BLOCKED

That phrase always sounded too conceited to apply to me. I don’t consider myself a writer even though that’s how Dear Husband describes my profession, as if I made money of it or something. I cannot stop categorizing it, when he brings it up I usually answer to people’s questioning glances with a self conscious shrug or explain that I am a “frustrated writer” or a “wannabe writer” or “would like to publish in the future”.

I have yet to stand up and say “I am a writer”. What I always say is: “I want to be a writer”. I always feel such jealousy when watching the SAG Awards (Screen Actors Guild) and the actors stand there and say “I’m an Actor”. Not because I have wanted to be an actor, what I envy is their total confidence in their place in life, such confidence in their profession. They say it with such ease, with such relish, with such a lack of self-consciousness, because they know they are actors.

I wish I could do the same, shake someone’s hand and say I am a writer, not only for the privilege of having published work but also when moments like this hit me I can say, “Oh, sorry I am suffering from writer’s block” and then I can pick up some destroying addiction or bad habit, or start acting crazy like some tortured artist soul and start drinking absinth and doing opium.

I do not have the privilege of that. I cannot say I have writer’s block. I have wannabe writer’s block. That’s what I am suffering from. I don’t know if is the way this year started, with death and legal drama, or maybe is just adjusting to married life, full of you do the laundry, no you do its, or maybe is simply that I am blocked and I need to acknowledge it.

I have NEVER been blocked before; writing has always been like a painful release for me. It has always been an escape just like reading and shopping is. Some people clean, some others work out, I read, or write or shop, it is scary to find myself without one of my outlets. I have always been able to turn to it when I am feeling overwhelmed by emotions, when my head and chest are like a pressure cooker and putting stuff in paper releases all that contained steam. It is almost like peeing when you are so damn close to peeing your pants, and then you sit and finally let go and the relief is delicious and painful and so good it makes your eyes tear up a little and your skin break in goose bumps and you let go a heartfelt "aaaaahhhhhh"

Maybe that’s what is happening, my life is pretty normal at the moment. Work is going well, Dear Husband and I are getting along and happy as always, Zoey isn’t misbehaving and aside from a scary moment of Max taking a kitty bath on my glass of drinking water life has been pleasantly uneventful.

Maybe mild emotions are not enough for writing, maybe ecstasy, sheer happiness, utter misery, and overwhelming confusion is the only way to inspiration. Maybe sharp flavors are needed for a recipe of witty words on paper.

After doing some research (my answer to everything) I found most bloggers suffering from the same malady were feeling what I was feeling, a complete and total lack of something interesting to say, nothing to add, nothing to elaborate on. I guess we are in the same team; we are of the school of thought that unless you have something interesting to say you might as well just keep quiet.

At the moment I am happy, content, comfortable and relaxed. If it takes writer’s block to retain this feeling then I am willing to go through it for a while.

JUST WRITE

Oh what a night. We, Dear Husband, sister and I, after a delicious (and expensive) dinner at an amazing restaurant called Leila’s went home to watch Julie and Julia. What a better way to end an amazing night but to enjoy the always breathtaking Meryl Streep.

Now I do not know about cooking, and as much as I hate to admit I don’t know much about blogging but I couldn’t help but relate to Julie Powell (played by Amy Adams) and her frustration with her professional life, her inability to escape a job she utterly hates, her fear of failure and her brimming hope that the big break was around the corner. Hope is scary shit.

As the movie went along I was so incredibly moved by both Julie and Julia’s dream come true of publishing, we hear in the end the many editors leaving offers and phone numbers in Julie’s answering machine and see the letter from the publishing house that after several years, continents and effort Julia received.

I could only imagine how that would feel and as I sighed and tear up a little at seeing MY dream come true in someone else’s life on TV, Dear Husband smiled at me and squeezed my hand letting me know that he thought that could be me.

Little did I know that an encouraging conversation about my future career as a writer could turn into an argument where he was fighting for one thing and I was about another! We spent ten minutes yelling at each other (ok, me yelling and he trying to speak on top of my yelling) just to discover minutes later than the only reason why we couldn’t agree was because I was fighting over one thing and he over another. We both said “oops” agreed that next time we should agree at least on what exactly we are fighting about before we start fighting and collapsed in a fit of laughter in bed.

The conversation pretty much started with Dear Husband trying to say that I could be a published writer if I put my mind into it and that if he wanted to be published he could. What he meant by that was that without writing abilities his drive alone would get him published because he would allow nothing, absolutely nothing get in the way of being published if that was indeed his dream. When he said it, it sounded to me as if he was saying that if he wanted to be writer he could. Regardless of the fact that he doesn’t write and he is totally left brained and his inclination are more mathematical. What I heard was that he, just by deciding to be one, could be a writer as simple as that and that if he wanted to he could outline a story and write whatever he wanted to write about.

