Robin Kalinich's Blog, page 29

Warm holiday wishes!

Losing it.

Change involves loss. 
I always forget  - or choose to ignore? -  that part. If you've been following me in cyberspace for any length of time, you know that I'm all about change. Growth, transformation, and all that jazz. I truly believe in it.

But it isn't always easy.

I was recently reminded of one of the dirty little secrets about this kind of life-affecting change. It involves loss. There's no way around it. Sometimes there's just no way to move forward without lightening the load, and unfortunately, this sometimes means letting loose of people in your life. I've done this many times and I understand how it works, but every single time I have to learn this lesson again. I have to force myself to do it and I usually don't get there until it's outrageously overdue. 
Why? 

Well, I like people and I understand foibles. Oh my goodness, do I understand mistakes - I've made more than my fair share.  I think some of the wackiest people are some of the most interesting ones. I believe in second - and third & fourth & sixteenth -  chances.  I don't want to judge people because I know things aren't always what they seem from a distance.
But still. 

Certain relationships just run their course. Not only do they not add anything to your life, they begin to detract from it. They become weighty and too complicated, loaded down with obligation and guilt. When there is no evidence, not one single shred, of positive change in a person's life, spending time with them inevitable drags you down a wee bit. Life is too precious for that.

Of course, my first instinct is to inspire that person. In fact, I hope to inject life and energy into everything I do and every interaction I have. I try. 
But you can't save them all. Some of them don't even want to be saved. And who the hell am I to make that determination? I'm not in charge of anyone else but myself. It's me I need to worry about. 


I'd been wrestling with a relationship like this for several years and last week I stopped fighting. I harbor no ill-feelings toward that person. In fact, I hope he goes on to a very happy and successful future. And of course he, like every single one of us, is free to define 'successful' in any way that he chooses. 
But I will not be there to watch, because I'm consciously choosing to spend my time in a different way. I won't lie and say that I'm completely alright with that. I feel like a selfish ass. I feel like I'm being judgmental. Yes, I'm still feeling some residual backlash from the decision, but I know it's the right thing to do and I need to get better at doing it when it's warranted.

On another topic,I was interviewed recently via Skype for a podcast and you know what? I kind of sucked. I don't say that in a self-deprecating way, but as a fact. I was surprised and chagrined as it unfolded to realize that I really didn't have anything that interesting to say. Surprised because I almost always have something to say. Further, the interview was about art and creativity and these are topics that I can talk about all night long. In my sleep. (In fact, I probably do - I'm making a mental note to ask my husband about this.)

So, what happened?
I'm not really sure, but at the very least, life has offered up yet another opportunity for growth. Funny how many of those pop up along the way, isn't it? The tricky part is to recognize them and take action, which may require introspection. I'm just spitballing here, but it probably requires at least five freaking minutes to think about the problem and come up with some possible solutions.

I don't allow myself enough of this kind of time.

I'm one of those insane people who are always doing something. Seriously, unless I'm sleeping, I'm engaged in some activity and my life is carefully planned to make sure everything fits. What this plan fails to account for is unplanned time. (Ha! I'd better plan in some unplanned time!) 
Time to just sit around and think about the world. Ducks. Time loops. How to draw flowers. Maybe I could just sit around and think about nothing. Nah. That's crazy talk.

Hey, you know what? Maybe I'm just not good at interviews. It's okay to not be good at everything, isn't it?
 (Ouch! That was even difficult to type. I'm gonna admit that I may not be completely buying that last bit, but it's a start. I've got a long way to go.)

I'll probably set some specific goals this year related to my career, my relationships, and my creative endeavors. I just can't help myself. But the most important resolution that I will strive toward in 2014 is to be a little kinder to myself. Control my life such that the negative is minimized. Stop being such a perfectionist. Take time to enjoy the world. How about you? Got any big plans for the upcoming year?

Simon Birch is a Featured Artist at Ink & Alchemy and it is his art you see sprinkled throughout this post. Incredible, huh? See more at his website or Facebook page. And as always, you are invited to visit me for art and inspiration.
Happy holidays from Ink & Alchemy!

Ever wish you could change the world with your art?

Participate in the Twitter Art Exhibit and do just that. 
No entry fee, and all proceeds go to the special needs classes at The Center for Contemporary Dance. 

Submission deadline is February 21, 2014.
Twitter Art Exhibit

Meghan Hildebrand.

Meghan Hildebrand.

