Q&A: Productivity and Circumstances

Question and Answer: Contemplate your most productive periods. Did you act alone? With others? Were you striving to be creative? Specific incidents that caused you to act? Serendipity and happenstance?

Oddly, mostly alone. When I teach, I usually think up creative projects for my kids. When I write, it just happens, for the most part. I just "show up at the page", as Julia Cameron put it. Same with art. I paint and draw when the kids are in bed and there aren't many distractions.


But lately, I've been reaching out to fellow writers and artists. I've found that I enjoy bouncing ideas off people. Talking or chatting about it can inspire other ideas that I wouldn't have considered otherwise. It just seemed like the "right time" to stand up and say "I'm a creative artist."

Unproductive times: What forces were directing your actions?

Bad health, family issues, and doubt in my own abilities. Sometimes I feel overwhelmed by real life and become paralyzed. 

Creative achievement: Were they proceeded by difficulty?

Definitely. I began painting at 30, a few months after my son was born. I was feeling trapped by being a stay-at-home mom with a new colicky baby. Art was my outlet. Years of professional frustration and marriage problems finally spurred me to take my writing seriously and not as just a hobby.

All original writing and art copyright A. Dameron 2000-2010

My Muse Just Took a Hike! Need help!

What do you do when your Muse decides to fly to Bermuda without you and you don't know when he/she/it will return? You stare at your computer, but the words are frozen to the keyboard?

What do you do when you lose your will to write? When you feel that no matter what you do, how much you try to spread your message, how accommodating you are to your fickle Muse, you feel that no one wants to read your words and no one cares?

A writing life is like riding a perpetual roller coaster, full of anticipation on the climb and exhilaration on the down slope. There are times when the ride seems to take forever, and there are times when the power fails and leaves you stuck on the inside of a figure-eight loop. If your Muse is in an especially evil mood that day, he/she/it releases the seat belts and the long security bar holding you in the car. And you find yourself flailing in space for something, anything to write as a life line.

I'm at that point today. Fellow writers, can I have some kind words and encouragement? Thanks in advance.

All writing and art copyright A. Dameron 2000-2010

Literary Heroes: Whom Would I Invite to a Coffee/Tea Party?

My literary heroes (aka fictional characters and or/their authors) on the guest list:


1) Amy Tan (author of "The Joy Luck Club")
2) Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and his creation,
3) Sherlock Holmes and his chronicler,
4) Dr. James H. Watson,
5) Stephen King
6) Agatha Christie and her detective,
7)Hercules Poirot
8) William Goldman ("The Princess Bride") and his swordsmen,
9) Inigo Montoya ("Hello my name is ---, you killed my father, prepare to die!") and
10) The Dread Pirate Westley (aka "As you Wish"),
11) The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen (incl. Allan Quatermain, Mina Harker, the Invisible Man, Captain Nemo, Dr. Henry Jekyll, and Tom Sawyer),
12) Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn's creator, Mark Twain (aka Samuel Clemens),
13) Diana Gabaldon ("Outlander") and
14) her time traveling doctor, Claire Beauchamp-Fraser and
15) Clare's Scottish husband, Jamie Fraser,
16) and while we're in the UK, Ian Fleming and
17) his superspy James Bond, along with his boss
18) "M", the gadget guy,
19) "Q" and the snarky aide,
20) "Miss Moneypenny"
and to help with catering the tea/coffee party
21) Sookie Stackhouse ("True Blood")


Writers, whom would you invite?

Does Writing Age Like a Fine Wine?

I've spent the weekend digging through my old writing notebooks, some dating back more than 10 years. I'm amazed at all the writing I've done that I've long forgotten about. At the time, I just dashed off these little poetry/short story snippets without too much thought. Words scribbled between teaching classes, grading papers at the local coffeehouse, and waiting for the city bus at the stop. The years of my student teaching were grueling, with hardly any time to breathe. (the first one was in languages/ESL for undergrad. The second was in a 5th grade classroom, all subjects for masters). Writing was a necessary outlet to preserve my sanity.


As I look back at these pages, I can remember the circumstances of each piece. My health has always been up-and-down, with constant infections and other problems. It wasn't until I was formally diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis in 2006 that many of the incidents made sense. This poem was written on June 1, 2001:

The pain makes me tremble.

It pierces with dull blades

Sharp when water flows.

It burns my blood.

When my mind is clouded,

my body becomes a rod

attracting all kids of thoughts.

My back feels heavy,

my legs sting.

The hornets hide in every crevice

And poke with awful sting.

My soul stands up against it,

saying, "No, you don't,

Not this time."

But the shell I occupy

turns traitor.

And I crumble with little strength.

I rebel against my fate

And bear the agony alone,

Hiding the ashes within my throat,

Withering slowly within my heart.

---RAD 6/1/01

I'm amazed at how relevant those feelings are to me, nearly ten years later, and how powerful they remind me of that time of my life. Here's another one, written the same year, when I was angry at my husband. We'd been married 5 years at this point:

An idiot

knows he's an idiot.

A smart idiot

bites his tongue

till it bleeds.

But a genius idiot

dies a death

of a cold hell

where he rambles on

to an audience of one:

himself.

---RAD 7/16/01

Again, I'm struck at the relevance of this poem at the time and now. This was before we had our children, and two of our three children's diagnosis of moderate/severe autism. It wasn't until much later that I realized my husband had all the signs of Aspberger's Syndrome (high-functioning autism), which includes brilliance in certain areas (in his case, computers), but difficulty in relating to others' thoughts and feelings.

I'll close with one more short poem, about trying to find who you are.

Finding yourself in a mirror,

is such an easy thing to do.

Your image warped

beyond recognition.

Good in place of evil---

Perfect lines blurred.

Yet which one is the right one?

The crisp reflection of everyday life?

Or the shadows hidden within?

---RAD 3/11/00

Writers, when you look at your old manuscripts, what do you see? Can you remember the time and place when you wrote it? Can you remember how you felt at the time? Look back, you'd be surprised.

All writing and art copyright A. Dameron 2000-2010