Now, the subject of will and want is always been a touchy issue in our household since Dear Husband is a firm believer on “The Secret” and that anyone can do whatever they put their mind into and I am more of a pragmatic school of thought. To me it felt incredibly insulting that he felt that whatever ability God gave me to express myself, my thoughts and stories through the written word was meaningless when paired against the will of men. That whatever talent I have as a writer could be challenged by whomever person came along and simply decided to be a writer.

After we went through comparisons where Michael Jordan, Tiger Woods, Mike Piazza, Degas, Monet, Picasso, Beethoven, Bach, Nora Roberts, J.K. Rawlings and others were used as examples of abilities, talent and hard work, we got to the bottom of his point which was that talent alone is not going to get me anywhere if I don’t have the guts to go after it. And that some talentless fool out there may get what I want simply because they wanted it more than me. Because they fought for it, because they were fearless, because they let nothing, absolutely nothing get in the way of what they wanted.

I have to want it. Nothing is going to happen unless I make it happen.

Julie and Julia went after their dreams with an unstoppable determination. They fought against society, geography, lazy co-workers, and unsupportive parents and in Julie’s case crippling fear of failure.

Hope is indeed scary, it brings forth all sorts of dreams and feelings, plans and possibilities but I am going to embrace it damn it because nobody wants it more than I do.

You’ll see.

THANKSGIVING AND MY NEW BEST FRIEND, XANAX

I apologize to those of you who kindly take the time to read my blog for the long days of not posting. I was hit with a thing I call writer's block (and other folks just call sheer lazyness) and couldn't find a thing to say. If you have nothing interesting to say better stay quiet right?. I didn't want to bore you guys with blathering nonesense just for the sake of posting something.

Anywho, Oh the holiday season is here! Tra-la-la-la-la-la and all that! I am so excited that December starts tomorrow and that finally I can go all Christmas-crazy with a reason. I woke up this morning feeling completely blah and ech and icky (a combination of spicy chicken wings for dinner, a fight with Dear Husband and the start of my monthly cycle) and then I remembered November is over today, I get paid and Christmas for me starts tomorrow woot woot, yay, holla and all those!

I had an amazing time from Wednesday on when Dear Husband and I left to go to Indiana to see the family for thanksgiving. As I have shared before, I have of late developed this paralizing tiny fear of flying and a dear friend of mine was sweet enough to share some of her Xanax with me so I could relax on the way there (bless your heart AL). I rode the flight to Atlanta on nothing but a rum&coke and experienced THE worst flight I’ve ever taken. We were delayed for an hour and thirty minutes because of bad weather and the entire way there was so rocky we couldn’t even get drinks because it wasn’t safe to pull the cart. I spent the flight shaking, watching Cash Cab and pretending I wasn’t praying for whichever God above to let me see another day.

We landed safely in Atlanta with plenty of time to catch our flight to Indy and I sat at the TGI Fridays in the airport downing martinis and trying to get my heart rate back to normal. Twenty minutes before take-off I chugged the last of my third dirty martini with the Xanax I should’ve taken on the first flight and let me tell you I completely understand why people get addicted to prescription medication because I haven’t been that relaxed since I stopped sucking thumb and drinking chocolate Nesquik from a baby bottle. I was laughing in the face of death the entire flight to Indianapolis and every time the plane shook I contemplated my mortality with a cheery thought and prepared with eagerness for my next life (I am a firm believer in reincarnation). I am never flying any other way but with Xanax and Grey Goose running freely through my system.

Indianapolis was as always cold and grey (I’ve only been over there during the fall) and we had a great time on Thanksgiving eating turkey and spending time with Dear Husband side of the family I don’t get to see much. I talked to his charming grandpa who recently lost his wife and was touched by how much in love he still seemed to be with his deceased wife. We exchanged presents (we are not seeing them for Christmas) and spent a few hours playing Monopoly. Spending time with Dear Husband’s family (I haven’t been married enough time to start thinking of them as my family just yet) always makes me think how obviously different we are. Not just his family and mine but how different the interaction between him and his family is, the interaction between them and myself and my family and him. There is an air of… formality I am not used to and that I think is normal here but completely foreign to me. I am used to being irreverent and used to talking to my family members the same way I talk to my friends. With his family there seems to be a more delineated line between “adults” and “children” even though we are now ALL adults there is that deference to the uncles, aunts, parents etc that we don’t use in my family.

