Debra R. Borys's Blog, page 30
March 26, 2012
Deal With the Darkness
I've written on this topic before and touch on my philosophy in the bio I wrote up in the About Me section of this website. The article linked below shows that other people understand where I'm coming from and maybe even agree with it.
There are two ways to deal with the ugliness that exists in the world. One is to ignore it and if you're lucky you can go through your whole life convincing yourself things aren't all that bad. This works well to protect the practitioner but does little to change the circumstances of anyone who might be trapped in the ugliness. The other is to step into the darkness and wrestle it into submission, or at least cooperation, so that you can keep it at bay.
Surviving cancer and developing relationships with victims of the ugliness have made it impossible for me to choose the first solution. Instead, I choose not to be afraid of the darkness, nor will I let it win.
As writers we have an opportunity, through our work, to recognize the experience of darkness not as a byproduct of conditions, but as an expression of state of mind and perception. It is reality that some life stories have a nightmare quality – a dense brutality. But to create a character able to transform his story is to recognize that the light within can only truly be concealed by the character himself. This revelation is emotionally powerful and liberating for the writer and the reader.
via AuthorMagazine.org – an on-line magazine for writers and readers….
Filed under: Musings
March 25, 2012
What a Way to Make a Living
I'm pretty sure Rebecca O'Connor and I would be great friends if we knew each other. The sentence quoted below is enough to make me think so (she's a tequila advocate, people!–go Rebecca) but the sentiments she expresses in her post makes me positive it's true.
I read this post right after my morning walk with my dog, Sophie where I was conversing with myself about my future. It's been almost a year since I decided to go part time at work so that I could concentrate on my writing. The part time work has dwindled down to next to nothing, and some weeks is nothing. Freelance writing is not going to support me in the foreseeable future. Without a college degree or technical knowledge which would make me an expert in some field, it could be years before that would be possible. If ever. There are a lot of people out there vying for writing jobs who are willing to do it for next to nothing. "Next to nothing" does not pay the electric bill.
As for the income potential of my novel Painted Black, unless I'm lucky–and I've never been very lucky–a first novel is more about establishing the foundation of a career rather than earning a living. I don't expect to see any measurable income made from the book this year. Maybe not ever. The income potential lies in getting book two out. And three, and…. If I'm a very good girl and live long enough, I may actually see royalty checks one day.
So why am I still doing it? Because I'm mad at myself for not doing it earlier in my life when I had more time to build a reputation. Because I love not having a full time job to go to. Because I love my characters and the message I'm trying to convey. Because this is what I want to do with my life, damn it, and I'm tired of being too timid to go for it.
And if that means I may find myself forfeiting my mortgage or selling most of my worldly possessions, then all I have to say is, "Hi, Mom. Is the guest room ready yet?"
So now you are thinking, "Okay, Little Miss Glass-Is-Pretty-Much-Empty-So-Bring-Me-Some-Tequila. So what do you say to someone insane enough to walk away from her day job to write for a living?"
via A Letter to My Friends and Family | Rebecca K. O'Connor.
Filed under: Musings Tagged: Essay, Friends, Painted Black, writing
March 23, 2012
Graffiti
Graffiti only plays a small part in Painted Black, really, but it speaks to what it is I'm trying to say. In Painted Black, Chris creates art (aka graffiti to most people's eyes) as therapy, to express feelings he's trying to deal with. It is also an ironic contrast to the invisibility of homelessness. People don't see the artist, they see the paint on the wall. Maybe that's one reason why graffiti gets such a bad rap, because it is harder to ignore than the people
Filed under: Musings
March 21, 2012
Spare Smiles
The paragraph below is the beginning of an essay written not by a homeless person, despite what it might sound like. It is actually an essay by a 16-year-old gifted student who is a junior in high school. Alix Glynn spent two weeks participating in Impact Boston — a community service, social action and advocacy summer program — which included one day of living the life of a homeless person. He was one of 13 people selected to work with Spare Change News — Boston's alternative newspaper written and sold by the homeless to support themselves and encourage change.
After the program, he began volunteering at a local homeless shelter, something he might not have done had he not experienced how a smile and "Have a good day" can mean even more than a few quarters in a cup.
It's a quintessential summer day, and Boston Commons is abuzz with activity. Across the avenue I carefully scrutinize the passers-by — a 20-something quickly moving her designer messenger bag to her other side, a middle-age man wearing a Red Sox cap clutching his young son closer, a group of teenagers staring as if I had two heads and five eyes, a college student typing on his smart phone almost stepping right over me and not bothering to apologize. Eventually, a woman drops a few quarters in my cup, but she scurries past before I even have a chance to say thank you.
