Destiny Allison's Blog, page 15

Drum Roll Please…..

Ok, maybe not a drum roll, but a little snickering wouldn’t hurt. I am on the last leg of my novel and the first several chapters are finished. I thought I would share the first chapter with you before anyone else gets to see it. Please do not throw rotten tomatoes at your screen. They won’t hit me and they might damage your device. Here goes…

THE FALLEN by Destiny Allison

Chapter 1

Morning was a small mercy. At the window, Vanessa pulled a few dry crumbs of cooked, ground beef from her pocket. Lint covered and rank with garlic, they were a treasure.  On the fire escape, the scrawny, gray cat meowed as he picked his way across the metal grate. Just out of reach, he stopped, swishing his tail.

“Here kitty.  Here Hercules.  Come on, boy,” she called. Her efforts to coax him closer were futile. Until recently, she hadn’t liked cats.  Aloof, unresponsive, and arrogant, they had irked her.  Now, she hungered for the warmth of his tiny, scabbed body in her arms.

He meowed again. Not wishing to prolong his agony, Vanessa dropped the food onto the ledge and stepped back. Hercules pounced on the meat.  Then, without a glance in her direction, he disappeared.  Wistfully, she closed the window and turned around.

She kneeled and kissed the photograph of her grandfather which sat in a frame on the old coffee table.  “Let them come. Please God, let them come.  I’ve earned my vengeance,” she whispered, the words her daily mantra.  Rising, she pinned her abundant hair and hurried out the door to savor a few, precious minutes in the park.

Between the buildings, a shaft of sunlight cut the shadows on the street like a knife. Soon, pigeons would crowd the square and the Callers would begin their chants. Vanessa shuddered.  The Callers were like her nightmares; a daily reminder of a life lived in fear.

At this hour, the park was empty.  Tall trees towered above her. Their leaves shimmered in the early light. She settled on her favorite bench near the edge of the concrete square. Its presence was a comfort, though the old wood was stained with years of toxic rain, human excretion, bird droppings, and old food. She opened her arms to the sky and took a deep breath. In through the nose, out through the mouth, ocean breaths.

Did she still remember yoga?  Had they gone for coffee, laughing and gossiping after class?  Did she gather with her girlfriends to share tragedies that seemed important then?  She rolled her head and closed her eyes. The sun warmed her bare neck.  Stilling her mind, she imagined her grandfather’s face.  Rich with wrinkles and erratic hairs, it was her totem.  Though he had died years before the rebellion, she carried his memory like a prayer.  He, too, had survived a holocaust and lived to rejoice in life.

Something brushed her ankle.  Jerking her leg away from whatever slithering thing had braved the morning, she slapped the pavement with her purse. Nothing moved and she dared a glance beneath her. Amidst dead and rotting leaves, an arm was barely visible. Vanessa startled, but did not scream. She didn’t need to rouse the Callers from their dirty sleep. She just needed to leave.

As she began to walk away, a tiny voice scratched out a noise. “Please, help…”   Then there was silence. No voice, no wind, no movement. It was as if the world was waiting. Everything would take its cue from her.

She peered beneath the bench. The girl’s naked body was thin, the kind of thin people protested about before protests didn’t matter anymore. In those days, her pale skin and prominent bones would have been envied.  Had she known proms and boyfriends, or gone to high school with a ponytail hanging river-sleek down her narrow back, she would have been beautiful.  Instead she had learned to dumpster dive and cook rats.

Like most of the Workers, Vanessa avoided the children of the Fallen on her way to and from work. They were the outcasts, the undesirables. The Drivers, smug in their management positions, cautioned against them, warning of theft, disease, and other unsavory possibilities. Had they been warning against something else, something worse?  Part of her suspected the children’s horrors paled in comparison with her own.