Frances Vettergreen

Frances Vettergreen

Worse Than it Looks, a post by Tom Janikowski

I recently made the acquaintance of Tom Janikowski and it has been a distinct pleasure. What I love about him the most was best expressed by a recent visitor to his website:
"He is deranged." - Penny Watson


Yup. That sums it up perfectly.


His newly released collection of poetry, Worse Than It Looks, is exactly the kind of gritty midwestern darkness in which I revel. This collection was drawn from his experiences working with people who have made bad choices - addicts, convicts, users, and the like. Written over the span of two years on the streets of the Quad Cities of Illinois and Iowa, the poems include many that appeared at his collaborative poetry site, "the lost beat," where he writes with his cousin, the poet Denise Janikowski-Krewal. 
Worse Than It Looks available in both paperback and epub formats. I opted for a paperback and my copy is winging its way to me as we speak. I just hope the UPS truck isn't highjacked by a drug-crazed maniac during its journey, because I WANT THAT BOOK.
Because Tom is freaking terrific, he agreed to a guest post on my blog. I cannot thank him enough. And now, I shall let Tom speak:


The American Shakespeare – Mr. William Faulkner – once said “don't be a writer, be writing.” Truthfully, I do not know if he said it once, twice, or a hundred times, but I have tried to follow his advice. I have been writing since about the age of eight or nine, but I have always seen myself as one who is just about the business of writing – it is only what I do and not who I am. I hear from a lot of folks who say things like “I am a writer – that's just who I am,” and I used to think that perhaps I was less of a writer because I defined myself differently, but I have grown out of that. It only took me forty years to do so.

I write, I write, and then I write some more. Sometimes I take breaks and don't write for a bit, but then I start writing again. I have a very simple process, I suppose you might say. I like to drink lots of coffee and put words together so as to give shape to the world that I take in throughout the day and though all the days past. Like most writers, I read a lot, and sometimes I find myself crafting something that comes out a bit more like something that I have read than I would have expected. There you have it.

My absolute rule is that I never write less than 1,000 words at a sitting, and I try to sit down as often as I can. My exception to this is when I get something of an itchy feeling in my brain and I know in my gut that I cannot work on fiction at a given moment. At those times I allow myself to sit down and write poetry. That usually seems to work like a dose of extra-strength caustic drain cleaner. All the crap gets flushed out, the pipes get cleaned, and the waters start to flow again. Most of the time this works.

I love to write flash fiction and “prosetry” on a regular basis, as it keeps me from getting overly flowery with my language. I love economy of expression, especially when it can be hard, gritty and abrasive without being explicit, vulgar, or cheap. I had a professor during my undergraduate work in philosophy who was absolute death on non-essentials, and he left a mark on me. Give it to me straight. Tell me what is going on. If I rely upon symbolism, I try to make it powerful, or at the very least succinct. Sometimes it works.

When I get on a roll and start writing like mad, I try to make hay while the sun shines, as the old saying goes. I wrote a 70,000 word novella last year in just a few days this way. I was taking prednisone for a bronchial infection at the time, and it gave me loads of energy, kept me awake at nights, and got me up early in the mornings. The result was a rather cohesive (albeit strange) story. My agent is still trying to find a home for that little devil.

During these writing benders I like to eat apples in the mornings and stale pretzels in the evenings. When I am done, I cap the session with a very dry martini and try to sleep. I will take walks with my dogs to clear my head and I listen to Hoagy Carmichael and Smashing Pumpkins to get me ready for the next session.

How is that for creative method?
I find myself silently muttering about interesting things that I see taking place, and this is usually where the writing really begins. I might see a really dirty car pull up, the door open, and an angry man get out, shouting at his companion something about a sandwich. I might start saying “gimme' my damn sammich...damn sammich...gimme gimme damn sammich...” over and over to myself as I listen to similar words coming out of his mouth. I then start to make up a story about why it was that someone else had his sandwich. What kind of sandwich? Was it partially eaten? Was it rancid? Was it stolen? What kind of bread was it on? You know the sort of internal dialogue – I assume that this is the same sort of thing that all writers do.


The most underestimated tool in my writing toolbox is my attention to synchronicity. I try to watch for examples of the universal unconscious mind or whatever you might want to call it, and I am making an effort to do even more of this, as I am convinced that I currently miss a lot of answers. Invariably I will be writing about something – cream cheese, for instance – and, without fail, all sorts of references to cream cheese start popping up in the world around me. Often these are in the most unlikely situations, and they tend to answer a lot of questions that I am facing in writing a given story.