Filed under: Musings Tagged: Homelessness
March 20, 2012
Neighbors
Homelessness is often seen as something that happens to other people. Something that happens only in big cities. Something that happens to people who somehow deserve it because they brought it on themselves. Yet my mother in small town Illinois of under 10,000 people joins her fellow CDA women to cook and serve food to homeless adults and children. In a town that small, the people she serves aren't strangers, they're neighbors.
When you take time to listen to the stories you realize homelessness can happen to anyone. Is that homeless man on the corner there because his story resembles the one below, recently posted about one of my own neighbors? Or is the reason something easier to dismiss, like addiction? The problem is, you'll never know if you don't LISTEN to their stories. If you take time to do that, you may find yourself thinking, like me, that it doesn't really matter if fate or the individual is responsible. It only matters that IT IS.
In July of 2008, Mike caught pneumonia and was in the hospital for a week. During routine tests, it was discovered he also had the rare-but-treatable disease Hairy Cell Leukemia. He was immediately placed on an aggressive schedule of chemotherapy treatment, and stayed in the hospital for six more weeks. While the treatment cured him, it left him so physically depleted that he required three months of recovery. During this time, his health insurance and Family and Medical Leave Act funding ran out, and McLendon could no longer hold his job open for him. (Mike points out that McLendon did everything they could to help him throughout this time.) .
via West Seattle Blog… » Followup: Mike's journey into homelessness &, hopefully, out of it.
Filed under: Musings Tagged: Homelessness
March 16, 2012
Ragdale
1989 seems so long ago. 1989 WAS so long ago. Not just in terms of time, but also in terms of the scope of my life.
Back then I was still scrambling to recover from an ugly divorce and custody battle and the subsequent loss not just of my kids, but of their respect as well. After four years, the wound was still raw, but I had begun to realize life could go on despite the bleeding.
One of the ways I tried to pull the pieces together was to get serious about my writing. I started a freelance business and began work in earnest on a novel that at that time was called Killing Me Softly. That manuscript went on to be titled Teach Your Children Well and was the birth of Jo Sullivan, the heroine in my currently published novel, Painted Black.
Freelance work was even less lucrative then than it is in today's internet age, so I had very little money even with an hourly job on top of it all. Which made it ridiculous for me to even dream about the possibility of being able to do nothing at all but write, and write on MY work, not some article on the City Council for 50 cents an inch.
I finally found an opportunity to do just that, however, by winning a resident fellowship to an artist's retreat in Lake Forest Illinois called Ragdale. After submitting samples of my writing and a description of my current project, I was invited to spend two weeks living with other artists and writers. And do nothing but write on my novel.
The visit was pivotal to my career and personal life in many ways. Ragdale is where I fell in love with bagels, connected for the first time with other professionally creative people, and read a newspaper article that sparked the idea for my first published novel–you guessed it, Painted Black.
The thing is, I didn't actually get much writing done during that time. Ragdale for me had more to do with inspiration and growing and healing than it did writing. It's where I gained confidence in myself as an artist, and made friendships that mean a lot to me even now. Even though I've lost touch with most of those people.
James T. Anderson is a musician and composer who wrote me a letter from Norway once. Kathleen Spivack is a poet who studied with Robert Lowell and met people like Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton. Jean Zaleski was an artist who is famous for her paintings of cows and was one of the inspirations behind my trip to Malta a few years ago because that's where she was born. And Pat Smith is an artist who came from Morris Illinois, not far from my own home, yet lived in Italy and traveled regularly to exotic places like Yemen.
Pat and I found each other again thanks to Facebook. She still lives in Italy and posts beautiful pictures of her paintings sometimes. Jim and Kathleen I've lost touch with but I still have Jim's letter and a poem Kathleen read to the group one evening. Jean, I just learned, passed away two years ago, but I know her cows are still chewing their cud in galleries and homes across the country and probably the world.
It's strange how people can still be tied to your life with invisible strings long after the last time you ever see them. Strange and wonderful.
Songline by Patricia Glee Smith 2012
Filed under: Musings 
March 14, 2012
Podcast Interview at WiseBearBooks
March 13, 2012
It's a Precarious Life
March 11, 2012
Love is the Reason
March 10, 2012
Just Watch
