger and post at least one entry each week. Too, having lost everything I'd written (five chapters) of Beyond The Bridge's Book Three, With A Song, I was knocked to my knees with the thought of having to start all over; energy is still at a premium. But things appear to be looking up...
After a terrified run to the hospital emergency room last Saturday evening due to hypertension spikes that reached up to 173/98, I was given a series of tests, which all came back fine. But that's chronic autoimmune disease for you. I could have told the doctors my heart and brain were fine, and saved myself the bill. But ER doctors know nothing about this disease. My antibodies have jumped from organ-to-organ as is their wont, and is now attacking my kidneys, causing edema, swelling, and erratically high blood pressure patterns. But that's not the point of this entry. Thankfully, I've been put on diuretics, which seem to be helping with the symptoms and I slowly feel some energy returning. I may even be able to get some acupuncture treatments.

This being said, I'm happy to report that I'm beginning to feel the itch to plunge myself into Book Three once again. I've even gotten some ideas of how to make it better than the now lost first draft. I'm also making a pledge to myself to post an entry here once a week. No scheduled day, no set word count, no pressure. Just blogging as I used to enjoy it.

Aging With Style

Not Gloria Steinem,
although she's
beautiful, too."Every place I go I tell my age because it's a form of coming out." Gloria Steinem, aged 80.

Saying 60 is the new 50 isn't accepting 60, it's saying younger is better. And lying about your age is a form of self-loathing. It's ageist and sexist, besides. I'm 62 and I can tell you that outside of my own health issues (which many women don't have), younger is not better, younger is just... younger. Growing old gracefully isn't about submitting to an accepted set of standards of what Madison Avenue purports an older woman should be, or by giving up who we are and who we want to become. We're evolving beyond that. It's about continuing the ride we began when we were young and just staring out...
Why is it that as soon as menopause comes and goes (it is only a transition, after all—puberty in reverse—not a permanent state) and we're no longer able to bear children, we accept becoming invisible, believing we're unattractive, undesirable, in essence non-viable and in-valid? No longer saddled with bearing and raising kids, we're again free to follow our dreams and carry on with the self-discovery we started before the biological clock began ticking away.

Do I really need to throw out my Levis and buy knits? Must I cut off my long hair and settle for a blue poodle cut? Hell, no! Why must I cover the grey, surgically remove the creases, and plump my lips, or shun it all, become dowdy and boring and begin "acting my age"? Is it really that once we can no longer bear young we have no purpose in society? And why must we feel pressured to appear sexy at sixty anyway? Personally, I feel a great sense of relief that I can at last cross a street without enduring cat-calls, honks, and screeching tires. Well, sometimes, when I'm out working in the yard, a college guy will do one of these, but they can't see that I'm old enough to be their grandmother. I usually just turn around and wag a finger. I admit I do it on purpose just to see how flustered and embarrassed they get.

If I've learned anything about aging, it's that midlife crisis is very real, but that it's a pathology that's imposed on us by our society's irrational fear of age, which is fueled by a denial of life itself. We're so hung up on death, it insidiously infuses everything from sex to our self-esteem. If my generation can do anything, I hope we can teach younger women how to age with style and not to closet who they are merely on the basis of their age. Seems saner and more affirming than what's been going on.

Life On a Limb

Some days are just like this. You get used to it, but not really. Usually I'm wrong, but it doesn't matter because whether I'm wrong or right I still feel like this. I know that anyone living with chronic illness goes through their share of days when they feel like a burden. When a good, energetic phase passes and they're right back where they were before and, besides their own coming-to-terms, they sense the disappointment in their family and friends. That's when it becomes work again. For everybody. But mostly for the one who's ill...
People get tired of carrying the load and of not enjoying a normal life. They have to vent to someone and it's better if it's not you, right? Trouble is, that leads to paranoid imaginings. You begin to imagine your doctor is tired of hearing you whinge and that anyone who once wanted to help has begun to reject you.

On days like this I'm like a bird singing out on a limb. I could endure it except for the sense that someone is behind me with a saw. When you have chronic illness you're especially vulnerable. You're not financially independent anymore and you're unemployable. All the aspirations, talents and skills you've spent a lifetime building can't help you. Of course, I don't really believe these private hellish ravings, but they come anyway, true or not. That's the problem with Hashimoto's. It unleashes all kinds of anxiety that further destroys what little health you have left.

Sometimes, all I need is someone to tell me it's okay, that I'm not a burden, not a loser, and that my courage and hard work do not go unrecognized. Even a round of He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother would lift my spirits, and I really hate that song. But everyone else is tired of this illness, too. The only difference is that I'm the one who has it and I'm the one trapped in circular thinking: Should I mention any of this? Should I cancel this blog post? Will voicing any of this have a negative impact on others and thus be returned to me? Blah blah...

Some days are just like this.

Tweet, tweet.

A Big Hello from Nigel