I know people that read this blog might think I get repetitive when I say that I get these moments when I realize how different we truly are, Dear Husband and I. But it seems as if I never run out of them. You know those moments when the light goes off and I am presented with yet another example. I try to convey to Dear Husband how I see the differences as interesting but I think sometimes the words come out a little critical as if I was comparing his family to mine (with his losing to mine) instead of just comparing notes.

As his family said goodbye, and his aunt and uncle and cousins left for the day to go back to their hometown which is several hours away from Indianapolis I couldn’t help but be surprised at how differently we express our love for each other. They obviously love one another since they drove hours to come to Indianapolis to spend an afternoon together; but as they left waving goodbye I found it so weird that they would wave goodbye instead of hugging each other or kissing each other. The whole departure was so sudden and efficient I was left reeling! One moment they are saying “we gotta go because we have a long drive” and the next they are all bundled up and waving goodbye at the door.

Do you have any idea how damn long it takes for my family to actually leave a freaking place?! We say goodbye like seventeen times and then there is always someone who has to go pee and another starts telling a story of something that happened twenty years ago and then we are all involved in the story and we say goodbye again and we start talking all over and by the time we are at the door we have hugged, kissed and hugged and kissed and hugged and kissed each other goodbye so many times it could last us a lifetime.

Friday we went to Chicago. I couldn’t help but be in utter awe at the sight of Lake Michigan. That thing looks like the freaking Ocean! The cold wasn’t that bad and I loved seeing my breath puff in front of me. We saw a PETA demonstration in front of a fur store and even though I really don’t like PETA I also really don’t like fur so I was just hoping for some fake-blood throwing scenario but nothing happened (sucks). We spend the night playing Sequence with mom in law’s family whom I adore because they are amazing and laughing at the stories they had to tell. My new grandma is one of those saucy women that haven’t let religiousness get in the way of their humor. She is tiny, white haired and full of spunk.

Saturday came too soon and it was already time to go, a grumpy Dear Husband was suffering from a horrible migraine that wouldn’t go away and concerned family members were getting on his frayed nerves. By the time we made it to the Atlanta Airport after an uneventful flight from Indiana we were exhausted, hungry, annoyed and ready to make it home. All of the sudden a simple conversation trying to compare Chicago to D.C. for our next home turned suddenly into a fight over Dear Husband selfishness and his marriage to his iPhone and my daddy issues. Believe me it was not a fun flight to Miami but again Lady Xanax came to my rescue and I was just too chilled to give a damn.

Oh the issues that come up when families get together and emotions are running high…

We made it home exhausted and emotionally beaten. I hate arguing with Dear Husband and I know he hates arguing with me because I am hard to beat in a verbal fight and if I am angry I get mean.

Today though I saw the calendar and the slate was wiped clean. There is no silly argument that Christmas cannot cure and all I can think of now is the pretty gifts I’ll give, the pretty tree we’ll get, the decorations, the Christmas music, having family over, and how lucky I am to have a husband who loves me, a family that I adore, a roof over my head, money in the bank, an evil cat who loves me in spite of his better judgment and a dog who peed on her bed last night after a doggie nightmare.

I might fight with Dear Husband. I might complain about my weight. I might have a homicidal hatred for Dear Husband’s cell phone and his obsession with it. We might be strapped for cash and my birthday this year might be celebrated less than gloriously. But our house will smell like pine and Max and Zoey will spend their first Christmas together and my sister will come down from NOLA and we’ll have a great time together and there isn't any need for Xanax for that.

LAND OF DREAMS? YOU BETCHA!

One only has to turn the TV on to see all those faces full of hope, talent and sheer determination. From singing hopefuls with beautiful voices to limber stretchy dancers who twirl on a stage hoping for a chance to shine.

The U.S. truly is the land of dreams. Not because here they magically happen but because here you can dream about being whatever the hell you want without having to worry about what people may think. Children here are told from a very young age that they can do and be whatever they want. There are Magnet schools specifically designed for those whose bright future is undeniable. Doors open, paths are paved to make way for those with the talent to walk through them.

I know the freedom to want to do anything and feel that you are entitled to do with your life and fate whatever you want is very American but most people here have no idea how it is everywhere else and they feel they don’t have to worry about reality getting in the way of their dreams.

Back at home one is forced to be practical. There are no dreams of being a star, singer, actress, painter, and writer. The arts are so incredibly underestimated that even if the need to paint, dance, sing and write makes everything else dim in comparison, even when it's all you ever want to do, one holds those thoughts close to the chest as if it was a shameful dark secret to be taken to the grave.