“Please,” the girl said again, her small voice a cold hand on Vanessa’s throat. In the empty park, a piece of trash tumbled across the square.  A bird landed in a tree. Warily, she squatted and pulled a wet leaf from the girl’s pale face.  One of her eyes was blackened. Dried blood clung to the corner of her mouth. Bruises colored her shoulders and neck.  Vanessa could not avert her eyes. They were drawn to nipples, raw and red.  Welts peppered the girl’s belly. Her thighs were pressed close together and around one ankle a pair of dirty panties hung crusty and stiff.

Vanessa turned her head. In the square, pigeons wobbled this way and that in search of crumbs long gone. The sun lit the windows above the vacant shops. Her bus would be here soon. If she missed it, her Driver would leer and offer her an exchange. The memory of his hairy hands, slick with sweat on her breasts, made her cringe.  Each time she died a little more, but, in spite of the hurt, her heart still beat.

The girl whimpered. A tear trickled down her dirty face.  How long had it been since Vanessa was so young?  Six years? A lifetime?  The girl should have been sneaking out of the house, kissing a boy behind the stadium, and learning to drive. Vanessa hesitated.  Though fed, she was not strong.  She couldn’t drag the girl out and carry her anywhere. Compassion for the Fallen was forbidden. Her efforts on the girl’s behalf would not be forgiven.

Pushing a strand of blond hair as fine as spider web from the battered face, Vanessa lingered. The girl moaned.  Vanessa trailed a finger down the girl’s arm and shifted her weight, her own eyes welling, but she had to go. The sun was rising.  The Callers were coming.  Her Driver was waiting.

A call rang out from across the square.  “Woo Weeeee!  Gonna be a fine one!”  Startled, she fell back, hitting the ground with a thump.  The girl was well hidden under the bench. Vanessa had to move. Without looking back, she jumped to her feet and sprinted for the bus stop, armed patrols, and normalcy.

If you liked and have interest in staying updated on The Fallen, you can join my mailing list by clicking here.

Starting Over

Photo Credit: Eric Swanson

I was in the studio this morning, working on a commission. The smell of burnt metal, the whine of my grinder, and the bee-like buzz of my MIG welder were familiar and comfortable. The piece isn’t complicated and I settled into the design with little trepidation. I know how to do this. I’ve been doing it for twenty years.

After an hour, pain began to creep up my back. I stretched, drank some water, and tried to ignore it while I continued working — bend, cut, tack, and grind. The piece progressed. So did the pain. A few hours later, when I couldn’t stand up straight and tendrils of white fire shot around my hips and down my legs, I called it quits, wincing against tears.

Some days, I think I’m tough enough to limp through. Others, I know I’m done and it’s just a matter of time before I clean the studio one last time, sell the tools, and admit that my career as a sculptor is over. Right now, I’m straddling the two and reinventing myself.

It’s not easy starting over. I’ve done it a number of times, first with the death of my father, then with the dissolution of my marriage, and again when 9/11 rewrote the order of the world. Each of those moments was explosive, unexpected, and immediately cathartic. Watching the end of my sculpting career is more like watching a chronically ill patient die.

I don’t think any of us escape the obstacles life throws in our paths. Major, life changing events or daily frustrations are either walls or opportunities. Like in art, one small thing can change the feel of the entire canvas, but does it change the inherent meaning or just enhance it?

When I lost my job after 9/11, I was a single mom and the sole support of my three children. I was terrified. There were no other jobs in my market, I didn’t have much of a nest egg, and I didn’t know how I would pay the bills. The circumstance forced me full time into my art. Getting laid off was, in the end, a gift and one of the greatest things that ever happened to me.  I often wonder if, under different circumstances, I would have mustered the courage to try making a living from my art.

Now, sitting with my legs up and too much ibuprofen circulating in my blood, I feel like this injury is another 9/11. As I move from creating in steel to creating on paper, I’m tweaking the canvas of my life. It’s still the same work. I’m just using different tools and like the door that opened when I lost my job, this circumstance will send me down another tangled path.