What does it mean to write? It means, I firmly believe, to give some shape to what we experience – whether or not it is in the physical world. When Kurt Vonnegut said that in writing we are continually jumping off of cliffs and growing wings on the way down, I don't think he could have been closer to the truth. Jump, and you jump into the world of what is. Grow your wings, and you might just make some sense out of it all.



Geronimo.

+ + +




Tom Janikowski was born in 1968 in Cudahy, Wisconsin, the grandson of Pomeranian and Carpathian immigrants who left Poland in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Janikowski studied English and philosophy at the University of Wisconsin - Milwaukee and eventually at the University of Wisconsin - Stevens Point, where he studied fiction under author Larry Watson (Let Him Go, Montana 1948, Orchard) and poetry under William L.M.H. Clark. Graduating in 1994 with a philosophy degree, Janikowski's professional writing for a long time consisted of strictly non-fiction endeavors, including book reviews for GP Light, the English supplement to Gwiazda Polarna - the nation's largest Polish-language newspaper.


After lengthy forays into songwriting, bartending, and the self-publishing of poetry chapbooks, Janikowski continued his studies and earned a Master's Degree in 2002. Despite this setback, he is still able to write in complete sentences and in the past several years has focused almost exclusively on writing fiction. His flashes and short stories have appeared online and in print on both sides of the Atlantic. Now represented by Monika Luukkonen of Oulu, Finland, he has begun working in longer forms and his forthcoming Crawford County Sketchbook (due out late in 2014 from Red Hen Press of Pasadena, CA) is a collection of tales set in a rural county somewhere in the deep South.
Janikowski has been greatly influenced by "Lost Generation" authors such as William Faulkner, F. Scott Fitzgerald and Ernest Hemingway, but he also admits long-standing love affairs with the writing of Kurt Vonnegut and John Updike. Formerly a resident of Upstate New York and a frequenter of several speakeasies inthe Catskills, he currently works, posts at www.martinipen.com, and mixes cocktails in Davenport, Iowa, where he lives with Shelly, his best friend and beloved wife of 15 years.
As always, you can find a list of featured writers and artists on my website, Ink & Alchemy. If you enjoyed this post, pop over and give Tom a little cyber snuzzle. You can find him all over the web:
Author siteFiction blogCollaborative poetry blogFacebook pageTwitter

I don’t believe in borders.

I interviewed Samir Rawas of Cecile's Writers' Magazine for The Review Review.Read it  here.

Bridgette Guerzon Mills.

Bridgette Guerzon Mills.

Sandi Calistro.

Sandi Calistro.

Spotlight on Katie Hayoz

Katie Hayoz was born in Racine, WI, the youngest of six kids. Originally, she wanted to become pope (for the awesome hat and fancy robes), but quickly realized reading was her true religion. Writing was always a hobby, but she decided to go at it seriously when she ended up in Geneva, Switzerland. Now she's constantly at her laptop in the small apartment she shares with her husband, two daughters, and two fuzzy cats. She devours YA novels like she does popcorn and black licorice: quickly and in large quantities.
Her latest offering, Untethered, is about sixteen-year-old Sylvie. Sylivie isn’t comfortable in her own skin.  In fact, there are times she can’t even manage to stay inside it.  But if there is one thing she’s sure of, it’s her love for Kevin Phillips. She’s willing to stake everything on it –her family, her friends, and possibly her soul.
Sylvie has been best friends with Cassie forever.  But everything is turned around when the boy Sylvie’s loved since fifth grade falls for Cassie. Devastated, Sylvie intends to get Kevin by any means possible, even if it involves treachery, deceit, and the dark side of astral projection. She is positive her plans will give her what she wants, but she doesn’t count on it all spiraling out of control.
Finalist in the Mslexia novel competition, Untethered by Katie Hayoz explores the intoxicating and dangerous world of jealousy and obsession when coupled with paranormal ability. It is a touching, sometimes funny, sometimes heart-breaking novel that speaks to the self-doubt lurking in us all.  