My best friend in high school was a beautiful dancer. She used to watch all those dancing shows, and go to the ballet with me and sigh over complicated contemporary choreographies or painful looking arabesques. I had no idea she wanted to be a dancer. One time for P.E. we had to either make a choreography for a dance or something else that had to do with balls and headstands and all that stuff that require coordination and athleticism and since I am not at all athletically inclined she and I decided to go for the dance. Our group of four met at her house and saw her choreograph a dance that would make the producers of “So you think you can dance” break down in tears. Her arms flew with a grace I didn’t believe her capable of, and the shy friend who never spoke up came to life with her movement. After doing the homework we stayed over to do some underage tequila drinking and only after force feeding her some shots she admitted she dreamed of being a dancer. I never stopped to think how depressing it was that she had to be drunk and coerced into admitting her dream. We never spoke to her about it and we all pretended after that night that we didn’t hear it, that the confession never happened. Neither one of us wanted to be the one to tell her it wasn’t going to happen. Neither one of us wanted to be the one to say her talent would be forever wasted.

I was a closet writer for as long as I can remember. I used to sit in my room, under the bed, in the closet and devour harlequin novels. I would spend hours re-reading Wilde, Twain, Dante, Dumas (Jr. & Sr.), the Bronte sisters, Austen, May Alcott and everything I could get my hands on, from vampires to history, romance, satire, mystery and a bunch of erotic stuff I shouldn’t have been reading but I did anyway and use them for inspiration for romance novels I would never finish, science fiction stories with horrible endings and historically inaccurate novellas.

I couldn’t tell anyone I wanted to be writer. It was such a silly unreachable thing to want to be. I had to dream of being a lawyer, a doctor, engineer or something that could provide for a bright future because otherwise I would be silly. It was shameful to want to be a painter, or dancer, a writer or a philosopher, it was shameful because what kind of future could that afford? What kind of silly person would consider that an option when realistic possibilities were everywhere? I spent my school career writing essays for everyone else because to me it was fun, writing love letters for my friends for their boyfriends and girlfriends and pretending it was just a hobby. I remember telling my dad once I wanted to be a writer and maybe a veterinarian and he said he wouldn’t pay for my schooling just so I could end up being homeless. Way to support your youngest daughter, dad!

Here in the U.S. it's so very different. One can afford to dream to be whatever you want. It is not a dirty secret. It is not something to be ashamed of. I remember the first time Dear Husband read something of mine. I had posted something on facebook about missing home and he was shocked I had written it. He had no idea I “dabbled” and he encouraged me to do a blog, write a book, etc. I hated it when I first met his family and he would say “she’s a writer” when they asked me what I did for a living. I would blush and stammer as if he had just say: “She panders ass” and felt so incredibly uncomfortable about people knowing my secret because deep down I was expecting a lecture. Deep down I was expecting them to smirk. Deep down I was expecting them to say behind my back “what is she thinking?” and laugh at me and my silly notions.

Back at home we are never truly encouraged to pursue our dreams, we are taught what to dream and encouraged to pursue those dreams and those dreams only. We have drilled into us the need to make a profitable career. We are taught that poverty leads to hunger, prostitution, destitution, death and there is now possible way to rise above that. We are taught that only a career will save you from the certain future that will await if you don’t go to medical/law/engineering school.

The funny thing is that when I came out of the writing closet nobody was really surprised. They all assumed it was what I have always wanted to do and all the things I had done so far were simply to pay the bills. It felt so exhausting keeping such a big personal part of me private. As if I was hiding a child that everyone knew was mine.

Here you can dream about being anything you want. You can be the president, an astronaut, an actress, a singer, a fashion designer, a painter, a circus freak, anything! There is no warranty that you’ll make it but just being able to dream about it, just being able to voice it, just being able to put a name to it, just being able to believe it might be possible is incredibly rewarding.

I still have ways to go before I am comfortable saying I am a writer. I haven’t published anything, I don’t have an English degree, I have never gone to a creative writing class and I have a hard time remembering when to use “If” and when to use “Whether” but I am a little more comfortable each day about it. I don’t freeze when Dear Husband throws me under the bus and tell people I write and I no longer give him dirty looks. I ask people to read my blog and when I see someone posted a comment I feel a little less scared every time that they are going to say I am a talentless fool who should shut the fuck up. I fight against that pragmatic Hispanic upbringing every day.

I am so damn thankful that I don’t have that secret burdening me anymore. Because I don't make it I will know it was because it wasn’t my time, or I didn’t have enough talent and not because the Hispanic in me was too much of a chicken shit to dare to dream.

My cousin who is an amazing artist has been blessed with an undeniable talent she has no doubts about and she can blatantly go after because she is here, please check her out at http://andreamontano.blogspot.com/.