When I find myself up against a wall, I have to ask myself what I really want. Is it comfort, stability, or security? To make a difference, change a life, or leave a dent? I have to know myself and my goals to overcome the obstacle. One of the ways I do this is by starting a new discipline. Usually, it’s small, achievable, and gives me instant gratification. Here are a few things I’ve done that have helped move me forward when the wall seems inordinately big.

Journal at least one paragraph every day.
Plant a small, manageable garden. One time, it was just lettuce and tomatoes.
Walk a mile a day.
Take one, easy hike a week
Make one special dinner for the family, complete with candles and flowers, once a week.
Sit alone and in silence, with eyes closed, for ten minutes a day and try to think about nothing except counting my breaths.

It always surprises me how the little things can make such a big difference. My new novel came out of the journaling discipline and took over. So, even as I mourn the life I once knew, I am consumed with excitement about where I’m going. Little, tiny steps doing something you really love are often the best ways to discover the next, great thing.

How about you? Have you had to reinvent yourself? What are some things you’ve done to overcome obstacles? Leave a comment and let me know what’s worked for you.

Where Art is Headed

I’ve been asked do to a feature article based on this old post. I’m excited by this opportunity, but I need to do a bit of research and would appreciate your help.

In the article, I’ll be exploring the state of the art world, what’s working and what’s not. I would love your feedback on the following questions.

1. What is your favorite, local museum or gallery and why?

2. How do you feel about contemporary art? Love it? Hate it? Think it’s inspiring or just weird?

3. If you could change one thing about the art world today, what would it be?

Please post your comments below or email me at destinyallison (at) aol (dot) com.  I really want to hear from you. Thanks. PS: There are no wrong answers

Amazing Woman — Jaquelynn Gagne

I’m pleased to welcome Jaquelynn Gagne today. She is the quintessential go-getter  and I imagine we’ll be seeing a lot of her in the coming years.

Jacquelynn Gagne is an obsessive compulsive author of all things paranormal and suspenseful. When she cannot be found in the real world she is usually found  covered in paint, pastels or most usually words. Among writing, photography and art, Jacquelynn is also the cofounder and Editor in Chief at Ambrosia Arts and Midnight Hour Publishing.  Her first book, Blood Rose, a paranormal romance was published yesterday April 1st of 2013.

Find the woman behind the madness here at, www.ambrosia-arts.com

The Interview

From where do you draw inspiration? Everything. Nature, Music, friends and family, ads, movies. Pretty much everything in existence I can see the art in.

What is the hardest thing about your creative process? Finding time to get everything I want to do done. At one in the morning I will be editing, writing one of my books and wondering if I have time to paint before passing out. That’s usually a nightly routine.

Do you work every day, or only when inspiration strikes? Every day, generally from the time I wake up till the time I go to bed in some shape or form.

How do you feel about the current art market/art climate? I think it’s dwindling which is why I built the Ambrosia Arts company. We want to bring art back to everyone everywhere in a friendly and easily accessible form and help get the artists of the world really seen.

If you could change one thing about the art world today, what would it be? Nothing. I think the work itself is positively miraculous. I have met artists who can draw a portrait so perfectly you would swear it’s a photograph. All that I think should change is how it’s seen and handled in the industry.

Talk a little bit about your current project and why you decide to embark on it. I guess that’s Ambrosia Arts. Ambrosia was born of artists for artists. I’m a photographer, painter and writer and that’s just the interesting parts of my job that make me sound cooler than I really am! I adore our work with Ambrosia because of all the incredible people I have met, artists, musicians, writers, even people in the industry that absolutely blow my mind by the great work they do. Right now we’re focusing on publishing the Ambrosia Arts magazine and refocusing and beautifying and perfecting the indie world. With writers, we help edit, craft the art to visually beautify their works, help merge artists, musicians and writers together to create new and incredible things.