Katie has allowed me to share the following excerpt from Untethered:

I’m stuck in this body. And I can’t get out.I stare at my arms. These arms. They’re not mine, but I’m wearing them. They’re thick and muscular and covered in hair. The veins run like rope down the insides.I squeeze my eyes shut for the hundredth time, hoping that when I open them, I’ll look down and see my own thin arms. My own delicate veins.I don’t.Oh, God, do I need help. I need help. Now.I stand and my head spins. Grabbing onto the desk, I wait for the dizziness to pass. Wait for my head to clear. It doesn’t happen.I look from the desk to the bed to the floor to the walls and see where I am. Clarity won’t come. Can’t come. Because I’m not where I’m supposed to be.My eyes travel to the mirror and the face staring back in terror. “Please,” I say. The face says it back, but sloppily. Like a drunk. “Please,” I beg again. “Where are you?” This time the words feel formed. This time my lips, his lips, work the way I expect them to. Or close to it.But there’s no response.I lift a hand. Take a step. My movements are staccato. Jerky. Clumsy. Like electrodes are flexing these muscles. Not me. Everything about this body is heavy and long. I take another step forward and it’s smoother, but I’m not used to the bulk of this body. And I don’t want to get used to it. I want out. Of him. Of here. Chapter OneAugust: Life As Usual (yeah, right)
“Rise and shine, Sylvie,” Dr. Hong says, his voice full of forced cheer. “PSG’s done. You have a couple hours of free time before the MSLT. Go crazy.” I open my eyes and the first thing I see is the bramble of silver hairs sticking out of his nose. Note to self: Buy Dr. Hong nose hair clippers for Christmas. He helps me sit up and I look down at myself, feeling like something out of a horror movie. Sticky pads with wires dot my legs and chest. I can’t see the ones above shoulder height, but their glue makes my chin, forehead and the areas around my ears and eyes itch. A heavy ponytail of wires cascades down my back and leads to a machine on my left. Probes tickle my nostrils.Doc rearranges things and unhooks me so I’m able to walk around. I almost thank him, but catch myself before I do. I’m here because he doesn’t believe me. He’s brought me here to prove himself right. As with all the other tests I’ve taken.But so far, he hasn’t proven anything. It drives him nuts.It drives me nuts, too. I go to the window and open the blinds. Outside, the sun is bright. Another stifling summer day in Wisconsin. Outside, I know the air sticks to your skin like Saran-Wrap and feels thick as cotton wool. I can almost smell the fresh-cut grass, the acrid scent of blacktop burning. But here, in the lab, it stinks like antiseptic. And it’s dry and cool. The perfect sleeping temperature. That’s what I’m here to do: sleep. It’s the last weekend before school starts, and while everyone else is tanning on the sand, I’m snoozing in a sleep lab. Talk about social suicide. Dr. Hong writes something on my chart. “I’m turning you over to the team,” he says. “I think these tests will help us figure it out, Sylvie.” When I don’t respond, he goes on. “You know, the cataplexy – that’s where you have the sudden loss of muscle tone.  Then the sleep paralysis… ” Here he looks up from the chart and directly into my eyes. “And, of course, the hallucinations.”Of course. The hallucinations. I stare back at him without blinking. He breaks the gaze first and I feel a ridiculous sense of victory.They’re not hallucinations.  That’s what bothers me the most, what scares me and pisses me off:  Dr. Hong insists it’s all make-believe.“Your mother’s worried about you.” Dr. Hong’s voice is accusing. Like I’ve been giving my mom problems on purpose. If there’s one thing I don’t want, it’s to make my mom worry more. “There haven’t been any more incidents,” I say.Dr. Hong narrows his dark eyes at me. I know he doesn’t believe me. He never believes me. I might actually be offended – if I were telling the truth.“Well, that’s wonderful, then. But with all that’s going on–”“I’m doing fine. Really.” No need for him to play shrink any longer. He’s silent a moment. Then he says, “Okay, Sylvie.”“Everything’s set for school?” It’s a yearly ritual. Tests, tests, and more tests. Then the paper that declares me fit to fester in the classrooms of my high school.“Sure. We don’t need these results to know that. I’ll contact St. Anthony’s and let them know everything’s in order for your –” he picks up my chart and looks at it again “—junior year.” He sticks out his hand and I shake it unenthusiastically.“I’m sure school will be a lot of fun. You must have the boys lined up.” His eyes crinkle as he tries a smile.“The only boys lining up are those who are trying to get away,” I say.It wasn’t a joke, but Dr. Hong looks at me and laughs loudly. He throws his head back and I get a direct view up his nostrils.             Note to self: Forget the nose hair clippers. Buy the guy a weed whacker.




You can find Katie on her website, at Goodreads, Twitter, or Facebook. I want to note that Nathalia Suellen created the wonderful art for the cover. Pick up your copy of Untethered at Amazon. And while you're at it - click the image above to find lots of interesting bloggers who are also participating in Katie's book tour. 

You can find me in the usual place.