How does being a woman impact your work? I don’t think people doubt my abilities at all just because I am a woman. Generally it’s my age that shocks them. The one thing about being a woman that impacts my work is caring for my family. I have two children, a loving husband, and with that a lot of motherly, womanly responsibilities to my family. – Otherwise, I would say my work itself is impacted by the fact I am a woman and have the gift of a woman’s touch to give to my work.

If you had the chance to address a group of young girls, what would you say to inspire them? I actually will be speaking to a group of young ladies very soon and I am very excited to do so. I have also had previous experiences and I must say the youth of today is incredible. They’re aged beyond their years, and positively inspiring. And I would tell them just that, because they need to hear it. They need to hear how amazing they are every single day, all day long like a broken record. I would want nothing more than for them to believe in themselves and be happy with themselves and what they do. Be it art, music, writing, science, math, the youth of today is our future. We shouldn’t be so hard on them really. 

Honored by this…

A lovely surprise and honor from a woman I greatly admire, Heidi Rettig. Click the link at the bottom of her post to read the full article. Her list is worth checking out.

“I wanted to follow up my post on the “best” books for business with a list of books that I’ve found helpful for those times of creative distress. You know what I’m talking about. Those “what’s it all about no one is reading this anyway I should have gone to school and got a real job like my sister-in-law said at Thanksgiving dinner…”  kind of moments.

I totally get it. This is hard. Like Daumier’s Hauler of a Boat hard. And making good, creative work only comes easily some of the time. Natural ability doesn’t sit you in front of a blank screen every day for a year and get a book published. Talent doesn’t put you on stage at Kirk Douglas. Not by itself, anyway. There is significantly more required of artists than simply showing up with a pocket full of vision and inspiration. And people who don’t make art don’t understand that. They often tell us so in painful ways. And then, of course, at other times we doubt ourselves.

This book list is for those moments. Doesn’t matter if you’re a writer, or a performer or a painter. You’ll find something for yourself here:” to read the rest of this post by Heidi Rettig, click here.

10 tips on getting through tough days

Today I hit the studio, pounded some metal, and cleared my mind. My back is punishing me for the indulgence, but it was good to get away, change perspectives, and be silent for awhile.

While working, I found myself thinking about how hard it sometimes is to stay dedicated. Being a creative is difficult. Committing to your passion is like jumping off a cliff in the dark. My parachute is this list.

Tips for getting through tough days:

1. Little things are worth noticing.

2. When in doubt, clean.

3. It’s okay to be nervous, unsure, or down right terrified.

4. Even if what you produce isn’t good, you learn something from it.

5. You are your own, worst critic.

6. If you didn’t doubt yourself, the work would never improve.

7. Embrace the process. It’s not about the result, it’s about the journey.

8. Until beaming technology actually exists, there are no shortcuts and at least some part of the journey will have bumpy roads.

9. Deep breaths help some.

10. So do kisses, hugs, and holding hands.

When things are hard, this list keeps me sane.  I also have a daily mantra. “Thank you for your gifts, my hands are yours.”  It helps — sometimes more than whiskey and chocolate.

What do you do to get through the rough spots? Do you have a mantra that makes it easier when you are doubting? I would love to hear your thoughts.

Trust

Because sometimes someone else says it better, or differently.

“Not I, nor anyone else can travel that road for you.

You must travel it by yourself.

It is not far. It is within reach.

Perhaps you have been on it since you were born, and did not know.

Perhaps it is everywhere – on water and land.”

― Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass

Regeneration

I am quiet this morning and waiting. The day, crisp and blue, beckons yet I do not dress, call the dogs, and venture forth.  The novel is with an editor and until she gets back to me, there is little to do.  Unlike many, I have never been able to take on more than one project at a time.

In the studio, work awaits — another commission and a replacement piece for a sculpture recently sold — but I am in no hurry to finish them. In spite of my deadlines, waiting is exactly what I need. Every field must go fallow for a time.

Over the years, I’ve learned to enjoy the quiet moments and savor the richness of days without intent. Noticing more, slightly stirred by currents above and below the surface, I am heightened without the frenetic energy that generally accompanies my creative outpourings.

These are the times I journal and read, linger over clouds, and study branches in the wind. Perhaps I’ll make a soup, call my mother, or get a massage. Perhaps I’ll do nothing at all.

I’ve often said that creative blocks are the crossroads where what we know and want to know meet, but I think blocks are often confused with regeneration. They are not the same.

A block requires us to listen to the work. Regeneration demands we listen to the silence in ourselves. They are both essential in the creative process.

The novel, a seven month intensive, ripped me raw, shredded my confidence, and inflamed my passion. Consumed, I worked 70 – 80 hours a week. I drained myself completely and now need to refill, replenish, and renew.

This time is like a weekend at home alone. Free from clutter, demands, and noise, I mend from the onslaught. When the book returns I will greet it with love. Open armed and rested, my embrace will be warm and slow.

How about you? Do you take time to regenerate? What are some of your favorite ways to replenish yourself? I would love to hear your thoughts.

 

 

What Do You Want?

What do you want?

A dream, a plum, a day without wind?

 

In the kitchen, light patterns the tile floor.

Cups stained with tannin and use

litter the table with morning.

 

Outside, blue sky opens to budding leaves.

The horses roll in the meadow,

combing winter hair on dry earth.

 

A telephone rings.

 

On the screen, a stream of silent voices

roar in words, hashtags, and links,

the flickering lines coursing courage.

 

Is it the assault you fear?

Does their noise drown out your feeble yearnings?

 

The cursor, an impatient tick of anticipation,

blinks a blank page.

 

What are you waiting for? Inspiration?

 

***Note, I know I’m not a great poet, but it seemed the right form for my thoughts today. You are welcome to comment, but don’t shred me. I’m a little naked right now.

Thank You

Thanks so much to all the new members of this eclectic community. Since it is growing, I thought I would take a minute to re-introduce myself and explain what I’m trying to do here. That way, you won’t feel like you’re crazy when I post something that surprises you.

Like most of us, I have a hard time limiting myself to just one thing. Lacking the propensity for narrow confines, I tend to meander at times. When I first started this blog, it was to promote my book. Then something happened. I reverted to writing about the things that excite or challenge me.

In the process, a fictional novel — completely off platform — sneaked into my heart. I knew, immediately, that I was in trouble again. How can I talk about art and simultaneously talk about dystopian sci-fi, learning to write fiction, and the thrill (terror?) of doing something new?

Though a Gemini, I am not schizophrenic. Eventually, as those of you who have been following along know, I answered the question the way I always do.

Creativity comes in all shapes and sizes, seldom appears when there is no risk involved, and does not limit itself to what is convenient for institutions that sell the products creativity produces.

This community is comprised of people come who here for different reasons. Some are artists looking for tips that will help them achieve their goals. Some are writers, struggling like me in pursuit of the intangible and elusive knowing. All seem to be looking for a way to quiet doubt, embrace themselves fully, and touch the horizon.

I am here because I don’t subscribe to the popular conviction that you have to stick to a single focus, genre, or style. My life is my most important creation and, just as I would never paint a picture with a single color, I cannot paint my life with a narrow range of experience.

Consequently, my topics jump about a bit. If a topic doesn’t appeal to you, don’t worry. The next one might.

For me, everything is interwoven. What I learned as an artist is completely relevant to what I am discovering as a writer. Who I am with my friends informs who I am with my family, community, and world.

I look for the connections that inform and inspire me. Then, I try to share them in hopes they will inform and inspire you.

Thanks for being here, for listening, sharing, and contributing. Sometimes, as I wrestle with an idea or experience, I feel like you are holding my hand. I love to hear from you here, on twitter, and facebook. I also welcome email. You can reach me at destinyallison (at) aol (dot) com.